The evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, golden streaks across the sterile white walls of the hospital room. The air carried the faint scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered sheets. Daotok stood by the window, his gaze locked on the cityscape beyond, where San Francisco's lights flickered like fireflies against the darkening sky. The beige curtains swayed slightly as a gentle breeze slipped through the barely open window, offering a momentary relief from the clinical stillness.
His body felt significantly better than it had that morning when a fever had kept him chained to the bed, each movement a battle against the relentless aches coursing through his limbs. He turned his attention to his hand, where an IV needle was still embedded in his skin. If his hands could talk, they would surely complain, "Enough already, I'm full of holes."
His Neighbour had left in a huff not long ago, his barrage of questions leaving behind an air of irritation. North had called shortly after, scolding Daotok for his recklessness, for overexerting himself without any regard for the consequences. He had also mentioned that the neighbor—the man Daotok now knew as Arthit—felt guilty. Perhaps that was true.
Arthit had apologized earlier, though Daotok didn't see why he should. No one had forced him to push himself past his limit; it was simply his nature. He had always been like this—working until his body gave out, ignoring his own well-being until it collapsed under the weight of his stubbornness.
A doctor entered the room for a final check-up and, after a brief assessment, gave him the green light to be discharged. Once the doctor left, Daotok changed into his clothes and stepped into the hallway, where Arthit was already waiting. Neither spoke as they walked out of the hospital together.
Arthit took care of the medical bill without a word and collected the prescriptions before heading toward his car. The sky had darkened considerably by then, the city glowing beneath the weight of night.
As they drove in silence, Arthit suddenly spoke.
"Did you find anything at the cemetery?"
Daotok turned his head slightly. "No."
Arthit didn't respond, keeping his eyes on the road, his jaw tight with restrained frustration. Daotok exhaled and looked back out the window— only to feel his stomach clench. Spirits wandered the streets, drifting between the pedestrians, their ethereal forms barely noticeable in the city's neon glow. His fingers instinctively reached for his pocket.
His bracelet—where was it?
His heart pounded as he searched, patting down his jeans, checking his jacket. But it wasn't there. He remembered taking it off at the cemetery, slipping it into his pocket before he had collapsed. Had it fallen out at the hospital when he changed?
"Looking for this?"
Arthit's voice cut through his frantic thoughts. He lifted one hand from the steering wheel and held up the familiar piece of black-threaded jewelry.
Relief flooded Daotok's chest as he grabbed it quickly, fingers tightening around it. If he had lost it, it would have been a disaster. He wasn't ready to deal with the spirits that roamed freely—not until he was back in Thailand, where he could better handle them. More importantly, his grandmother would never forgive him for losing it.
"Thanks," he muttered sincerely. He didn't miss the brief flicker of surprise on Arthit's face.
"You dropped it at the cemetery," Arthit said simply.
"Ah."
The rest of the ride passed in silence. When they arrived home, Arthit insisted he get some proper rest. "If you collapse again, it'll just be more trouble." His tone was gruff, but the concern was unmistakable.
Too tired to argue, Daotok retreated to the guest room and, despite sleeping most of the day, drifted into an exhausted slumber.
But his rest was short-lived.
By midnight, he was wide awake. His body felt refreshed, but his mind was.restless. Sleep was impossible now. Deciding to step outside for some air, he wandered through the quiet house until a soft melody reached his ears—a slow, melancholic tune strummed on a guitar.
Following the sound, he stepped out onto the back patio and found Arthit sitting alone, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, his guitar resting against his leg. A few empty beer cans were scattered around, the ashtray overflowing. He looked worn out, his usual sharpness dulled by something deeper, something that weighed heavy on him.
Arthit must have heard his footsteps because he glanced over. "Why aren't you asleep?"
"I woke up."
"Feeling better?"
"I think so."
Arthit exhaled, setting his guitar aside. His fingers tapped restlessly against the neck of the instrument before he spoke again. "Can you do it now?"
"Now?"
"Yeah."
Daotok hesitated, but only for a moment. "I can."
"You sure?"
He nodded. There was no dizziness, no lingering weakness. He was fine.
And Arthit—Arthit was losing his patience, his carefully controlled composure cracking at the edges. The answer he had been searching for was just beyond his reach, and it was driving him mad.
"Alright," Arthit said. "Let's do it."
The house was quiet, illuminated only by the dim outdoor lamps casting long shadows. Daotok removed his bracelet, immediately sensing the shift in the atmosphere. The night made it easier—easier to see, easier to feel.
They moved through the house, retracing their steps from before.
The backyard. The bedrooms. The music room. The balcony. Every corner, every space where a lingering presence might remain. But nothing.
The last room left was the sitting area at the back of the house. A small space with a fireplace, a sofa, and a single white rocking chair.
"That chair," Daotok murmured, staring at it.
Arthit's voice was quiet, but heavy. "My mom died right there."
Daotok took a slow breath, stepping closer. The chair was still, but it held something—an echo of something long past.
"Can I sit in it?" he asked.
Arthit hesitated before nodding. "Go ahead."
The moment Daotok settled into the chair, something shifted inside him. A warmth spread through his chest, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting.
His breath caught. Without warning, tears slipped down his cheeks. He rocked slightly, feeling the presence of something—someone—who had once been there.
"...It's here. Right here," he whispered.
Arthit immediately sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
"This is where... she took her last breath."
Arthit didn't respond, but his fingers curled into fists.
"It was Christmas, wasn't it?" Daotok's voice was soft, the vision coming into focus. "There was a Christmas tree right over there. You and your father were on the sofa."
Arthit's face twisted, grief flickering through his eyes.
"She was happy," Daotok continued, his voice trembling. "So, so happy."
The warmth swelled, overwhelming him. He wasn't crying out of pain. It was something else. Something more profound.
"She wasn't in pain," he murmured.
Arthit's voice was strained. "Then why are you crying?"
Daotok exhaled shakily. "Because she had already accepted it... her passing." His voice faltered, exhaustion creeping in. "She was sad to leave you, but..."
"But what?"
"She's truly gone now," Daotok said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But she left something behind."
"What?"
"Love." Daotok's lips curled into a soft, tearful smile. "She's at peace."
~~~~
Arthit sat in the dimly lit living room, his gaze locked onto the extinguished fireplace. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by the dying embers that had long since lost their warmth.
His heart pounded in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation, one he hadn't felt in a long time. His fingers curled against his thighs, numb and unresponsive, as if weighed down by the enormity of the grief settling over him.
She was gone.
He had known it was coming. He had braced himself for the inevitable, told himself over and over again that he was ready. But now, standing in this silent room, he realized how meaningless all that preparation had been.
Nothing could have truly prepared him for this moment. His foot hesitated at the threshold as his eyes fell upon the white chair near the fireplace. The very chair where she had taken her last breath.
The illness had claimed her slowly, relentlessly. When treatments had ceased to offer even a glimmer of hope, she had chosen to spend her final days at home, in the house filled with memories, surrounded by the people she loved. Arthit had tried to convince himself it was the best thing for her.
That it had been the right choice. But as he stood there, frozen, he wasn't so sure anymore.
Just days before her passing, they had gathered here, sitting by the fire during Christmas. It had been peaceful, almost ordinary. She had smiled, laughed softly, held his hand. It felt as if nothing had changed. Then, one morning, she simply didn't wake up.
At first, he had convinced himself she was only asleep, that any moment now, she would stir, stretch, call out to him. But no matter how much he shook her, no matter how many times he called her name—she never woke up again.
He clenched his jaw, his mind spiraling with unspoken questions. What had she felt in those last moments? Was she afraid? Was she in pain? Or had she truly gone peacefully, as they all hoped?
"She wasn't in pain," Daotok's voice broke through the silence.
Arthit turned, his eyes resting on the younger man sitting in the white chair.
He wasn't sure when Daotok had sat down, but he looked oddly at home there, his gaze distant, as if he were listening to something no one else could hear.
"She wasn't sad or afraid," Daotok continued, his voice even. "She accepted it."
Arthit let out a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. He leaned back against the sofa, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling. A whirlwind of emotions churned inside him, tangled and impossible to put into words.
"She believed you and Direk would be strong enough to move forward."
Arthit swallowed. Move forward.
He had spent so much time denying it, running from it. He had ignored her parting words, clung to the foolish hope that she would defy fate, just as some patients miraculously did. But there had been no miracle. There had only been the inevitable. And now, he had to face it.
He sat there for what felt like an eternity, lost in thought. When he finally stirred, he realized Daotok had drifted into an exhausted sleep on the couch.
He reached out, placing a hand on the younger man's forehead—no fever.
Just fatigue.
Rising from his seat, Arthit stepped outside into the cool night air and pulled out his phone. The moment he dialed, it barely rang before Direk answered, his usual gruff tone greeting him.
"Direk, Mom's gone."
Silence.
"She's not here. Not anywhere."
More silence. Then, finally, Direk spoke, his voice quieter than usual.
"Did she suffer?"
"That kid—Daotok—he said she wasn't in pain. That she wasn't sad. Just… a little upset that she couldn't stay with us."
Another long pause.
"Are you crying?"
Arthit scoffed, forcing out a chuckle. "Is that funny to you?"
"You're sobbing."
"No, I'm not." But even as he said it, he felt the warm trails of tears slipping down his cheeks. He hadn't even realized when they had started falling. He tried to stop them, but it was useless. The dam had broken.
"I'm not teasing you."
Arthit let out a shaky laugh, wiping his face roughly. "Damn it... hic... the tears won't stop."
"Do you believe what he said?"
"Hah... hic... yeah, I do. After all this, I have to believe it. It's weird, Direk. It hurt so much realizing she's gone, but at the same time... I feel relieved knowing she's at peace."
"Then that's good."
Direk's voice wavered slightly, betraying the emotions he rarely showed.
The two of them had been there every step of the way, watching his mother battle through years of pain. Now, at least, they knew she wasn't suffering anymore.
"Why am I crying so much, Direk?"
"Maybe for you, Mom only really left today."
Arthit closed his eyes. "...Yeah. Maybe."
They talked a while longer, reminiscing, finally able to share memories without the unbearable weight of sorrow pressing down on them. Slowly, the conversation turned from mourning to warmth, from loss to love.
When they finally said goodbye, Arthit hesitated for a second before blurting out,
"I love you, man."
"Yeah, I love you too."
He snorted. "What the hell? Why'd you say it back? Now I'm embarrassed."
"What's your problem? I feel awkward too."
Arthit let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, whatever. I'm hanging up."
Ending the call, he lit a cigarette, strumming a soft melody on his guitar.
One of his mother's favorite songs. The notes wavered at first, unsteady, as the emotions came rushing back. This time, he didn't fight them. He let the tears fall freely, letting the grief finally wash over him.
After nearly half an hour, the storm inside him settled. He wiped his face, sighing. The backyard had become unbearable—something had bitten him earlier, making his moment of grief feel almost pathetic in retrospect.
Deciding to move to the rooftop balcony, he was surprised to find Daotok already there, standing quietly against the railing, staring out into the dark horizon.
"What are you doing here?" Arthit asked, raising a brow.
Daotok turned to look at him, silent for a moment before replying, "I saw you crying."
Arthit groaned. "Damn it, you saw that?"
"Mm."
"Don't tell North."
"Why would I?"
"Because you might tease me about it."
Daotok simply tilted his head. "That doesn't sound fun."
Arthit sighed, plopping onto the small sofa on the balcony. The night stretched before them, vast and endless. The breeze was cool against his skin, carrying the faintest scent of winter.
"You're going to finish coloring that portrait of my mom, right?"
"Yeah."
Arthit continued strumming his guitar, fingers gliding over the strings in a slow, steady rhythm as he sat on the balcony. The night stretched endlessly before him, the sky a deep, velvety black, punctuated by the faint glimmer of distant stars. The air was crisp, carrying with it a soft breeze that rustled through the trees and whispered against his skin.
Daotok stood beside him, silent as ever, his gaze fixed on the horizon. They had barely exchanged words since Arthit had settled into playing, the gentle melody filling the quiet void between them.
A small part of Arthit wondered if Daotok was annoyed—after all, he had simply shown up and started playing, disrupting whatever thoughts Daotok had been lost in. Then again, this was his house. He had every right to do as he pleased.
The stillness gave his mind room to wander, curiosity eventually breaking the silence.
"You said Mom believed I'd move on," Arthit murmured, his voice almost drowned out by the wind. "How do you know that?"
Daotok didn't look away from the darkness beyond. "Feelings."
Arthit huffed, plucking a discordant note on the guitar. "That again? Explain more."
"It's like... she wasn't afraid when she left. She had confidence in what she felt."
Arthit's fingers stilled. There was something strangely specific about the way Daotok spoke, as if he had peered directly into the emotions his mother had left behind. If Arthit didn't know better, he might've found it eerie. But Daotok's ability to sense emotions had always been unexplainably sharp, no matter how much risk or danger it brought him.
"And when you said she 'passed on peacefully,' where exactly did she go?"
Arthit asked, his voice quieter now, hesitant.
Daotok shifted slightly. "I don't know."
Arthit frowned. "What? That's it?"
"I just know she's at peace. Beyond that, I can't say."
Arthit exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the guitar. "But if you say she's at peace, then she is, right?"
Silence stretched between them. Then, without a word, Daotok extended a tissue toward him. Arthit blinked in confusion before realizing—his eyes were welling up again. He cursed under his breath, taking the tissue with a rough sigh. Damn these tears. Just for tonight, okay? After this, I'm not letting you fall again.
Daotok's voice was soft when he finally spoke. "You're wondering if she's happy now, aren't you?"
Arthit hesitated. "Yeah. Do you think so?"
Daotok didn't answer immediately. "I don't know."
Arthit groaned, scrubbing at his face with the tissue. "Come on."
"I know she's at peace," Daotok said evenly, "but I don't know if she's happy."
Arthit let out a bitter laugh. "At least normal people would just say she must be happy. Isn't that what you're supposed to say?"
Daotok remained unfazed. "I can't lie to make you feel better. But..."
"But what?"
"I do know one thing."
Arthit's gaze lifted, watching as Daotok turned to face him fully. His expression was unreadable, yet there was something resolute in the way he spoke. "Your mom wanted you to be happy."
Arthit's breath caught in his throat. He had heard many things since she had passed—condolences, reassurances, empty words meant to comfort. But never this.
Daotok continued, "Because no matter what, she's gone now. The one who's still here, alive, is you. You're the one who deserves to be happy. If you keep being sad, how could your mom possibly be happy?"
Arthit clenched his jaw, staring at the ground. He had spent so long drowning in grief, replaying memories, refusing to let go. No one had ever told him to be happy. No one had even acknowledged that he was sad to begin with.
He swallowed. "No one's ever said that to me before, you know?"
"Maybe it's because you've never shown your sadness to anyone."
Arthit looked up sharply. "How do you know that?"
Daotok's voice remained as calm as ever. "I read your emotions once."
Arthit let out a long, shaky breath. "Right."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The night air wrapped around them, cool and heavy with unspoken words. Eventually, Daotok excused himself, disappearing inside, leaving Arthit alone on the balcony.
Arthit set the guitar aside and leaned back against the sofa, staring at the endless night sky. His mind was a mess of emotions, thoughts crashing into one another. Yet, amidst the chaos, Daotok's words lingered.
"The one who's still here, alive, is you. You're the one who deserves to be happy. If you keep being sad, how could your mom possibly be happy? So, from now on, don't be sad. Be happy. Be very happy."
He didn't just help me find Mom... he helped me too. He pulled me out of the pain I've been trapped in for years.
Arthit closed his eyes, letting out a slow breath.
Thank you. Truly.