The oil crackled before I saw the stall.
That sharp, golden sizzle that pulls you closer — even when you weren’t hungry.
Fried tofu isn’t dramatic.
It doesn’t stretch like cheese or gleam like sugar glaze. But it makes a sound that feels like being called home.
The pieces were cut into quiet cubes.
Crispy on the edges. Soft in the center.
Served in a waxed paper bag with sweet chili sauce that always spills just a little.
A girl with ink on her fingers handed it to me.
She didn’t smile.
But she said, “ร้อนอยู่นะ” — it’s still hot.
That’s all it took.
I stood beside a tree, dipping one piece at a time,
watching the world drift by like steam from the bag.
Sometimes, it’s not about the flavor.
It’s about the way the sound makes you stop.
The way the heat makes you stay.
The way something so small can hold a whole feeling.