The morning market hit us like a splash of mango juice—loud, colorful, and impossible to ignore.
Mom had packed us reusable bags before we left, but Mia already had hers slung over one shoulder, bouncing like she was on a sugar high. "Hurry! I saw a stall with rainbow mango sticky rice yesterday—we can't miss it!"
She dragged me by the wrist, her sandals slapping the stone path. The ground still held a hint of dew, cool through the thin soles of my shoes.
We passed a woman selling jasmine garlands, their scent wrapping around us like a soft blanket. Mia stopped to sniff one, her eyes lighting up. "Can we buy one for the new house? It'll smell like Thailand!"
Before I could answer, she'd already tugged me onward. "Look! Egg tarts! And… what's that spiky thing?"
A vendor leaned over his cart, grinning. He was wearing a faded red shirt, his hands stained with durian juice. "Durian, miss! Monthong variety—sweet as honey, if you're brave enough!"
He held up the fruit—spikes brown and mean, like a porcupine's tail, so big it almost covered his palm.
I wrinkled my nose. The smell drifted over, thick and sharp, like rotten onions mixed with overripe fruit. "Let's keep moving. It smells like our old trash can in Tokyo."
Mia's eyes went wide. "We have to try it! Dad said it's 'a Thai rite of passage'—remember? He had it in Bangkok and said it's 'love or hate, no in-between.'"
The vendor laughed, wiping his hands on his apron. "She's got spirit! I'll give you a tiny slice—free. If you don't like it, I'll throw in an egg tart on the house."
We ended up at his stall, which had a hand-painted sign: "Durian Special—Brave the Stink, Win a Smile!"
He pulled out a knife, its blade glinting in the sun, and sliced into the durian. The rind cracked with a wet pop, and the smell hit me harder—sweet, yes, but also weirdly savory, like garlic bread gone bad.
Mia held out her palm, and he plopped a tiny cube onto it. She took a breath, closed her eyes, and popped it in her mouth.
Her face twisted up immediately. "Oh my god—it's like eating a garlic cloud that's been left in the sun! Jax, you have to try it!"
I shook my head, but she grabbed my wrist, shoving the next cube at me. I bit down, and the taste exploded—creamy, too sweet, with that weird garlicky aftertaste. I gagged, spitting it into a napkin.
The vendor cackled, sliding two egg tarts toward us. "Told you—love or hate! These will fix your taste buds."
They were still warm, the crust flaky enough to crumble in my hand. The custard center melted on my tongue—sweet, but not too much, with a hint of vanilla. Mia took a bite, and crumbs fell onto her shirt.
"Now this," I said, brushing a crumb off her shoulder, "is worth waking up for."
We wandered deeper into the market, Mia pointing at every stall that caught her eye. A man grilled satay over a charcoal fire, the meat sizzling and smoke curling up. A woman sold fresh mango slices, drizzled with chili powder and lime.
Lavender followed us, weaving between shoppers' legs, her tail held high like she owned the place. She stopped to rub against a little kid's ankle, and the kid giggled, dropping a piece of mango for her.
At a KFC on the edge of the market, Lavender froze. She stood outside the glass door, her ears pricked forward, eyes fixed on something inside.
"C'mon, cat," Mia said, tugging her collar gently. But Lavender wouldn't move—she even took a step back, like whatever she saw scared her. Her tail flicked fast, a nervous habit I'd noticed since we picked her up.
I pulled the door open, and the smell of fried chicken hit first—crispy, salty, familiar. But under that, something else: incense, the same kind we'd smelled at the hotel.
A worker behind the counter glanced up, his brow furrowing when he saw Lavender. He said something in Thai, too fast for me to catch, then went back to wiping down the register.
Mia gasped, grabbing my arm. "They have spicy chicken! Dad said Thai KFC is better—let's get a bucket!"
We ordered a family bucket, plus two coleslaws (Mom would kill us if we didn't eat something green). We sat at a table near the window, and as I tore into a drumstick, I noticed the wall behind the counter.
It was painted with a golden temple spire, its tips glowing like they'd been dipped in sunlight. Identical to the one we could see from our new house.
The bell from last night rang in my ears—low, clear, like it was right there in the restaurant.
"Jax, look!" Mia pointed at a poster taped to the wall: "Wat Phra That Doi Suthep Tour—Climb 309 Steps to Blessings! Includes Free Incense Stick!"
My throat went dry. 309 steps. The same number from my dream—from the history book. The spire in the painting seemed to glow, just for a second.
Lavender jumped onto the table, knocking over a soda cup. The ice spilled, and she stared at the poster, meowing so loud the worker glanced over again.
"Sorry!" I said, grabbing napkins to mop up the spill. The worker's eyes narrowed, like he was trying to figure out why a cat was fixated on a temple poster. He said something else in Thai, softer this time, then shook his head and looked away.
We finished the chicken fast—Mia ate three drumsticks, and Lavender stole a french fry when we weren't looking. We left, Mia swinging the empty KFC bucket like a trophy.
Lavender trotted ahead, her tail still twitching. The market's noise faded behind us—shouts turning to murmurs, music to silence.
Then I heard it: the bell. Not the distant, muffled chime of a faraway temple. Clear. Close. Like it was hanging from a tree just ahead.
Mia hummed, not noticing. "Can we climb the temple steps this weekend? I bet the view's amazing—we could bring Lavender, and a picnic, and—"
I nodded, but my mind was stuck. The poster. The bell. The ivory box sitting on my desk at home, cold and unopened.
What if the steps weren't just steps? What if the spire wasn't just a temple?
We walked past a stall selling paper lanterns, their colors bright against the afternoon sun. Mia stopped, pointing at a pink one with elephants on it. "Can we buy this? We can hang it in the backyard—by the mango tree!"
I bought it for her, and she carried it carefully, like it was made of glass.
That night, I woke to Lavender's yowling. It was loud, urgent, nothing like her usual morning meows.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Lavender stood on my windowsill, her paws pressed against the glass, staring straight at the temple spire. Her tail was puffed up, and she kept pawing at the glass, like she wanted to get out.
The bell rang again—clearer than ever, like it was in our yard. I threw open the window, and the night air hit me—cool, with the smell of mango blossoms. But under that, something else: durian, faint but unmistakable, and incense, thick enough to make my nose tingle.
Lavender jumped down from the windowsill, darting to the door. She meowed at me, then ran to the stairs, looking back like she wanted me to follow.
I grabbed my hoodie, pulling it over my head, and followed her down. The house was quiet—Dad's TV was off, Mom's bedroom door was closed.
Lavender led me to the back door, scratching at the handle. I unlocked it, and she bolted into the yard, heading straight for the mango tree.
The tree's leaves rustled, even though there was no wind. Not a single branch was still—they swayed like someone was standing under them, brushing against the leaves.
"Dong—"
The bell's echo made the ground shake, just a little. Lavender crouched low, her hackles raised, staring at the base of the mango tree. Her eyes glowed in the dark, like two tiny green lights.
I inched closer, my heart pounding. The dirt around the tree's roots was disturbed—clods of earth kicked up, like something had been dug up and then buried again. There was a faint indent in the dirt, the shape of a small box.
The bell fell silent. The leaves stopped rustling.
Lavender relaxed, standing up and shaking her fur. She walked over to me, rubbing her head against my leg, like she was trying to calm me down.
But I couldn't shake the feeling—someone, or something, had been here. Watching. Waiting.
I reached down, brushing my hand over the disturbed dirt. It was still soft, like it had been turned over recently.
I went back to bed, but sleep wouldn't come. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the fan.
The ivory box sat on my desk, its surface catching the moonlight. I got up, walking over to it. It was cold to the touch, colder than it should be, like it had been left outside.
I opened my history book, flipping to the page with the temple pendant. A dried mango leaf slipped out—one I'd picked from the tree at the hotel—and landed right on the illustration of the pendant.
The leaf's edge was sharp. It pricked my finger, and a tiny drop of blood fell onto the page, right on the pendant's lotus flower.
For a second, the ivory box glowed—faint, golden, like it was reflecting the temple's light. The glow spread, touching the history book, and the pendant illustration seemed to move, just a little.
I blinked, and the glow was gone. The box was cold again. The leaf was just a leaf.
Mia's snores filled the hallway—loud, steady, like she was sleeping through a storm. Dad's phone buzzed once, then fell silent.
But I knew now—this wasn't just about mangoes and egg tarts and KFC.
The durian's stink. The KFC poster. The bell that wouldn't stop ringing. The ivory box that glowed.
They were all pieces of something bigger. Something that started the moment we stepped off that plane in Chiang Mai. Something that was tying us to this place—to the temple, to the mango tree, to whatever was hidden in the dirt.
I closed the book, pressing the mango leaf back between its pages. I set the ivory box on top of the book, like I was keeping it from escaping.
Tomorrow, we'd climb the temple steps. 309 steps, just like the dream. Just like the poster.
And whatever waited there? Whatever was making that bell ring, making that box glow?
It was time to find out.