Some memories don’t wait to be remembered.
They live quietly. In the edges of forgotten fields. In flags left behind. In the laughter of children who aren’t really there.
I didn’t know why I took the side path. The main trail curved left, toward the temple. But there was something about the tall grass — the way it leaned, like listening — that made me turn.
The field wasn’t marked. No signs. Just layers of moss and root, uneven stone steps underfoot, and wind that spoke in hushes.
Then I saw them: flags. Hundreds, maybe thousands. Thin cloths tied to old bamboo poles, fluttering with a rhythm I couldn’t place. They stretched from tree to rock to crumbled brick — weaving through time itself.
Each one had writing. Not in Thai. Not in any language I recognized. But I understood them.
They were apologies. Regrets. Things never said. Some were gentle: “I should’ve smiled more.” Some were sharp: “I hated you that night.” One just said: “I miss the version of me who laughed.”
I stopped walking. Because something inside me had stopped too.
Then came the child.
Not quite real. Not quite ghost. Just a presence, playing between the flags. Running in loops. Laughing like she’d never been told to be quiet. Her shadow brushed mine, and for a moment, I felt a memory I didn’t know I’d lost:
A swing. Rain. And the sound of someone calling my name the way it used to be said.
I found a flag on the ground. Blank. Tied it to the end of a broken pole. And whispered: “I’m sorry for forgetting you.”
The wind paused. And all the flags fluttered once — together.
We don’t always remember who we used to be. But sometimes, the world does it for us.
We just have to go where the flags still wave.