It would be unfair to say that photography brought me here. These places were already photographed to kingdom come, with or without the otherworldly glow that I’m seeing now. Or perhaps it was the promise of the absence of people that drew me? My photography had always leaned ambivalently towards people. The perfect shots for me were their absence. Places coming on their own, bared and uninhibited and becoming.

And I guess I got what I wanted. Wat Arun and Wat Pho, courtyards open, gold flooding the river like an artificial dawn. Then there was me, lugging a small bag, my battered m43 camera, the 20mm f/1.7 that I thought could carry the world. No cap, no umbrella, no plan. Just rain.

At Wat Arun, the drizzle streaked across my glasses, across the frame, across me. Light breaking into smears. I kept shooting. Maybe I thought the camera would remember better than I could. And perhaps it did.

Wat Pho was emptier. An old man outside tried to sell me a painting, voice stumbling across English. He shrugged at the rain, said usually there were people, many people, even at night. But the rain had exorcised them.

Inside, the temple was hollow, echoing. I stood in the center as shy drops slicked my face, my camera, my skin. Weather sealing. Thank god, though I didn’t mean that kindly. And then I felt it.

Like something lifted… like a tendon snapping loose, a weight peeling itself off my back. My glasses fogged and I laughed a bit at the absurdity of it all. I pretended not to notice the lightness because what would I even call it? Grace? Release? Mercy? The gods don’t hand out mercy. Even in prayer. Especially in prayer.

When I left, the river ferry was already closed. A cab carried me back to my hostel, clothes damp, knees shivering against faded vinyl seats. Tomorrow: Chiang Mai. Maybe I’d catch my roommates before they left, cheap hostel ghosts, like me, like the version of me that thought this life was sustainable.

I didn’t know then. Of course I didn’t. That night wasn’t magic, wasn’t holy. It was a fracture. A seam opening. The beginning of the year when everything would tilt, collapse, rearrange. Blue. Blue. Blue. The warmest color, person. At least she was, in the beginning.

That year, I’d learn the gods were cruel and that I should’ve phrased my prayer better.