Written By: Cecilia Kennedy

The bamboo beams in the thatched bure hold secrets. That’s what the check-in guide said when I entered the themed suite with my husband. But then he laughed and said, “just kidding” because this structure is new, meant for tourists. No one really lives like this—not in an authentic village. 

I’m here alone tonight, too tired to join the festivities in the bar, so I lie awake, looking at the ceiling beams, which are impressive, voluminous, carved, and painted with care. Music pulses from the outside. My heart is there, but my tired eyes and aching feet can’t keep going. Wind carries in, a gecko chirps and then scampers across the wall. I don’t even flinch—not anymore. I’m used to them by now, having seen several of them earlier. But voices enter…from the bar, I suppose, like whispers booming off the walls. I hold my breath to listen for snippets of gossip, but I only hear sounds. Nothing distinct—until a man’s voice surfaces. “Remember me,” it says. 

My breath stills, and I listen closer. The words change slightly: “Do you remember me?” It’s a question. Not a statement. It requires my answer, my attention. I’m not sure I want to engage, but the voice insists: “Do you remember me?” I can’t tell by the voice. It could be anybody’s—from a dead actor to a relative who died long ago before I was born—someone I’ve only seen in photos. Who could I have known?

“Do you remember me?” he whispers again. The words wrap along the bamboo, echoing in my ears. Guilt sets in. What if I do know him? Someone I’d said an unkind word to? Some kind of secret hurt they’ve been harboring?

My heart races when I see the shadows in the light are gathering, accumulating like clouds, grouping together to form a human shape. A nondescript man now stands before me, but his face becomes clearer. There’s a distinct nose; bright, fiery eyes, thin lips, and defined cheek bones. He stands before the coffee table and tells me I know him. Then, quite calmly, he removes his head and places it on the table. It’s clear to me, at this moment, that I don’t recognize him at all. But if he asks again, I’ll be forced to remember. I’ll never forget his face. 

Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught Spanish and English composition and literature in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state in 2016. She has two short-story collections: Twenty-Four-Hour Shift: Dark Tales from on and off the Clock (DarkWinter Press) and The Places We Haunt (Baxter House Editions).

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