I remember that night in the Angkor Wat forest like it was etched in my bones — as if the ancient stones of the temple itself heard what unfolded.
The moon spilled its pale light through the dense canopy of trees, casting long, crooked shadows across the dusty forest floor. I was sitting a little way off, hidden behind a thick curtain of vines, watching Anna and her tiny daughter, Tilly. They had settled for the night near a ruined sandstone wall, the moss creeping over its surface as though reclaiming its memory. I didn’t mean to watch. But once I heard first a whispered sob, then a sudden sharp cry, I couldn’t look away.
Anna sat on a piece of tattered cloth, her arms wrapped around Tilly. The baby’s face was scrunched up, tears trickling down her cheeks, her little fists trying to push away what was making her cry. I sensed Anna’s anguish before I even saw it — her shoulders shook, her eyes were hollow, and she looked so small against that backdrop of ancient temple stones and jungle darkness.
Then came the voice. A voice rough and angry. I couldn’t tell how many times I saw it flash — an arm raised, a hand coming down, too many times. Whether it was anger, fear, or desperation, I don’t know. But each time Anna flinched under the blow, and Tilly’s cry rose sharper, more urgent, echoing through the forest. The cicadas quieted, as though nature itself paused in shock.
At one point, Anna stopped breathing for a moment, just holding Tilly so tightly in her lap that I thought she might break. She rocked her little girl gently, as though trying to soothe the world that was hurting them both. The baby’s cries softened — but they didn’t disappear. Instead, they became jagged, broken, like a heart being scratched by stone.
I felt my own chest tighten, like I was carrying her pain with me. I couldn’t move. I didn’t know how to help. My voice died in my throat. In that moment, I was just a silent witness, powerless, and too afraid to intervene.
Outside, in the forest, the air smelled like earth and damp leaves. The ghostly outlines of temple spires stood silent sentinel above us. I imagined the spirits of Angkor Wat — guardians of memory — leaning close to listen, as though the trees themselves were holding their breath.
Anna’s tears mixed with Tilly’s whimpers. Finally, she pressed the baby close to her chest, rocking back and forth. Her voice broke as she whispered, “Shh, my little one, it’s okay… shh.” But I knew it wasn’t okay. The forest around us felt heavy, ancient, full of ghosts. In that place of history, of power, of memory, I felt the smallest of intrusions — a broken family, a scandal no temple stone could hide.
The crying slowed. Tilly’s eyelids fluttered, then closed. Anna’s arms fell, her head slumped. She rested her cheek against the baby’s hair, trembling quietly. For a long minute, all I heard was the rhythm of her breath, shallow, uneven.
I finally drew in a breath of my own. It felt loud in the stillness. I wanted to reach out, to say something — anything — but the weight of the moment pinned me where I sat.
When I looked up, the first flush of dawn was creeping over the horizon, pink and soft through the trees. The sky lightened; birds began calling. Anna opened her eyes, looked at me for a moment, and gave a small, sad nod. Tears still wet on her cheeks, Tilly sleeping in her arms. She didn’t ask me to stay or to leave, she just held her baby close, like she was trying to gather her heart in her hands.
I packed up quietly and slipped away, leaving them in that quiet, sacred forest outside Angkor Wat. The temple stones glowed softly in the morning light, ancient and unyielding. But in that moment, they felt kind of gentle — as though they were mourning with Anna and comforting her in their own timeless way.
Back home, I still hear Tilly’s cry sometimes, in my dreams, echoing through the trees. And I wonder: how many other hearts in that forest have broken under the canopy of those ancient spires? How many mothers have cradled their children, broken and bruised, by the feet of silent stones?
Anna’s pain, Tilly’s tears — they woke something in me. A tenderness, a sorrow, a fierce protective ache. And now, whenever I return to the forest, I carry their story with me, as part of the shadow of Angkor Wat — a reminder that even in a place built on stone and legend, human suffering still echoes loudest of all.
