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"My husband has a tie just like that," Su said one evening, her voice trembling like a cello string."And my wife has a handbag just like yours," Chow replied.

The rain in Hong Kong doesn't just fall; it sighs. It hangs in the humid air of 1962, blurring the neon signs of the noodle shops and turning the narrow alleyways into a stage for a dance that never quite begins. "My husband has a tie just like that,"

Years later, Chow Mo-wan stood before a crumbling stone wall in Angkor Wat. He leaned in and whispered into a small hole in the ancient rock. He told the stone about a woman in a floral dress, about the smell of rain in a Hong Kong alley, and about a love that was perfect precisely because it was never claimed. Years later, Chow Mo-wan stood before a crumbling

The realization was a cold realization: their spouses were together. The realization was a cold realization: their spouses

It was the closest they ever came to a confession. But the moment passed, swallowed by the ticking of a clock and the fear of what they would lose if they gained each other.

One evening, the rain came down in sheets."I don't want to go home tonight," Su said.