The rain arrived without drama. One minute the alley was all motorbike heat and temple smoke, the next it was silver water running off tiled roofs and pooling around my sandals.
I had a plan that morning, which is usually the first thing travel asks me to loosen. The plan had a cafe, a waterfall, a neat route through a day that wanted to be less neat. So I walked instead.
The offering baskets were everywhere: flowers, rice, small flames, careful hands. Nothing about them felt performative. They were reminders that attention can be placed somewhere on purpose.
I followed the sound of a bell into a side street and stood under a palm while the storm got heavier. No revelation arrived. No clean lesson announced itself. Just the wet stone, the smell of incense, and the quiet relief of not needing the day to prove anything.