Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain had always carried too much in his chest. Not secrets, necessarily, nor wounds he could name aloud. But something softer. Something more persistent. A deep tenderness for the world, a need to hold beauty and pain both in his arms, as if he were responsible for translating it. He walked through life as if everything might bruise, and so he moved gently.

He had grown up in a house where laughter tried to hide the lack, and where art supplies were bought second-hand or found in donation bins. His mother had taught him how to stretch a canvas using scrap wood, and his grandmother had taught him to listen to the stories a face could tell if one watched long enough. He had loved deeply from the beginning, his family, his friends, even strangers on the train whose shoes told entire lifetimes.

Rain had come to the city on a scholarship. He had brought one suitcase, one portfolio, and far too much hope. The scholarship covered tuition, but not the cost of living in a city that charged by the square breath. He worked two jobs already, waitstaff on weekends, sketch commissions at night, and still he fell behind.

When the eviction notice came, taped to the crooked door of his crumbling apartment, it had rained. Of course it had. He had pressed his forehead against the peeling paint, exhaled, and then picked up the phone.

The listing had seemed fake at first. Live-in nanny. One child. Must be willing to commit to three months minimum. Must be patient. Must be kind. It had not said: Must be prepared to fall into a life not his own.

Rain had never been around toddlers for more than a few hours at a time. But he had helped raise his cousins. He had a gentle voice, and he could draw bunnies on the backs of lunch napkins. That had been enough. It had been Mali who chose him in the end.

He had shown up to the interview twenty minutes early, damp from the walk, portfolio case still over his shoulder. The apartment had been sterile, clean lines, expensive rugs, untouched coffee table books. He had thought about leaving. But then a small shape had toddled out from behind the sofa, wide-eyed, curls tousled. She had pointed at him and said, very seriously, “You are my Uncle Sunshine.” And that had been that.

Phayu had never expected to become a father figure, and certainly not like this. He had been building a career that consumed him, concrete, steel, vision. He had risen early and returned late, the city unfolding beneath his hands like a blueprint. His mind worked in lines and load-bearing logic. He liked things precise. He liked things predictable.

His sister, Ple, had always been the opposite. Wild heart, loose laughter, a storm in human form. They had fought constantly as children, but he had loved her fiercely. He still did. Even now. When she had passed, everything had come undone at once.

He had not been ready to raise a child. Especially not one so small, so tender, so full of questions he could not answer. Mali had lost her mother at two years old. She had cried without sound for days. She had clung to him like a lifeline.

He had done his best. He had hired help. But none of them lasted. Too rigid, too cold, too afraid of grief. And he had not wanted to introduce another stranger into their lives just to have them disappear again. Then Rain had walked in.

Too bright. Too soft. Too much emotion in his face. He had not trusted it. But Mali had taken one look and smiled, really smiled, the first time in weeks. She had laughed when Rain bent down and made shadow puppets with his hands. She had curled into his lap as if she had known him forever. Phayu had not had the heart to say no. He had set rules. He had drawn boundaries. He had expected to regret it. Instead, he had started to come home to warm lights, a soft hum of lullabies, tiny socks on the hallway floor. Instead, he had begun to breathe again.

Rain was born in a small coastal town where the air always smelled like salt and sunburn. His full name was Aran, after the monsoon winds, but nobody called him that unless he was in trouble. His grandmother had insisted on the name, said it would protect him, said the rain always returned no matter how long the drought.

He was his mother’s only child. She had been seventeen when she gave birth, barely out of school, her hands still stained from working the early shift at the bakery. She had not planned for him, but she had loved him with a ferocity that shaped the rhythm of their lives.

They had lived with his grandmother in a house that leaned to the left. The windows stuck during the rains, and the ceiling leaked in three different places, but it had been home. The kind of home where there was always rice on the stove, a half-done jigsaw puzzle on the table, and laundry drying on every available surface.

His earliest memories were full of colour. His grandmother’s sarongs drying in the sun, the bright blue of the door his mother painted by hand, the yellow marigolds she wove into garlands every Friday. There was always music in the background, old film songs, neighbourhood chatter, the clink of spoons against ceramic cups.

Rain learned to draw before he learned to read. He used to lie on the floor with scrap paper and broken pencils, sketching scenes from dreams he could not explain. When he was five, he drew a picture of the sky cracking open. His mother had framed it and hung it above her bed.

They had very little money. Rain learned young what it meant to go without. His shoes had holes, his clothes were hand-me-downs, and the electricity bill was a source of tension more often than not. But he never felt unloved. He grew up wrapped in stories, stories his grandmother told, stories his mother invented when he could not sleep.

Every Friday evening, they walked to the local temple, where his mother lit three incense sticks and whispered names he never asked her to explain. Rain would sit on the steps and sketch the elephants carved into the stone pillars. He always gave them kind eyes.

When he turned nine, he entered a district art competition. He used leftover watercolour cakes and the back of an old calendar sheet. He painted a picture of his house in the rain, the bent roof, the leaking ceiling, the small boy inside smiling up at the storm. He won first prize.

That night, his mother cried. Not from sadness, but from something older, something that had been waiting to be seen. She hugged him so tightly that his ribs ached the next morning. She told him he could do anything. Rain believed her.

He grew up soft in a world that rewarded hardness. He apologised too easily. He cried when dogs were hit on the road. He made friends slowly, carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking something. His teachers often wrote notes home saying he was too quiet, too distracted. His math scores were average, but his notebooks were full of elaborate doodles in the margins.

His mother worked long hours. His grandmother grew slower every year. By the time he reached secondary school, Rain had learned to cook, to clean, to walk home alone with a broken umbrella and not complain.

He started selling his drawings to the shopkeeper near the bus stand. Five baht for a portrait, ten for a landscape. He saved every coin in a tin box beneath his mattress. He told no one.

At fifteen, he won a regional scholarship. He was sent to the city for a summer workshop, where he saw real canvases, real brushes, real artists who spoke of light and form like they were sacred. Rain had never felt so out of place, nor so certain he had found his place.

He returned home different. Quiet still, but lit from inside. He began to apply to art colleges two years early. He stayed up late watching online tutorials on borrowed data. He painted on cardboard, on newspaper, on walls his neighbours let him decorate.

When he turned seventeen, his grandmother passed away. She died in her sleep, face turned toward the window. Rain had been the one to find her. He had closed her eyes gently, held his mother as she sobbed, and then stayed up the entire night painting her portrait by memory. He never showed it to anyone.

His mother aged overnight. She started to limp from the long bakery shifts. Rain offered to drop out of school. She refused. She told him that her life would not be wasted if he used it to build his own.

He applied to every university he could afford the postage for. He was rejected by most, waitlisted by some. One day, a letter arrived from a small but well-regarded school in the city. He had been offered a place, and with it, a partial scholarship.

His mother packed his bag like she was sending him to war. She hid a hundred-baht note in his sketchbook. She made him promise to eat breakfast every day. She whispered, “Make them see you.”

Rain took a train to the city. He arrived with one suitcase, two sketchpads, and a heart too full for his chest. He moved into a shared room with peeling paint and a window that opened only halfway. He called his mother every Sunday.

The city overwhelmed him at first. Everything moved too fast. People brushed past without seeing. Rain walked slower than the crowd, looked up more often, got lost repeatedly. But he adjusted. He found a second-hand art supply store that let him pay in parts. He started drawing the city the way he saw it, cracked open and still beautiful.

The scholarship paid his tuition but little else. Rain began working evenings at a café, weekends at a gallery that never sold anything. He took online commissions, portraits for birthdays, pets in Victorian clothing, murals for children’s rooms. He lived on instant noodles and handouts from friends who could afford to share.

By the end of his second year, the rent had gone up. His roommate had moved out. His savings had vanished in the space of three weeks, medical bills, a broken laptop, one missed pay check.

The eviction notice came on a Thursday. Rain stared at it for a long time. He had no family in the city. No one to stay with. No safety net left. He packed his belongings slowly. One box of clothes. One of art supplies. A half-finished canvas rolled into a poster tube. Then he checked the school bulletin board, the classifieds, every listing site he could find. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Until…. Live-in nanny. One child. Room and board included. Must be kind. Must be patient. He stared at it. He had never worked with children professionally. But he had helped raise his cousins. He knew how to soothe a tantrum, how to braid hair, how to distract with cartoons and bedtime stories. He applied with little hope. He got the call three days later.

Phayu was born during a heatwave. The nurses had kept fanning his mother’s face with rolled-up newspapers while the old ceiling fan above them turned in slow, lazy circles. He arrived into the world silent, eyes wide, fists clenched. The midwife had declared him a serious child from the start.

He was the firstborn of two. His parents had named him with intention, “Phayu,” meaning storm, though no storm had come that day. His mother said he would bring the winds of change. His father said nothing but smiled in that quiet, unreadable way he had always possessed. Two years later, his sister arrived. Ple. Loud, dramatic, and utterly unlike him. Where Phayu watched, Ple leaped. Where he obeyed, she defied. They had shared a room, a bath schedule, and a childhood marked by long silences and louder tempers.

Their father had worked in construction, never the foreman, always the one who stayed late, fixing what others left unfinished. Their mother had been a nurse, strict with schedules and sharp with expectations. Discipline came first in their house. There were no rewards for mediocrity.

Phayu learned early to follow rules. He kept his notebooks spotless. He spoke only when necessary. He ironed his school uniform every night and polished his shoes every morning. If his father said dinner was at seven, Phayu was already seated at six forty-five. He loved puzzles. He loved order. He loved the way things fit together when he aligned them just right, blocks as a toddler, blueprints as a teenager, silence in a house that needed no shouting when he did everything correctly.

Ple had been different. Ple had never met a boundary she did not test. She climbed trees in her school skirt, picked fights with boys twice her size, and painted her nails with markers when their mother said no. Phayu spent more time cleaning up after her than he ever admitted. Still, he loved her. Fiercely.

When their parents fought, which they did more often as the years passed, it was Ple who shouted back. It was Phayu who turned up the volume on the television. When their father slammed the door on his way out, it was Phayu who tucked Ple in at night. When their mother cried quietly in the kitchen, it was Phayu who swept the broken glass into a dustpan. He learned to hold it all together.

He did not remember choosing architecture. He remembered liking buildings. Remembered sketching angles and shadows in the margins of his schoolbooks. Remembered standing outside offices, temples, schools, memorising lines and structures like other children memorised lyrics.

He got into university on merit. No connections, no donations. Just clean grades and even cleaner designs. His parents had nodded in approval. He had packed his bags and left without ceremony. University had been quieter than he expected. The city was louder. But he adjusted quickly. He joined internships before he was required to. He attended lectures in the front row. He kept his personal life to himself. He did not drink. He did not party. He did not fall in love. Not that he did not want to. But want was not something he had ever learned how to pursue. He graduated early. Took a job at a mid-sized firm. Stayed late. Delivered on time. Climbed the ranks. Changed companies. Climbed again.

He never stopped calling home. He sent money. He visited on holidays. He brought gifts Ple never asked for, a set of pens, a new phone, shoes she left in the box until they gathered dust.

Ple had drifted farther. She had studied theatre. Their parents had disapproved. She moved in with a group of friends, joined a traveling troupe, dyed her hair. Phayu had offered help in quiet ways, paying her rent once, sending supplies under a false name. She never thanked him. She did not need to. He did not expect it. Then she disappeared for a while. He had been in the middle of a project when he got the call. She was pregnant. The father was out of the picture. She was keeping the child.

He had gone home. Sat across from her. Watched her hands on her belly. She had looked tired but certain. “I am not asking for advice,” she had said. “I am not offering any,” he had replied. They had fallen into silence, the kind that only siblings could share. When Mali was born, Phayu visited the hospital. She had been small. Angry. Loud. He had held her like she would break.

Ple had raised her in a small apartment near the river. She had painted the walls herself. Worked evening shifts. Took gigs wherever she could. Phayu had offered again, money, a better place, a nanny. She had refused it all. He had watched from the sidelines. He had never expected to be anything more than an uncle. Then the accident happened.

Chapter Text

The call came in the middle of a client meeting. Phayu’s phone had been on silent, tucked face down beside his laptop, where the blueprints glowed softly on the screen. He noticed it only when Namtan, his secretary, entered the glass-walled room and tapped lightly on the door. She looked pale. She never interrupted. “Sir,” she said, voice low, “It is urgent.” He glanced at the screen. Five missed calls. All from a number he barely recognised. Was it his sister? His throat tightened.

He rose without explanation. The clients murmured behind him, their sentences unfinished. He closed the door quietly behind him and answered on the third ring. “This is Phayu.” “Sir,” the voice on the other end said. “This is Central General Hospital. Are you the listed emergency contact for Miss Ple….?” “Yes,” he said immediately. “Yes. What happened?” “There has been an accident. A motorbike collision. She is in critical condition. We need you to come immediately.” He did not remember the elevator ride. He did not remember the drive. Later, he would find a parking ticket on his windshield and laugh without humour.

At the hospital, he gave her name again and again. Her ID. His own. The nurses avoided his eyes. One of them finally led him down a hallway that smelled of antiseptic and loss. He found her in the trauma unit. She lay small against the white sheets, a tangle of bruises and wires. Her hair had been clipped short in places. Her lips were cracked. There was blood under her nails. Phayu stood at the doorway, hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles ached.

The doctor met him outside. Words fell like stones into his ears, internal bleeding, severe brain trauma, damage too extensive, she is not responding, we are trying. He signed forms. He nodded. He went back inside. She opened her eyes once. They were glazed, unfocused. But she knew him. He could tell. Her mouth moved. No sound came out. He took her hand. It felt like paper. “I am here,” he said. “I am not leaving.” She blinked once. Then she was gone. The machines screamed. Nurses flooded the room. A hand touched his chest, firm and professional, guiding him back. He did not cry. He stood in the hallway as the world rearranged itself.

The funeral was small. Ple had not wanted ceremony. She had told him once, during one of their rare peaceful dinners, that she wanted music and marigolds, not priests and white cloth. He did his best. He played her favourite song as the casket was lowered. He folded a marigold into her hand before they closed the lid. He stood next to the small girl who clung to his leg and refused to speak.

Mali had not cried. She had stared at the flowers. She had picked one up and put it in her pocket. Phayu knelt beside her. “She is not coming back,” he had said gently. Mali had nodded. She had been three years old.

Life after Ple’s death settled like dust in an empty house. Slowly, then all at once. Phayu moved into her apartment at first. It smelled like her. The curtains were bright. The sink was always leaky. There were stickers on the fridge and stars on the ceiling. He could not stay. He packed her clothes with shaking hands. Gave away the mugs with cartoon faces. Sent her friends the things she had promised them, a scarf, a painting, a notebook filled with half-written poems.

He brought Mali home. His apartment had not been designed for children. Everything was glass or steel. The silence was heavy. He bought soft things. Blankets. A nightlight. Toys he had no idea how to assemble. He childproofed the cabinets. Installed locks. Replaced the sharp-edged coffee table with something round and unremarkable. He took a leave of absence from work. Extended it twice. Slept in twenty-minute bursts. Cooked badly.

Mali refused to speak for weeks. She followed him everywhere. Sat beside the bathroom door while he showered. Screamed when the lights turned off. Climbed into his bed without asking. He let her. They learned each other like foreign languages. Slowly. With mistakes. She liked cheese cubes and mango jam. She hated loud noises. She cried if he raised his voice, even by accident. He learned to speak softly.

She liked bedtime stories. Not the ones with wolves or witches. Only the ones with talking clouds and animals that built houses together. He tried to remember how Ple used to read. He could never get the voices right. But Mali listened anyway. Sometimes she would fall asleep mid-sentence, one hand wrapped around his sleeve. He stayed very still.

Work waited. Deadlines did not pause for grief. He tried bringing Mali to the office. That lasted two hours. She had drawn on blueprints. Touched exposed wires. Cried when he took a phone call. He hired help. The first nanny lasted a week. The second, two days. The third left in the middle of the night. “She does not speak,” one said. “She stares.” “I cannot do this,” another whispered. “I am not trained for this kind of loss.” He stopped trying.

He adjusted his schedule. He worked after she slept. He took meetings from the living room. He missed deadlines. He apologised. His company offered a leave of absence. Again. He declined. He refused to fall apart. Then work started piling up. He considered taking Mali to office. Changed his mind when he remembered the panic in Mali’s face the last time he done something new. He stayed.

But Mali’s nightmares grew. Her school sent reminders. Her clothes no longer fit. The nights grew heavier. He opened a job listing site. Out of desperation. He typed without thinking. “Live-in nanny. Must be kind. Must be patient.” He closed the laptop and went to bed.

The first applicant arrived with a clipboard. She did not look at Mali once. The second applicant asked too many questions. About her sleeping schedule. Her trauma. Her toilet habits. The third applicant smelled of perfume so strong Mali hid behind the sofa and refused to come out.

Then Rain arrived. He was early. Wet from the rain. Holding a battered folder and a bag that looked far too heavy for one shoulder. He smiled. It was lopsided. Tired. Real. Phayu prepared to reject him. Then Mali stepped out from behind the sofa. She stared at him. He crouched down without hesitation. “Hello,” he said. “I am Rain. What is your name?” She did not answer. He looked at her for a long moment. Then he made a shape with his hands. A rabbit. A dog. A bird. Shadow puppets, blurred by the light.

Mali giggled. The sound startled Phayu. She had not laughed in weeks. Then she said, very clearly, “You are my Uncle Sunshine.” Rain blinked. Smiled again. Shrugged. “That is a good name.” Phayu said nothing for a long time. Then he asked if Rain could start the next morning. Rain said yes. He did not ask about salary. He asked where Mali liked to hide when she was scared. Phayu watched them. One child, one stranger, and a spark of something like light after a long night. He did not understand it. But he knew enough to let it stay.

Rain awoke to silence. Not the comforting kind, not the hush of early morning light or the stillness before rain. This silence felt like being watched. He blinked. The ceiling above him was too white. The sheets beneath him too clean. He sat up slowly, disoriented for a moment before remembering. The job. The apartment. The small child who had pointed at him and named him something he had not known he needed to be.

He rubbed his eyes and listened again. The silence held. He got out of bed. The floor was cool under his feet. He padded into the hallway, still in yesterday’s sweatpants and an old shirt that had paint stains down the sleeve. The walls were covered in framed architectural sketches, clean lines, sharp shadows. Precise. The opposite of everything he felt.

He found Mali in the kitchen. She stood on a step stool in front of the fridge, barefoot, wearing a shirt too big for her and curls that seemed to grow by the hour. The fridge door was open. Her arms were full of yogurt cups. She looked up at him with a face that was entirely unimpressed. “I wanted grapes,” she said. Rain blinked. He crouched beside her. “I can help you with that.” “You are late.” “To what?” “Breakfast.” “Right,” he said. “I am very late.”

He took the yogurt from her arms gently, stacked the cups on the counter, and closed the fridge door. She studied him as if he might break under pressure. He tried not to look nervous. There were no grapes. Only an unopened pack of blueberries and a suspiciously soft apple. He offered the blueberries. Mali frowned but took them.

Rain searched the cabinets for bowls. They were in the wrong place three times before he found them. The spoons were heavier than necessary. He handed her one and hoped it was the right size. She sat at the table and ate in silence. Her feet swung back and forth under the chair. Rain stood in the kitchen, unsure if he was supposed to join her or disappear.

He chose awkward middle ground, leaning against the counter, trying not to hover. She looked up after three bites. “Do you not know what to do?” Rain exhaled. “No. Not really.” “Do you want me to tell you?” “Yes. That would help.” She nodded once, grave. “You need to pack my snack. I want triangles today. Not rectangles.” “Triangles,” he said. “Got it.” He had no idea what that meant.

Phayu measured time in schedules. He woke each morning at 5:45, brushed his teeth for two minutes, brewed coffee for four, and sat at the dining table with exactly twenty minutes to review emails before waking Mali. The apartment remained silent, ordered, predictable. He kept the blinds half open in every room to allow for maximum light distribution. His slippers were always aligned at the base of the bed, his keys always placed on the marble bowl by the front door, his phone always charged to at least seventy percent. Control was not a preference. It was survival.

The apartment reflected him, open spaces, clean lines, no clutter. The only softness in the place was the couch cushion Mali refused to part with, a faded pink square with a tear along one side. He had tried to throw it out once. She had cried for forty minutes without stopping. After that, he let it stay.

He approached grief the same way he approached everything else: compartmentalised, discreet, unspoken. His sister’s death had knocked something loose in him, but he had built around it. Built over it. Built past it. He worked long hours. He brought home projects he did not need to complete personally. He stayed late at the office even when he had no meetings. He left the lights on until morning. There were blueprints spread across his dining table like offerings. There were walls made of paper and glass and silence.

When Mali came to live with him, he rearranged everything except himself. He cleared a room for her. Ordered a bed, sheets, nightlight, stuffed animals, books, crayons, wall decals of stars. He searched online for how to raise a grieving child and printed ten pages of bullet points. He laminated them. He placed them in a folder labeled "MALI – CARE." He set alarms for medication. For meals. For rest. He followed the instructions. And yet she remained silent.

He spoke to her gently, but with the restraint of someone unused to being watched by small, unblinking eyes. He fed her. He bathed her. He set out her clothes every night in neat rows. She still cried at midnight. He read bedtime stories like architectural briefs. She listened in silence. He kissed the top of her head with the hesitation of someone who remembered being scolded for soft things. He loved her. He did. But he did not know how to show it in a way that did not come out like a checklist. On the third week of guardianship, her preschool teacher called and asked gently, "Has Mali ever seen you laugh?" He had not known how to answer.

Mali knew her mother was gone. Not in the way adults explained it, with euphemisms and sad voices and stories about stars. Not in the way books described it, with soft animals learning to say goodbye. She knew in her bones, the way children always did, without language, but with certainty. Her mother had kissed her forehead that morning. Had promised to bring home guavas. Had said, “Be good for Auntie.” Then she had never come back.

Mali had waited by the window for hours. The sky had turned the colour of soup, then night. She had fallen asleep with her cheek against the glass. She had not cried until they told her she could not go home. After the funeral, she stopped speaking.

There were too many voices. Too many hands. Too many adults asking her if she understood, if she was hungry, if she was alright. She stopped answering. It was easier to hide. They had moved her into a tall building with cold floors and a quiet man. Phayu was her uncle. She knew that. She had met him before, but only in fragments. Holidays. Birthdays. The kind of visits where adults talked and children were asked to play in another room. He smelled like soap and paper. He walked fast. He did not smile with his eyes. Still, he had tried.

He had tucked her in. Had brought her soup. Had bought her a soft pink pillow with clouds on it. But he did not sing. He did not let her sleep with the light on. He did not remember how her mother used to braid her hair in the shape of a heart. So she watched him. She watched how he folded his napkin every meal. Watched how he stirred his coffee three times before taking a sip. Watched how he looked over her head, not at her face.

She drew conclusions quietly. He did not like mess. He did not like noise. He did not know what to do with her. That was alright. She did not know what to do with herself either.

Chapter Text

The apartment stood on the twenty-second floor of a glass building that caught the sun like a mirror and refused to let it in. It had been designed for silence, thick walls, sealed windows, and floors that made no sound when walked upon. The air inside held a hush that was less like peace and more like pause.

Everything was in its place. The kitchen gleamed, untouched. Sleek steel appliances. Marble counters. A row of knives aligned by size. The refrigerator hummed softly, filled with neat containers labeled in block letters. No magnets. No drawings. No fingerprints.
The dining table was long, rectangular, and too large for three people. It had six identical chairs and no cushions. At the centre sat a single ceramic bowl, white, empty. It never moved.

The living room had perfect symmetry, a grey sofa without wrinkles, two matching armchairs angled precisely, a low coffee table with clean corners and nothing on it. There were no throw pillows. No blanket for late-night warmth. The television was mounted on the wall, silent more often than not.

Bookshelves lined the far wall, filled with hardcovers in muted tones. Architecture. Design. Urban theory. Their spines uncracked. Their titles solemn. The hallway was narrow. The lights were soft, recessed into the ceiling. The switches clicked with quiet precision.
Phayu's bedroom was minimal. A bed with a dark frame. Two lamps that cast no warmth. A closet that opened and closed without a sound. The bedside table held only a clock and a pen. The sheets were folded with military precision. The air smelled faintly of cedar and closed windows.

Mali's room had been redone. He had tried. There were pastel walls, a soft rug, a tiny bookshelf with too many unused storybooks. A stuffed giraffe sat in the corner, untouched. The sheets were pink, but the bed remained too neatly made.

Rain's room was temporary. A guest room, now slightly lived in. A half-open duffel bag by the foot of the bed. Sketchbooks stacked on the floor. Socks that did not match. A scarf draped over the back of the chair. Slowly, signs of a person were beginning to take hold.

But the apartment itself resisted. It remained beautiful. Clinical. Clean to the point of sterility. Every window was dressed in neutral blinds. Every lamp was white. Every corner was a line. There were no photographs. No personal mess. No memory of laughter left in the walls. The temperature never shifted. The air conditioning was set to exactly twenty-four degrees. Not a fraction more. Not a fraction less. No one opened the windows. The place smelled of order. Of control. Of quiet grief. It looked like success. It felt like absence.

The contract had been short. Four pages. Clear, direct, efficient. A printed agreement, drafted late at night, with clauses outlined in careful bullet points. Rain had read it twice, even though he had already said yes. Even though he would have said yes without reading it at all. He had nodded after the second pass. “Looks fine,” he said.

Phayu had stood across the counter, expression unreadable. “If you have questions, now is the time.” Rain shook his head. “I do not.” Still, Phayu waited. So Rain added, “I understand the hours. I understand the responsibilities.” “There is one more thing,” Phayu said. He did not look at Rain when he said it. He looked past him, to the wall, to the hallway where Mali had disappeared with a picture book tucked under her arm.

Rain waited. “I do not want this to become complicated.” Rain tilted his head slightly. “In what sense?” “In the emotional one.” There was a pause. Phayu continued. “You are here to help. That is the extent of your role. This is not a shared guardianship. It is not a family arrangement. You are a caregiver, temporary, and compensated. That must remain clear.” Rain nodded slowly. “Understood.” Phayu pressed the contract forward. “Sign here.” Rain signed. Phayu signed after him, quickly, precisely. No hesitation. The pen clicked with finality. Rain folded the paper and slid it back across the counter. That had been the first line drawn.

The second came the following evening. Mali had fallen asleep on the sofa, curled into Rain’s side, one hand tangled in his sleeve. Rain had stayed still, unwilling to wake her. The television glowed with cartoons. The air felt warmer than usual. Phayu walked in, briefcase in hand, tie loosened. He stopped when he saw them. Rain looked up. “I was going to move her,” Rain said quietly. “I will do it.” There was no accusation in Phayu’s tone. No sharpness. But something closed between them all the same.

Rain stood, gently disentangling Mali’s fingers. She stirred but did not wake. Phayu lifted her in his arms with practiced ease and carried her to bed. He returned minutes later. Rain had begun tidying up, folding the blanket, collecting the crayons. “You do not have to stay past your hours,” Phayu said. “It was not a problem.” “I mean it. Do not feel responsible beyond what has been agreed upon.” Rain hesitated, then nodded. Another line. Quiet. Firm.

The third came during breakfast. Rain had offered to make toast. Phayu declined. “I do not eat in the mornings.” “Would you like coffee?” “I make my own.” Rain glanced at the untouched machine. “I could….” “No,” Phayu said. Not unkindly. But final. Rain stepped back. “I am aware you are trying to help,” Phayu said. “But please do not involve yourself in matters beyond Mali.” Rain smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “Understood.”

There were other lines. Smaller ones. Phayu never used Rain’s name unless necessary. Never asked questions unrelated to Mali’s care. Never shared details about his work or his past. He left notes instead of speaking aloud when possible. Memos on the fridge. Instructions in bullet points. He sent schedules by email. He did not linger in common spaces. Rain never entered Phayu’s study. Never touched his books. Never commented on the sound of footsteps echoing alone in the hallway after midnight.

When they passed each other in the kitchen, they spoke softly. Just enough to function. And when Rain laughed, which he did sometimes, softly, when Mali said something strange or when his sketchbook lines landed just right, Phayu looked away, as if he had seen something too bright. The walls stayed up. No attachment. No blurring lines. Not because they disliked each other. Because they feared what might grow between the silences. Because one had built walls, and the other had been turned away by too many doors. Because they were both trying to survive in their own ways.

Rain set three alarms every morning. The first went off at 6:00, a soft chime meant to ease him awake. The second blared at 6:05, in case the first had been ignored. The third was the safety net, a mechanical trill that echoed sharply across the walls of the guest room, impossible to sleep through. He always woke on the first one.

The guest bed had become familiar, though not comfortable. The mattress dipped too low on one side. The sheets were clean but stiff. The curtains never closed all the way. Every morning, a crack of pale light cut across his face, just enough to remind him he was no longer in his own space.

He would rise quietly, stretch his legs, and check the time again, as if confirming the world had not shifted in his sleep. Mali’s room was always the next stop. He would press his ear to the door first, listening for breath, rustle, or silence. Then he would knock twice. Always twice. Sometimes she would be awake already, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling as if searching for patterns only she could see. Other times, she would burrow deeper into the covers, pretending sleep even as her toes wiggled beneath the sheets. “Good morning,” Rain would say softly, crouching beside her bed. She rarely answered. But sometimes she reached for him.

He would help her up, dress her in clothes picked the night before, soft cotton dresses, little socks with faded cartoons, a hairband she never kept on for long. They would brush teeth together, side by side at the sink. Mali would watch his reflection as she moved the brush mechanically. Rain would hum an off-key tune to fill the silence. She never sang along, but she never stopped him either.

Breakfast was always an exercise in negotiation. “Two bites of toast before juice,” Rain would say. “Three,” Mali would counter. They settled on two and a half. He packed her lunch with quiet precision. Cut fruits. Triangular sandwiches. A note with a doodle, a sun, a rabbit, a cloud wearing glasses. She never acknowledged them, but he noticed she never threw them away.

By 7:30, they were out the door. The walk to preschool was short. Mali clutched his fingers with her small hand, her grip tighter than necessary. She never looked at the road. She stared at the sky, the cracks in the pavement, the shadows of birds overhead.

Rain tried to fill the space with soft commentary. “Look, the bakery opened early.” “Those flowers are new.” “Do you think the clouds are walking somewhere too?” She never answered. But once, he saw her nod, just once, at the mention of the clouds.

At the preschool gate, the teacher greeted them with a tired smile. Rain handed over Mali’s bag, knelt beside her, and asked the same question every day. “Do you want a hug today?” Sometimes she nodded. Sometimes she shook her head. Either answer was fine. Rain watched her go in every time. He waited until she disappeared from view before turning away.

His classes started at 8:30. The university was three stops away. He kept his sketchpad in his lap on the train, drawing rooftops from memory, hands moving even when his mind wandered. He took notes furiously during lectures. Sat in the middle row. Asked questions only when necessary. His professors liked him. His classmates found him quiet but polite. He turned in work early. He never lingered. At noon, he ate a sandwich by the campus fountain. At 2:00, he left.

By 2:30, he stood outside the preschool again. Mali always walked out slowly. She never ran. Her face was unreadable, her hair always slightly crooked by then. She walked into his reach without looking up. “How was your day?” he asked. She shrugged. He took her hand.

Back home, the air was always the same, still temperature-controlled, unmoved. Phayu’s shoes remained by the door, untouched since morning. The silence never changed. Rain slipped out of his sneakers and helped Mali into the kitchen. He offered her a snack, steamed rice balls, a few slices of mango, toast if she asked. She ate slowly, eyes drifting toward the window. By 3:30, she was ready for a nap.

Rain carried her to bed. She no longer protested. She let him pull the covers up to her chin, let him smooth the creases. He always turned on the small nightlight shaped like a cloud. “Would you like a story?” he asked. Sometimes she said yes.

He made them up, stories about moon rabbits who built ladders, about cats who ran bookstores, about stars who could not remember how to shine. His voice stayed quiet, the rhythm steady. When she fell asleep, he tiptoed back to the living room.

That time, from 4:00 to 6:00, was his own. He opened his laptop. Reviewed assignments. Sketched for class. Answered emails. Worked until his back ached and the light began to fade. He never played music. He did not want to wake her.

At six, she stirred. He met her at the door with a smile. “Want to play a game?” Sometimes she brought blocks. Sometimes crayons. Sometimes she simply wanted to sit by his side while he drew and asked, quietly, if he could add a fox, or a boat, or a cloud with feet. He did, always.

At seven, he began dinner. He kept her in the kitchen with him, telling her stories as he stirred. “Once, there was a boy who could talk to rainclouds,” he would begin. She watched him closely, correcting details when they did not fit her logic. “Rainclouds cannot wear glasses,” she told him once. “They would fall off.” He laughed. “Then I will give them hats instead.” That made her smile.

Dinner was always a quiet affair. Rain kept his voice gentle. Mali sometimes chewed in silence, sometimes asked questions about the story from earlier. They cleaned up together. She always wiped the table. Rain always washed the dishes. At eight, they went for a walk downstairs. She wore her light jacket, always chose the same path, down the street, past the bakery, around the park, then home again. She never held his hand on the walk back, only on the way out.

Bath time was a ritual. Warm water. Small toys. Lavender soap. He dried her hair with the soft towel her mother had once owned, the one Rain had found in a sealed box with Ple’s name on the lid. At nine, he tucked her into bed. She always asked for the lullaby. The same one. He sang quietly, voice wavering at times. She never commented. She only closed her eyes, her hand resting against the pillow with the sun stitched onto the corner. When she slept, Rain exhaled. He went back to his room. Opened his laptop. Resumed his work. Deadlines loomed. His hands cramped. His eyes burned. But he finished what needed to be done. Always.

Phayu remained a ghost. He left before sunrise. Returned long after Mali slept. On the rare occasions they crossed paths, he offered a nod, a clipped question about medicine or school. Rain answered politely. There were no arguments. There were no conversations. There was only routine.

And still, Rain hoped. Hoped that the quiet would soften. That Mali’s smiles would grow easier. That the air in the apartment might someday hold laughter, or music, or the smell of burnt toast. He never said any of it aloud. But sometimes, in the space between stories and steam, he let himself believe. That maybe, something was changing.

Chapter Text

It began with a small hand at the back of his sleeve. They had reached the preschool gate. Rain had knelt, as he always did, and adjusted the strap on Mali’s backpack. Her curls were a little frizzier than usual. She had refused the hairband again. Her shoes had one lace loose. He had just begun to tie it when he felt it, the gentle tug of her fingers. He looked up. Mali leaned forward without a word and wrapped her arms around his neck. It was not long. Barely five seconds. Just a soft weight against his chest, a press of warmth, a quiet offering. Rain held his breath.

Then she stepped back, face unreadable, turned, and walked into the building. The teacher met Rain’s eyes with something close to surprise. “She hugged you,” she whispered, as if afraid to say it too loud. Rain only nodded. He stood there for a long moment after Mali disappeared into the classroom. The morning traffic passed behind him. A bird landed on the fence. The world moved forward. But Rain remained still. Something in him had shifted.

In the days that followed, the shift grew. Mali began to speak more. Not all at once. Not with stories or questions or exclamations. But with pieces. Bits of her world that she began to offer him, slowly, like breadcrumbs. “Today I drew zebra with pecs,” she said one afternoon, over mango slices. Rain paused in the middle of sketching a floor plan. “Was it for the jungle?” “It was for Uncle denwist.” He grinned. “Obviously.” She blinked once. Then smiled. It was small, crooked, and a little shy. But it was real. He tucked that smile somewhere behind his ribs, where warmth stayed longest.

Their walks became longer. Mali pointed out more things. “See? Tree looks angry.” “The pavement crack looks like a giraffe.” “Do cwouds get tired?” Rain answered each one with a thoughtful nod, sometimes with made-up facts, sometimes with a follow-up question. “I think clouds do get tired,” he said. “But they do not sleep. They just lean on the mountains for a bit.” “That is no real,” she told him. “I never said it was.” She gave him a look. The kind only children could give. The kind that meant she knew more than she let on.

Mealtimes changed, too. She started finishing her plate more often. She asked for second helpings on days when Rain got the texture of the rice just right. He began keeping a small notebook in the kitchen drawer, a plain little thing where he jotted down what worked and what did not. No carrots, yes to beans. No apples, yes to guava. No dry food, yes to gravy.

When he found himself stuck, he called his mother. “Ma,” he said, holding the phone with one shoulder, “how did you make that curry I loved when I was small?” His mother paused. Then said, with a smile in her voice, “You mean the yellow one with cumin?” “Yes.” “I thought you hated that one.” “I hated the onions in it,” he admitted. “But I think Mali would like it. I just do not remember how to make it soft enough.” She gave him the recipe. Slowly, patiently, with pauses to make sure he wrote everything down. “You are cooking for a child?” she asked. “Yes.” “Not yours, I hope.” He laughed. “Not mine.” “Still,” she said. “Lucky child.”

The first time he made that curry, Mali frowned at the smell. She poked it with her spoon. Took one tentative bite. Then another. By the end of the bowl, she looked up at him and said, “More?” He gave her more. And he made it again the next week. He added a pinch of turmeric just the way his mother had said. He remembered not to burn the garlic this time. He learned. Slowly. Carefully. Just as he had learned to read Mali. At night, she now asked for stories. Not the ones in books. The ones he made up. “Tell me stowy about boy with staws in jals.” Or, “The one when moon had cold and did snizzy on the ocean.” Or, “What happened to fox who want to built treehouse out of buttons?” Rain told them all.

His voice grew steadier with each one. His hands moved as he spoke, shaping the stories in the air. She watched him like he was the sky. Her fingers sometimes reached for his as he spoke, brushing against his wrist, holding the hem of his sleeve, never fully letting go. He sang the lullaby softer now. Not because he was uncertain, but because she listened so closely. She fell asleep facing him more often. Her breath even. Her lashes still. He stayed until she drifted, then slipped away to finish his work. He sat by his laptop under the glow of the desk lamp, with paint under his nails and stories still echoing in his ears.

The apartment was still cold. The walls had not changed. But the air around Rain and Mali had begun to hum with something else. Something warm. Something soft. Something like belonging. The apartment had not changed. The furniture still sat in perfect alignment. The thermostat remained set to twenty-four degrees. The windows stayed closed. The corners remained dustless. The marble bowl at the entry still held Phayu’s keys, untouched. But the air inside had grown gentler.

A string of watercolour suns, painted by small, careful hands, now hung beside the kitchen counter. One of Mali’s drawings had made it to the fridge, fixed with plain tape because Rain had not dared use magnets. Her shoes rested beside his at the doorway, slightly tilted. Her laughter, when it came, echoed softly in the hall.

Rain woke at six every day, even when he had slept late the night before. He moved through his routine quietly, always beginning with a check on Mali. Sometimes she was still curled beneath the pink comforter, one hand tangled in the corner of the pillow. Other mornings, she sat upright before he reached the door, her eyes wide and waiting. She had begun greeting him with a whispered “good morning.” It was never loud. Never routine. But always sincere.

The walk to school had changed. Mali now skipped beside him. “Look,” she said one day, pointing at the row of potted frangipani outside the corner home, “the flowers is like soap today.” Rain crouched to sniff one. “They smell like rain clouds getting ready,” he said. “That is not smell,” she told him. He pretended to be shocked.

At the preschool gate, she hugged him without prompting. Sometimes she pressed her cheek against his shirt and stayed there for a few seconds longer than necessary. The teacher began to nod at Rain with quiet approval. The security guard at the gate smiled more often. Rain always walked back slower than he arrived.

Evenings had become their favourite time. After a light meal, usually rice with minced pork, or jok with chicken if Mali looked tired, they would sit on the balcony with their feet tucked up, watching the sun dissolve behind the Bangkok skyline. “Where does sun sleep?” she asked. Rain rested his chin on one hand. “Probably in the sea. Maybe in a cup of tea.” “Then the moon have to wake it?” “Only if the alarm does not work.” Mali’s laughter was the softest part of the day.

One Saturday afternoon, it rained harder than usual. The streets outside shimmered with water. The glass windows fogged gently. Mali pressed her hands against the cool pane and watched droplets race each other. Rain laid out an old sheet in the living room, brought down a pile of art supplies, and announced they were going to make a zoo. “Real animaws?” she asked. “Only the rarest kind. Elephant-hamsters. Giraffe-crabs. One-legged tiger-birds.”

They painted together for hours. Mali’s palms turned green. Rain’s nose ended up orange. They laughed until their stomachs hurt. Later, she insisted on giving names to every animal. Rain wrote them down in a notebook. “This one Sir Woofalot,” she said, holding up a blob with wings and woofing a bit. Rain bowed. “An honour to meet you, sir.” Phayu did not come home that weekend. Rain had stopped expecting him. Mali no longer asked.

When Mali caught a cold, it started with a sniffle. Then a sneeze. Then a soft cough that made her eyes water. Rain noticed it after dinner. Her cheeks were warm. Her voice sounded smaller than usual. She pushed her food around and asked to skip their evening walk. Rain helped her into pyjamas, then crouched to feel her forehead. Too warm. Not burning, but too warm. He picked up his phone. His mother answered on the second ring. “Ma,” Rain said, his voice low. “Mali is sick.” There was a pause. Then his mother asked, “Fever?” “Yes. Cold too. Maybe a bit of a cough.” “How old is she again?” “Three. Just over three.”

His mother’s voice shifted. Gentle. Focused. “Do not panic,” she said first. “Has she eaten?” “A little.” “Any vomiting? Difficulty breathing?” “No. Just tired. Cough. A little fever.” “Check her temperature. If it stays under thirty-eight point five, it is still mild.” Rain scrambled for the thermometer. It read thirty-seven point eight.

His mother continued, “Give her warm water. No ice. Try steamed food, soft, nothing fried. Garlic in broth if she will take it. Lemon with honey if her throat hurts. Not too much. No raw milk. No street food.” Rain scribbled it all down. On a receipt. On the back of a drawing. “And if the fever rises?” “Take her to the hospital. Not the clinic. Hospital.” Rain nodded, even though she could not see him. “Thank you,” he whispered. “She is a child,” his mother said. “Children get sick. But you will be fine. Just watch her. Stay close.” “I am not scared.” “Good. But still, stay close.”

That night, he held Mali as she slept. He kept a wet cloth folded neatly by her pillow. Checked her temperature every two hours. Hummed the lullaby even though she was already asleep. She murmured once, in her half-dream. “Uncle Sunshine?” He brushed a strand of hair from her temple. “Right here.”

The fever never rose past thirty-eight. By morning, she looked better. Her appetite returned slowly. She asked for porridge. She asked for a story about a whale who forgot how to swim. Rain told her the story, wrapped in a blanket, both of them on the sofa, while the city woke up around them.

The days passed. She grew stronger. Her cheeks pinked again. The shadows beneath her eyes faded. Rain continued his routine. School. Sketches. Stories. Songs. Meals. Walks. Lullabies. Phayu returned briefly the next Friday night. Rain heard the front door open at 10:00 PM. He did not get up. Phayu’s shoes remained by the door the next morning, but he was already gone. Mali never noticed.

She had begun sleeping more soundly. Rain took her to the temple on Sunday. She lit incense with him, pressed her palms together, and bowed three times. He whispered a wish for health into his cupped hands. Mali made a wish too. She never told him what it was. But that night, she called him by his name for the first time. “Uncle Rain?” He looked up from the floor, where he was arranging crayons into their box. “Yes?” She held out her arms. “Story. Please.” Rain smiled. “Of course.”

The studio smelled of turpentine, graphite dust, and sunlight. Rain stood by the long table near the north-facing window, brush in one hand, sketchbook open beside him. He had been working since morning. The end-of-year review approached, and the studio had begun to thrum with shared anxiety. Students murmured behind partitioned spaces. Papers shifted. Water cups clinked. Someone coughed into their sleeve.

Rain’s piece was nearly complete. A series of large format sketches, layered transparencies, shadows on stormy glass, the outline of a child’s silhouette moving through rooms made of light. It was architectural in theory, emotional in delivery. The final element, a faint wash of ochre in the bottom corner, remained untouched. He hesitated before adding it.

His phone buzzed. Not just any sound. It was that sound. The custom ringtone. A soft bell layered over a chiming music box. He had set it only for one contact. He dropped the brush immediately. The screen read: Ajarn Naree – Mali's Homeroom Teacher. He answered before the second ring finished. “Rain here,” he said, already reaching for his bag.

The voice on the other end was quiet, composed, but tense. “Hello, Khun Rain. I am sorry to call during your class time. I would not call unless it was important. It is about Mali.” He felt his stomach pull tight. “Is she alright?” “She is not hurt. But she has been crying. Uncontrollably. It started ten minutes ago. There was no fall. No fight. Nothing specific. She just… broke down.” Rain was already zipping his bag shut. “Where is she now?” “In the reading room. We tried to soothe her, but she keeps asking for you. She will not calm down. I believe she needs to see someone familiar.” “I am coming now.” “She is safe. Just frightened. But please come as soon as possible.” “I will.” He ended the call without waiting for more.

He ran. Down three flights of stairs, through the courtyard, past two seniors working on a wire sculpture. His shoes slapped the ground too loudly. His heart beat in his ears. The Bangkok heat curled around his neck, heavy with afternoon weight. Outside the gate, he opened the Grab app with shaking fingers. Bike. Immediate. The driver accepted within five seconds. Rain climbed on the motorbike before removing his backpack. He kept it strapped across his chest. The helmet was too loose. He held the back rail tightly. The engine roared. The city blurred past.

The preschool came into view. Yellow walls. A rusted slide. Parents waiting behind the iron gate. Rain pushed past them and showed his ID to the guard, who recognised him and waved him through. Ajarn Naree met him halfway down the corridor. “She is inside,” she said, voice low. “Still crying.” Rain stepped into the room. Mali sat on a small foam mat, knees curled into her chest, her face wet and red. Two teaching assistants sat nearby, both looking helpless. One held a box of tissues.

When Mali saw him, she let out a broken, gasping sound, not quite his name, not quite a word. She stood. Then she ran. Straight into him. He dropped to his knees just in time. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed into his shirt. Not the shy kind of tears she had shed before. Not the silent trembling. These were loud, aching sobs. Her small body shook against him. Her fingers gripped his shirt so tightly they left creases. Rain held her. He did not speak. He wrapped his arms around her, lifted her slowly, and nodded to the teachers. “I am taking her home.” Ajarn Naree touched his arm. “Of course. If you need anything….” “Thank you.” He carried Mali all the way out.

The Grab ride home was quiet. She curled against his chest. Her eyes remained open but unfocused. Her hiccups came in small waves. Rain whispered nothing. Just held her. Just kept his palm at her back. The building’s lift was mercifully empty. He shifted her weight only once.

Inside the apartment, the air felt different. Still cold. Still quiet. But filled now with something fragile. He sat with her on the sofa. She did not move away. He stroked her hair slowly, waiting for her sobs to lessen. They did, in increments. Sobs became sniffles. Sniffles became breaths. Her hand tightened once more around his sleeve before loosening.

She fell asleep against him. Her face turned into the crook of his arm. Her small feet tucked beneath her legs. Rain remained still. The hours passed slowly. He shifted only when necessary. Reached for the light blanket. Adjusted her head. Let her sleep without interruption. Later, he lifted her gently, took her to her bed, tucked her in beneath the soft comforter. She murmured once in sleep.

He turned off the main light. Left the nightlight glowing, a soft sun on the wall. Then he sat on the floor beside her bed. Opened his laptop. Typed notes quietly, cross-referenced with earlier sketches. Rearranged thumbnails for his final project. Rebuilt a timeline. Added margins. All while glancing, every few minutes, at the child breathing beside him.

The apartment stayed silent. Phayu would not return that night. Rain already knew. He stayed until the screen blurred before him. Until the quiet deepened. Until he was sure she would wake lighter. He stayed. Because there was nowhere else to be.

Chapter Text

The light in Mali’s room changed slowly. It moved across the wooden floor, stretched over the corners of her bed, and touched the edges of Rain’s sketchbook left near the window. The soft hum of the air conditioning created a background rhythm, but everything else remained still. Rain sat beside her, knees drawn up to his chest, laptop folded shut. He had not typed for a while. Instead, he had watched her, the slow rise and fall of her chest, the small crease between her eyebrows even in sleep.

Her hand was still curled near her cheek. Her stuffed rabbit lay half-tucked under her chin, one ear poking out at an angle. Rain reached out and gently adjusted the edge of her blanket. She stirred just past five. A little sigh. A shift. Her eyes blinked open. Rain leaned in. “Hi, little cloud.” Mali blinked again, slowly, like her mind had not fully returned to her body. She rubbed one fist against her eye. He waited.

Then, with no warning, she reached out. He opened his arms at once. She crawled into his lap without a word. Her head rested against his chest, her legs tucked beneath her, her hands fisted into the fabric of his shirt. He held her close. They sat that way for a while. Then, softly, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” She did not pull away. She did not cry again. Instead, in a small voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt, she said, “I miss my mama.” Rain felt something give way inside him. He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I know, Mali.” “I miss her lots.” He nodded. “It is okay to miss her.” “She smell nice. Like flowers. Not like toilet spray flowers. Nice-nice flowers.” Rain smiled through his sadness. “The best kind.”

There was a long pause. Then Mali added, “I never see my papa. Not even one time.” Rain swallowed. She went on. “I think he not want me. Not want baby. Mama say he gone. Mama say she enough. But now Mama gone too.” Rain closed his eyes. She sniffled once. Her voice got smaller. “Even Yai and Pu… they know I here. But no come. Not one time.”

Her hands trembled slightly where they gripped his shirt. “Even Uncle Phayu. He not want me. He no see me. I no do bad thing. Why I not wanted?” Rain’s chest ached. He looked down at her. Her cheeks were still blotchy from crying. Her nose pink. Her hair stuck to her forehead. She was three years old. Too small to carry that much sorrow. Then she lifted her face. Her eyes were red, but focused. “Uncle Sunshine,” she whispered, “will you stay here? Forever?” Rain froze.

The question landed with too much weight. His heart squeezed, as if someone had pressed into the softest, most unguarded part of him. He had no words at first. She looked up, waiting. A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it quickly, but Mali saw. “Why you cry too?” she asked. “Because,” Rain said, voice cracking, “I wish I could promise forever.” She touched his cheek, small fingers warm. “You can try.” Rain nodded. “I can. I will stay with you for as long as I can.” Mali leaned forward and kissed his chin. “Okay. That is lot-long.” He hugged her close again.

She sighed into his shirt, then whispered, “Can I have my tummy food?” Rain blinked. “Your…?” “My tummy food. The one I like-likey.” “Which one?” She sat up straighter, brightening. “The one with the rice and the egg and the soss-soss.” “Ah,” Rain said, smiling, “you want kai jeow rice.” “YES! That is my best meal. Uncle Sunshine make it?” Rain kissed her forehead. “Absolutely.”

In the kitchen, she sat in her high chair. Her stuffed rabbit sat beside her in its own bowl, filled with pretend noodles drawn with crayons. Mali had her colouring book open in front of her and gripped a fat pink crayon in her fist. “I draw sunshines,” she told him. “And a kitty with a big face. Like this!” She held up a round circle with tiny triangle ears and a smile stretching across its whole width. “Beautiful,” Rain said, cracking the eggs into the bowl. “You make my soss-soss good today?” “The best soss-soss.” “And the egg make it flufffffyyy.” “I will fluff it like a cloud.” She nodded, satisfied. “Okay then. I wait wait.” She coloured. She hummed. She swung her legs.

Rain cooked. He added fish sauce and chopped green onions, the way his mother had told him. He heated oil in the pan until it hissed, then poured the eggs in. The smell filled the kitchen quickly, warm, rich, familiar. Mali sniffed the air dramatically. “My tummy go rumble-rumble,” she said. Rain laughed. “Almost ready.” When he placed the plate in front of her, rice, kai jeow golden and crispy at the edges, and her favourite soss-soss in a tiny bowl, she clapped her hands. “Thank you, Uncle Sunshine!” “You are very welcome, Miss Mali.”

She ate happily. Every few bites, she stopped to tell him something. “Today the cloud was shaped like a donut.” “Really?” “But not a tasty one. I asked.” “Asked the cloud?” She nodded. “He said, ‘No, I is only fluff.’” Rain grinned. “A very honest cloud.” She giggled.

He cleaned up after dinner, still listening to her soft voice as she narrated a new story to her rabbit. By the time the dishes were done, Mali had curled up on the sofa again, blanket over her knees, rabbit tucked in. She yawned. Rain sat beside her and tucked a pillow behind her back. “Ready for bed?” he asked. “Five more minute.” He nodded. They stayed there, quiet, side by side. Her hand found his without looking. She leaned her head against his arm. And Rain, overwhelmed by the softness of it all, the quiet after the storm, the faith of a child, the miracle of trust rebuilt, stayed exactly where he was.

Rain closed Mali’s door gently behind him. The hallway lights were dim. He adjusted the nightlight once more before turning off the last switch. Inside the bedroom, Mali had already begun to drift, her fingers curled beneath her chin, the blanket tucked to her shoulders, her stuffed rabbit under one arm. Her breaths came soft and even. He stood outside the door for a moment, hand resting on the knob. Then he turned and walked to the dining area.

The table was still set from earlier, two unused placemats on one side, Mali’s empty chair facing the window. A sheet of coloured stickers lay where she had forgotten them. Rain moved them aside, then sat down in one of the chairs. Not the head of the table. Just to the left. Close enough to face the front door. He folded his arms across his chest. And waited.

The clock ticked past 9:00 PM. Rain did not check his phone. Outside, the Bangkok sky had gone dark, with only the hazy flicker of distant traffic far below. The apartment’s windows mirrored the room back at him, pale walls, stark lines, and a single man sitting perfectly still. He had thought about this conversation for days. Not just since Mali’s breakdown. Longer.

It had built slowly. With every missed meal. Every closed door. Every quiet heartbreak etched into a child’s shoulders. Every time she had asked without asking. Every night he had sat awake wondering why Phayu even agreed to guardianship in the first place if he had no interest in showing up. Rain would not yell. But he would not stay silent. The lock clicked at 9:42 PM. The door opened. Phayu stepped in.

His jacket was folded neatly over one arm, his shirt collar slightly loosened. His eyes flicked up as he closed the door, and stopped when he saw Rain. He looked surprised. “Rain?” he said. Rain did not move. “Welcome back.” Phayu blinked. “I thought you would be asleep.” “I am not.” “I did not expect….” “No,” Rain cut in. “You never do.” Phayu’s brow furrowed. “Is something wrong?” Rain stood up. Something in his posture had changed. He was still slim, still gentle-faced, still half-buried in an oversized cardigan and soft house slippers. But he looked taller than usual. Firmer. Rooted. “Yes,” he said clearly. “Something is wrong.”

Phayu raised an eyebrow. “You could have messaged….” “I did not want to message. I wanted to speak to you. Face to face. Since you avoid both.” Phayu’s expression shifted, from confusion to slight irritation. “Rain….” “No,” Rain said. “You do not get to speak first.” There was a pause. A rare one. And Phayu, who was used to being spoken to carefully, found himself quieted by a man half his weight and none of his corporate titles.

Rain stepped closer. “Mali cried herself to sleep today.” Phayu flinched. Barely. But Rain saw it. “She broke down at school. Sobbing. Unstoppable. They had to call me. I had to leave my final project midway and rush there on a bike. When she saw me, she ran into my arms and did not let go for hours.” He paused. “Do you know why?”

Phayu said nothing. Rain continued, voice steady but sharp. “Because she misses her mother. Because she never knew her father. Because she thinks no one loves her. Because even the grandparents who know she exists have not once visited her. Because her legal guardian, who lives in the same apartment, has not looked her in the eyes in weeks. Last week, she had a slight fever, and I had to call my mom, and not you, because I don’t even know how to contact you. You never gave me your number, and never even sent me a message to let me know any information about Mali.”

Phayu’s mouth parted slightly. “That is not fair….” “It is not?” Rain’s voice did not rise, but it carried steel. “She does not see you. She asks about you less and less. Do you know what that means? She is adjusting to your absence. Three-year-olds should not have to adjust to being abandoned.” Phayu looked stunned. Rain went on. “You think giving her a roof and a bed is enough? That paying for school and clothes is parenting? That being in the same building while staying behind a closed door is care?”

Phayu opened his mouth again, but Rain did not let him speak. “You do not cook for her. You do not talk to her. You do not ask how she is doing. You do not know what her favourite food is. Or which lullaby makes her sleep fastest. Or which story makes her laugh.” “I am busy….” “She thinks you do not want her.” The words landed like stone. Rain’s voice lowered. “Do you know what she asked me tonight?” Phayu shook his head. “She asked if I would stay with her forever. Because she believes no one else will.” Phayu said nothing. He looked away. Rain took a breath. “This weekend is a long one. I am taking her to my hometown. She needs a break. She needs air. She needs space where she is not constantly reminded that the man who shares her roof refuses to share his heart.”

Phayu finally met his eyes. “That is not your decision.” “I am making it anyway.” Silence stretched between them. Rain added, “You can say no. You can pull rank. But if you do, you will have to tell her yourself. You will have to look her in the eyes and say, No, you cannot go with the one person who makes you feel safe. Can you do that?” Phayu stared at him. Rain held his gaze. For a long moment, neither man moved. Then, finally, Phayu nodded. It was small. But it was there. Rain stepped back. “Good. We will leave Friday morning.”

Phayu sat down slowly, as if the conversation had taken more out of him than he expected. Rain turned to leave. At the hallway entrance, he paused. “You are lucky, you know.” Phayu looked up. “She still wants you. Even now. But if you wait too long, she may stop.” Then Rain walked away. And for the first time since they had met, Phayu did not have the last word.