TIME OF LOVE

THYME'S POV (Age 7):

Grandma’s house breathed warmth, sunlight, and pandan cakes cooling on the counter. I settled on the cool wooden floor where the brightness gathered, flipping through my new favorite book. It wasn’t the usual picture-book stuff. This one had a dark, uncolored cover, smooth like old velvet, and inside. The pages were supposed to be blank.

Grandma had said it had once belonged to her sister, my Great-Aunt Khunying, and that she had a way of knowing quiet, mysterious things. "A blank book holds many secrets, little sprout," Grandma had told me when she gave it to me last week.

But it wasn't empty. Not quite. When I squinted hard enough for everything to blur, faint grey lines surfaced on the thick pages, like hidden messages meant for someone else. Dozens of different handwritings crowded the paper, rushed and uneven.

“What hidden things have you found today, little sprout?”

Grandma settled next to me, her smile shining like the warm patch of light on my legs. She passed me a chilled glass of chrysanthemum tea.

“I saw something, Grandma! Right there!” I whispered, gripping the book tightly. "See? There are notes in it! A secret diary, but lots of different people wrote in it!"

She studied the page, her forehead wrinkling a bit. "Oh? I can see nothing but nice blank pages, little sprout." She put a light touch on the paper. "Tell me what the notes say."

"Okay," I said, importantly. I indicated a thin, frowning-looking writing up high. "This one says, 'I, Metharaj Chaiya, mocked love in 1990.' He refers to love as a weakness." I frowned. " But then, right next to it, the same handwriting says he met a boy who was like a ghost, and the boy disappeared, and now he knows, 'I can’t exist without his love.' He sounds really sad, Grandma. He says he's writing this book in his 'final moments' so it can find the boy in another time. He talks about 'karma' for 'lives I’ve taken' and hopes they can be happy 'beyond this lifetime.'"

Grandma sat up straight, her eyes gravely serious. "That is a very sad story, Thyme."

"Yep," I replied, turning the page over. "Oh, look! Same name, Metharaj Chaiya—but it's 2025! “This is… eleven years ahead, isn’t it?”

She nodded, her expression steady. "This is a muddled note. He says he forgot something important about love, but his 'heart' never forgets. He says 'fate conspires to drive us apart,' and he 'failed to guard' someone." I read slowly. "He speaks of karma again and how fate desires to keep them apart. He wishes his 'previous incarnation' to live without the person he loves. and he says, 'In this world, I will not be reborn. No one will ever hurt you anymore.'" My voice was almost a whisper. "Does that mean he wants to disappear, Grandma?"

"It's like somebody going out of their way to defend somebody," she whispered softly, her hand lightly on my head.

I flipped another page, finding another determined text. “This one is signed Khun Ahan Yimgin, and the number is 2034. That’s the future as well! And my name is also Khun Ahan Yimgin, Grandma.” My heart leapt. "He's cursed, but it will be his 'key.' He writes, 'Let my hands be stained with blood; let my very existence be erased. I will pay any price.' He wants to fight 'destiny' because he remembers something others don't."

"Wow," I panted. "And look, the same name, Khun Ahan Yimgin, but 2025. This note reads. so confused. He gripes that he hurts but is loved by 'his eyes.' But then he asks, 'Whom do I choose?'. He gripes that he's conflicted between the Meta of 2025 and the Meta of 1990, as though they were the same individual but different? He hates the 'curse' and questions if it is 'cheating.' He sounds terrified that he'll cause one of them to disappear and seriously regrets something. " I looked up at Grandma. "How do you ever choose between the same person, Grandma?"

"Sometimes," she replied carefully, "people do change as they get older, little sprout. Maybe it's a question of choosing between who someone is and who they once were."

"Maybe," I muttered unbelievingly. I turned the page again. "This letter is just nasty!" I declared, jabbing my finger at a prickly, angry scrawl. "It doesn't have a name. They say, 'I watch you, thorn in my side.' They're mad because I—wait, they say, 'You relentlessly block my happiness'? As if I'm speaking to them?" I shivered uncomfortably. "They say 'he will be mine,' and they'll 'destroy any barrier.' They say, 'This time, I will prevail'."

"It's only a story, Thyme," Grandma said to me, but her smile was a fraction too tight now.

"Alright," I said, but I felt a little chillbitten. "There are other pages also. One man writes that he loves someone and must release them in order to be happy, though it pains him. Another writes that he'd allow the man he loves to be with another person, just so he can see them happy. And this one," I indicated a scribbled, tear-stained page, "is signed Non. He writes that he committed a 'crime' for love and made 'blood' on his hands, and now he wishes to desist from errors."

I reached the last page of the notes, in big, readable letters that looked unusual. "We have all suffered. Even when the world shook around us, we endured, held together by love that never frayed. What is left is the love we built. So now, let the past be prologue. Let us at last begin. This is not merely a chapter; this is the start of a new dawn. This is the Time of Love."

I looked up at Grandma, completely bewildered. "Grandma, why is my name, Thyme, in here? And how can it have 1990? 2025 and 2034 notes? How is it possible for someone to know the future? Is Great-Aunt Khunying magical?"

Grandma stayed quiet for a long moment. She looked from the book to me, her expression soft but unreadable. “This book is precious, little sprout,” she finally said. "Perhaps it contains tales of long ago and visions of what may be. Sometimes stories seem very real, especially when they contain familiar names within them."

The phone had just rung, and we both started. Grandma answered it. I glanced down at the book, seeing my name surrounded by hauntings and futures not yet lived. This didn’t feel like fiction. It felt like a maze, familiar in a way I couldn’t explain.

"Thyme!"

From the kitchen, Grandma’s tone sharpened. “Drink your tea, little sprout.” We have to get ready soon. “We’re heading to your mother’s place today. It’s her birthday.”

A knot tightened in my stomach. Mom’s home lacked the warmth and safety I felt here. It was… quiet. And cold. I slowly closed the book, watching the secret notes hide again behind the blank pages. I didn't want to leave the mystery behind. But I drank the tea and stood up. I had to go.