In the heart of Chiang Mai, where the mist clings to the mountains and the golden spires of temples gleam against the sunrise, there lived an incense maker named Siriporn. Her shop, nestled at the edge of the old city, was filled with the rich scent of sandalwood, jasmine, and rare spices from across the land. Siriporn was known far and wide for creating incense so powerful that each wisp could stir memories long buried in the heart, transporting the soul to moments lost in time.

But there was one scent, a fragrance she had never dared to craft—until now.

For years, Siriporn had been in love with Panya, a scholar who would visit her shop daily, breathing in the delicate fragrances and sharing quiet conversations about philosophy, nature, and the beauty of life. His eyes were soft like the morning mist, and his voice was like a melody she could never quite forget. Their love was slow, like the growth of a lotus, never rushing, always blooming in the quiet spaces between words.

But as the years passed, the world seemed to push them further apart. Panya’s studies took him away for long periods, and Siriporn’s work became more demanding, the art of incense-making a constant companion as the scent of the past began to linger too long in her heart.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Siriporn sat alone in her workshop, her fingers trembling as she ground together ingredients she had never before dared to mix. A recipe, old and forgotten, passed down in her family for generations. This particular incense, when burned, had the power to erase memories, to burn away the essence of the past until only the present remained.

She had promised herself that she would never make it. For what good was it to erase the very thing that had shaped her? But the weight of Panya’s absence had become unbearable, and she knew that if she did not let go, her love for him would consume her entirely, like a flame that could not be extinguished.

With each delicate movement of her hands, she crafted the incense, the rich spices and oils blending into a scent that was both beautiful and haunting. It was the scent of love lost, of all the moments she had shared with Panya, infused into one single stick. It would remind her of his laughter, his warmth, and the way his hand had felt in hers—but it would also erase him from her memory, so that she could live without the ache of longing.

As she lit the incense, the smoke curled into the air, a slow, swirling dance that filled the room with its mysterious fragrance. The first few wisps brought a rush of memories—Panya’s soft smile, the sound of his voice, the feel of his touch—but slowly, those memories began to fade. They slipped away like water through her fingers, each tendril of smoke taking another part of him with it.

Siriporn closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek as the scent wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace. She could feel him fading, and yet, she could not stop herself. She had made her choice.

When the incense burned away, leaving only ash behind, Siriporn stood in the stillness of the room, her heart empty and aching. Panya was gone—not in body, but in memory. The love they had shared had been erased, replaced with an unfamiliar quiet.

The door to the shop opened, and a figure stepped inside. Siriporn looked up, her heart racing for a moment, but the face that met hers was not Panya’s. It was a stranger’s, with eyes that did not know her and a smile that did not hold the same warmth.

“I heard you make the finest incense in all of Chiang Mai,” the stranger said, his voice calm, as if he had known her for a lifetime.

Siriporn nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the next batch of ingredients. The air smelled different now, the absence of Panya’s scent filling the space where his memory had once lived.

As the stranger spoke of his needs, Siriporn listened, but in the back of her mind, she could still feel the faintest echo of something she had lost. A love, a memory, a name that no longer carried the weight of the past.

In the quiet of the shop, Siriporn continued to craft her incense, each stick a reminder of what she had done. The last incense she would ever make—one that would burn away the past and leave nothing but the present.

And for the first time in a long while, the air felt still.