Direk leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple as he stared at the mountain of documents cluttering his desk. The weight of responsibilities never seemed to lessen, but the sudden buzz of his phone provided a temporary distraction. He picked it up, glancing at the caller ID.
Little Sperm
Sighing, he answered. "What's up?"
"Direk, the security guard won't let me into the company," Arthit complained on the other end, irritation lacing his voice.
Direk frowned. "What? Why not?"
"I don't know. Is he new? He said he doesn't know who I am."
"Probably. I'll sort it out."
He ended the call and immediately dialed his secretary.
"Yes, sir?" she answered promptly.
"My son's stuck outside. The security guard won't let him in. Handle it."
"Apologies, sir. It's the new security team. They likely don't recognize Mr. Arthit. I'll take care of it right away."
"Good. Make sure they're warned."
"Understood. Should we deduct their pay?"
"No need. Knowing my son, he probably gave them an earful already."
"Got it, sir."
Minutes later, the office door swung open, and Arthit strode in, dropping into the chair across from Direk's desk with a dramatic sigh. One look at him, and Direk understood the security guard's reaction. Dressed in a black tank top, knee-length shorts, and flip-flops, his hair disheveled and his beard unkempt, he looked more like a street thug than the son of a company chairman. Tattoos sprawled across his arms and legs, completing the unruly image.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Direk asked, raising an unimpressed brow.
"I was lazy. You're the chairman, does it really matter? I told them I'm your son, and they didn't believe me."
"If I were the security guard, I wouldn't have let you in either," Direk muttered, returning to his paperwork.
When he finally finished, he grabbed his suit jacket and motioned for Arthit to follow. As they stepped out of the office, his secretary immediately stood at attention.
"You've booked the restaurant I mentioned, right?" Direk asked.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be back in the afternoon."
"Enjoy your meal, sir," she said, bowing respectfully.
As they walked toward the parking lot, Direk gave his son a sideways glance. "You could at least dress decently. You're the only son of the chairman, after all."
Arthit smirked. "Whose car are we taking?"
"Yours."
"Direk, are you going to drive my car?"
"Shouldn't you be driving me?"
"Man, I thought I'd get the chairman as my chauffeur today."
Direk sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as Arthit strolled around to open the passenger door with a mockingly grand gesture. Reluctantly, he climbed in while Arthit slid into the driver's seat, his expression smug.
The engine of the nearly 30-million-baht sports car purred to life, and before Direk could issue a warning, Arthit floored the accelerator. The sudden force threw him back against the seat. With an irritated grunt, Direk reached over and smacked his son's head.
"Hey! What was that for?" Arthit complained, rubbing the spot where his father's hand had landed.
"Drive properly, you idiot."
"Stop nagging."
"This is a road, not a racetrack."
"Yes, sir," Arthit drawled sarcastically but eased off the gas.
Direk exhaled, watching the road. Their family had been in the automobile business for years, and Arthit had grown up around cars, developing an obsession. He was a skilled driver—an excellent one, actually. If he ever took racing seriously, he'd dominate. Except for that one time he lost to Johan. Their record stood at one win each, and they had yet to settle the score.
Last night, Arthit had called him drunk again, which was nothing new. Every time he drank, he called Direk, as if he were an ex-boyfriend instead of his father. First, he had been a dad. Then, he became a friend. Now, he was an ex-wife, apparently.
Direk didn't know how he had raised a son like this, but in many ways, Arthit was just like him in his younger years. Like father, like son. Arthit was attached to him like glue. Direk's own father had raised him like a friend, and he had done the same with Arthit. He wanted to be someone his son could talk to about anything, without fear or secrecy.
He gave him freedom, and in return, Arthit never crossed the line—he drank, he smoked, he bragged about his conquests, but he never touched drugs or got into serious trouble. His role as a father was simple: provide for him and prepare him to stand on his own. If he squandered the wealth he inherited, that was on him.
"If I get old and you don't want to take care of me, that's fine," Direk had told him once. "Just give me enough for my final days, and I'll manage." But he knew Arthit would never abandon him. For all his reckless bravado, the boy was deeply attached. Every time he got drunk, he called.
"Direk, help me! Direk, I'm drunk! Direk, I can't get home!" Every single time. Last night's call had been different, though. Arthit had talked about a friend who had died but still seemed to linger, as if his time wasn't up yet. And Direk had known—his son wasn't talking about his friend.
He was thinking about his mother. They never talked about her, an unspoken agreement between them. But Direk knew the wound had never healed. Arthit had cried at her funeral, but only briefly, before wiping his tears away. Since then, he had never let himself break again.
And one day, when Direk was gone, he would have to brace himself for another heartbreak. As they pulled into the restaurant parking lot, Arthit glanced around.
"Why's the place so quiet? Don't tell me you booked the whole thing again, Direk."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Just felt like it."
Arthit scoffed. "Flexing your wealth again, huh?"
Direk knew what was coming next.
"Can I have 400,000? I want to get a new car."
"Which one?"
"A Lexus."
"The LC?"
"Yep."
"What happened to the money from your last race?"
"I saved it."
Direk sighed. "So instead of using your own money, you save it and come asking me for mine?"
Arthit grinned. "Come on, I'll race again and pay you back."
"No need to race anymore. Focus on your residency instead."
Arthit groaned, clearly annoyed. The races were held at Direk's own track, and whenever his son's name was on the roster, the place was packed. He was the star money-maker of the track. But Direk wasn't about to let him get comfortable living recklessly forever. One day, he'd have to take responsibility for more than just himself.
If Direk's son missed a few races, the atmosphere at the track dulled considerably. Conversations buzzed with his absence, and people constantly asked after him. Direk found himself trapped in an endless debate—should he allow Arthit to keep racing, or should he put an end to it? His son had undeniable talent, but racing was dangerous, and one wrong move could lead to disaster.
It had been a long time since they shared a meal together. When Arthit was still in high school, Direk had made it a point to return home for dinner every evening. It wasn't always like that—before his wife passed, things had been different. But after her death, he forced himself to carve out time, no matter how packed his schedule was, to sit across from his son at the dinner table and listen to his endless chatter.
Arthit's stories never ran dry. There was always something to tell—the attractive homeroom teacher with big breasts, the perpetually grumpy old PE teacher, the girl from another class who liked him (but whom he dismissed because she had small breasts).
Then there were football games that left him scraped and bruised, the school's math building with its perpetually broken restrooms, the Thai exams he consistently failed, and the lunchroom fight that ended with him throwing a bowl of beef noodle soup at a rival from Class 8. He'd always finish his stories with something absurd, like, "Don't apologize to his dad, though; I'd lose my pride." His school life had been a whirlwind of chaos, drama, and mischief.
When Arthit moved to a condo for university, their time together dwindled. Between Direk's work and Arthit's grueling studies—medicine, of all things —opportunities for meals together became rare. And looking at the ragtag group of friends his son had made, especially Tonfah, Direk often wondered why Arthit—his own son—had befriended someone like that.
At the quiet, private restaurant Direk had booked, they ordered their meals. Over lunch, he asked about Arthit's life. Predictably, his son started venting about how irritating it was to be on the wards, how he had unintentionally insulted several patients.
"Don't go around insulting your patients. You're a doctor," Direk reprimanded.
"They're so annoying! And that's with the supervising doctors around. If I were a real doctor, I'd probably hit some of them. Like, 'Do you want medicine or a kick?'" Arthit grumbled, stabbing at his steak with unnecessary force.
Direk sighed. "I'm worried about you. Are you planning to specialize?"
"Nah, too lazy. What do you think, Direk?" he asked, shoving a piece of meat into his mouth.
"I think psychiatry would suit you."
Arthit frowned. "Why's that?"
"Because psychiatric patients would feel comforted seeing you. They'd think, 'Wow, my doctor's crazier than I am!'" Direk deadpanned.
Arthit choked on his food, laughing so hard he nearly knocked over his drink.
"Tonfah seems interested in psychiatry," Direk added, watching his son regain composure.
"Good for him. Whatever specialty Tonfah chooses, he'll excel. But me? Think carefully."
Direk shook his head. "That's the most shameless question I've ever heard. Just focus on graduating first. Your latest grades gave me a headache. Forget an A, there wasn't even a B to cheer me up."
Arthit smirked. "True dedication to disappointing my dad."
"Or maybe you're just bad at life but make up for it with grades," Direk muttered, rubbing his temples. He wasn't overly strict about academics— he'd failed a few classes himself before eventually graduating—but his son's nonchalance could be exhausting.
After lunch, they prepared to leave, but before they did, Arthit casually mentioned, "Direk, I'm thinking of getting another tattoo."
"What kind?"
"Dunno yet. I'll ask the artist for suggestions."
"Where?" Direk asked. His son already had plenty, though most were hidden under his clothes. He still remembered the first tattoo—bold script inked onto his chest that read: Direk's son. Yeah, sure. Whatever makes him happy. Direk couldn't even scold him for it —insulting the tattoo felt like insulting himself.
"Maybe my right shoulder. What do you think, Direk?"
"Just don't get a tattoo of my face."
"Why not? People tattoo their dads' faces all the time."
"Please, no. I don't need to be with you every second of your life."
"Aww, so touching. And here I thought you'd be honored."
Direk sighed. He'd once teased his own father, Dilok, just like this. The cycle continued. As they left the restaurant and drove back, traffic stretched endlessly before them.
"With traffic like this, do you think we'll make it back by the afternoon?" Arthit asked.
"Doesn't look like it. Why's it so bad?"
"No idea."
"Do you have to be back by this afternoon?"
"Yeah."
Arthit shrugged. "Better call your secretary and let her know you'll be late." Direk did, and his secretary, ever the practical woman, reassured him that there wasn't much work in the afternoon. She even suggested he push his meetings to the next day and spend time with his son while he had the chance. He agreed.
"There's not much to do this afternoon. Wanna hang out?" he asked.
"Wow, Direk's asking me out. It's like a date," Arthit teased.
"Turn the car around and head back to the office."
"Kidding! Where should we go?"
"I don't know. Where do you usually go on days off?"
"On days like this? I just drive around aimlessly. No real destination. It's probably going to rain, though."
"Fine. Let's just go."
As they drove, old songs played on the radio. Occasionally, they spoke. Then, after a long pause, Arthit asked, "Direk?"
"What?"
"You're 47. What do you think about life now?" Direk glanced at him. "Why're you asking?"
"Just curious. I don't want to get old."
Direk exhaled. "I wouldn't mind dying of old age. Life's just... calmer now. What about you? You're in your 20s. Do you feel like you've grown up?"
"Not really. Still the same mess as always. Maybe a little, but it's hard to explain."
"How so?"
"It feels scary, getting old."
"That's normal. You're in a transition phase."
"Do you think you're immortal, Direk?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"I don't know. Will you die before me? Can you wait for me to go first?"
Direk scoffed. "Are you crazy? Of course, I'll go first. I'm older."
"Not necessarily."
"Arthit, are you still drunk? Or is it because of the rain?"
Arthit sighed and switched the song, avoiding the weight of his own thoughts. It was clear Donut still haunted him. He never mentioned his mother, but Direk could tell—he was always thinking about her.
He wanted to believe she was still with him. But deep down, he knew she wasn't. Direk leaned back in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping idly against his thigh as the song played through the car speakers.
"This song isn't bad," he teased, glancing sideways at Arthit. "It's not time to make a change, just relax, take it easy. You're still young."
Arthit scoffed, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "Yeah, I know. Ugh, I hate this." His voice carried a familiar frustration, though Direk knew it wasn't really about the song.
"I'm not dying anytime soon."
"Really?"
"Yeah. But if I do, I'll send someone to get you first. Deal?"
Arthit let out a dry chuckle. "That'd be great." His tone was light, but Direk knew he meant it. The thought of losing someone else wasn't something Arthit was ready to face.
A heavy silence settled between them before Arthit suddenly groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Enough, damn it. This is all Donut's fault. Why's he still around? Can't we kill him again? So annoying." Direk let him vent. That was just how Arthit was—intense in the moment, worked up when something gnawed at him, but never for long. Give him a few days, and he'd be back to normal.
He always was. If someone asked whether Arthit had anyone besides him, the answer was yes—he had friends. But a romantic partner? That was another story. His rough personality didn't exactly lend itself to relationships. He valued his freedom, hated feeling tied down, and, more than anything, refused to risk heartbreak again. Direk suspected that fear had kept Arthit from love entirely.
Maybe it was his mother's death. Maybe watching Direk nearly fall apart when she passed made him decide it was safer not to love at all. The rain started to fall, pattering softly against the windshield. Arthit drove aimlessly, as he always did when something unsettled him. He'd keep driving until he felt better. Once, he had ended up at the beach without even realizing it.
Direk had heard the stories about Donut, but it wasn't the same. Arthit's mother hadn't died in an accident or from murder. She had passed away from cancer when he was just fifteen, almost sixteen. Back then, Direk had gone everywhere—churches, temples, to priests, monks, fortune tellers, mediums—anywhere that could offer even the smallest chance of contacting her spirit. But every time, he got the same answer: she was gone. Her time had come.
He had told Arthit that. And they had both understood. Even though Donut might still linger because his time wasn't up, Arthit's mother had completed her journey. She was at peace now. It was the living who had to carry on.
If anyone thought this was just a sad story, they were wrong. It was more complicated than that. Not many people knew Arthit was mixed-race. His mother had been from California. They had lived there until she passed away. After that, neither of them could bear to stay in a place filled with her memory, so they returned to Thailand.
Arthit had been sixteen when they moved. Direk had spoken Thai to him occasionally as a child, so he could manage, and soon enough, he became fluent. Too fluent, actually. The boy had a talent for colorful language that could make even native speakers blush.
He had chosen to study medicine because of his mother. She had been sick for as long as he could remember, and as a child, he had promised to become a doctor and heal her.
She had died before he even set foot in medical school. Thinking about it still broke Direk's heart. Arthit was a wounded troublemaker. At the end of the year, they would go back to California for Christmas—one of their last shared traditions as a family. The three of them had spent their final Christmas together before she passed on January 3rd. Every year since, they stayed through New Year before returning to Thailand.
During that time, no one was allowed to contact them. Arthit's friends knew not to reach out until January 10th if he didn't return immediately. But Arthit wasn't some tragic, brooding figure. He had his wounds— everyone did—but he carried them in his own way. His roughness wasn't a mask; it was simply who he was. And above all, he hated pity.
"Hey, Arthit," Direk said, breaking the silence.
"What?"
"Wanna get married?"
Arthit nearly swerved the car. "Wait, what? Where the hell did that come from?"
Direk smirked. "The daughter of NTY Group's chairman likes you."
Arthit scoffed. "Direk, are you trying to arrange a marriage for me?"
"Yeah, I'll even throw in a bag."
"What bag?" Arthit started laughing, and Direk joined in. "Is she busty?"
"Why is that your first question? Ask about her personality or looks instead."
"Big boobs make up for everything."
Direk sighed. "C-cup, maybe."
"Alright, give her my Line. I'll talk to her."
"You serious?"
"No, I'm just gonna fool around."
"You're awful," Direk said, shaking his head. "You can't just fool around with the daughter of one of my business partners. How about you marry her instead? She's rich."
"How rich?"
"Johan rich."
Arthit whistled. "Damn, really? Alright then, money's practically falling into my lap."
"Don't you want a dramatic love story? Your dad forcing you to marry for business reasons?"
"Why would I? Money's good enough. But do we have to get married? Can't we just, you know, have fun?"
"Is that all that's in your head?"
"That, and money."
Direk laughed. "I feel sorry for her already. I should tell her father my son isn't good enough for his daughter."
"Wouldn't that make me look bad?"
"You couldn't look worse."
They drove on, joking and teasing, the weight of their earlier conversation easing.
"Ever think about getting remarried?" Arthit asked suddenly. "I've seen you checking out your secretary's chest."
"I wasn't looking!"
"Don't lie. I saw it."
"Would you even be okay if I got remarried?"
"No. If you want to see me lose my mind, go ahead."
Direk smirked. "You're possessive, Arthit."
His son shot him a frustrated glare, sighing in exasperation. But Direk just enjoyed teasing him. It wasn't often Arthit let his guard down like this.
After a while, Arthit pulled up to Direk's house. "Drive safe," Direk said as he stepped out. "This isn't a racetrack."
"I know, stop nagging."
Direk shut the car door, and just as expected, Arthit drifted slightly near the exit—purely to mess with him. Typical.
☆☆☆☆☆
Arthit stepped into his condo, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. The familiar space felt more comforting than usual after an afternoon spent driving around with Direk. The motion, the change of scenery—it had all helped.
For the first time in a while, he felt like he could breathe. It was good to move on from the whole Donut situation. Move on. He repeated the words in his head, as if saying them enough would make them true. The lingering thought of his mother still being out there gnawed at him, refusing to be buried completely.
But really, how could she be? Direk had gone to great lengths to confirm what Arthit already knew deep down. Still, the doubt curled around the edges of his mind, refusing to dissipate entirely. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he exhaled sharply.
"First things first," he muttered, stretching out his arms. "I need to go yell at Donut and Min. They're irritating me."
☆☆☆☆☆
A few days later, Min moved into the condo, and with the start of the semester, Arthit found himself buried under ward rounds and lectures. His days became monotonous—class, exhaustion, games, sleep. There was no time for drinking, no late-night races. Just the steady routine of work, one foot in front of the other.
The noise from next door had significantly lessened. Maybe that kid had finally talked to them. That, at least, brought a sense of peace. Turns out, that kid's somewhat useful.
Donut was probably enjoying his basil stir-fry, and Min seemed to be adjusting just fine. They crossed paths occasionally in the hall on their way to class, exchanging brief nods or lazy greetings. Other than that, life continued in its usual dull rhythm. Until tonight.
☆☆☆☆☆
The rain came down in heavy sheets, the sky dark and moody, the air thick with the scent of wet pavement. Typical for the monsoon season. Arthit didn't mind. He didn't care about getting wet, didn't care about the wind that howled between the buildings.
Stepping onto his balcony, he leaned against the railing, lighting a cigarette. The first drag sent warmth curling through his lungs, grounding him in the present. He let his gaze drift over to the adjacent balcony. The kid was there.
Most nights, Arthit had the space to himself, but tonight, the neighbor stood at the railing, watching the rain. After a moment, he turned and pulled out his wallet.
"How much for a cigarette?" he asked casually.
Arthit smirked. "A hundred per stick." Without hesitation, the kid handed over a crisp hundred-baht note. Arthit passed him a cigarette, along with his lighter.
"You're not overcharging me, are you?" the kid asked, flicking the flame to life.
"Imported cigarettes are expensive," Arthit replied with a shrug.
The kid examined the lighter in his hand. "Nice lighter."
"Yeah."
"How much?"
Arthit shot him an incredulous look. "Are you trying to buy everything I own?"
"Yeah. How much?"
"Two thousand."
The kid nodded. "Give me your bank number. I don't have enough cash."
Arthit sighed, but rattled off his PromptPay number. A moment later, his phone chimed. Payment received. He handed the lighter over.
"I bought it for twenty-two hundred," he admitted. "But I've used it, so I gave you a discount."
"You're planning to smoke for real?" Arthit asked, eyeing him curiously. The kid didn't seem like a regular smoker—no lighter, no telltale signs of habit.
"Not sure."
"You know you can get a lighter at 7-Eleven for a few baht, right?"
"This one looks nice."
"And you don't mind paying two thousand for it?"
"I like it."
"Fair enough."
Their conversation tapered off. They stood in silence, watching the rain, the occasional ember glow of their cigarettes the only sign of movement. Then, the kid spoke again.
"Sorry."
Arthit blinked, pausing mid-drag. Was he talking to him? He turned his head, but the kid wasn't looking his way. His eyes were focused somewhere unseen.
"No, I wasn't thinking about it." the kid continued, his voice quiet but firm. "Really, it's just nice and relieved. I'm not addicted."
Arthit stiffened. Who the hell was he talking to? A ghost?
He'd almost forgotten—the kid could see ghosts. That had to be it. He was talking to someone in his room.
"Emma, stop nagging," the kid sighed.
Arthit's blood ran cold.
Emma?
"Since when have you been so naggy, Emma?" the kid muttered, shaking his head.
Arthit's cigarette slipped from his fingers, extinguished instantly by the rain below. He stumbled back into his room, shutting the balcony door with trembling hands. His heart pounded against his ribs as he sat on the edge of his bed, gripping his head. His breath came in short, uneven gasps.
Emma.
His hands shook uncontrollably. His entire body felt cold, his stomach twisting into knots. With numb fingers, he grabbed his phone and dialed Direk. The call barely rang before Direk picked up.
"What's wrong?"
Arthit's voice came out hoarse. "Direk. Direk, Direk, Direk!"
"What? Why are you freaking out?"
"Direk. Emma."
A pause. Then, Direk's voice, cautious. "...Arthit."
"The kid next door," Arthit whispered, his chest tightening. "He can talk to ghosts. I heard him say Emma's name. I heard him say it."
Silence.
"Arthit, this isn't funny."
"I'm not joking, Direk." His grip on the phone tightened. "Emma's still here. Mom's still here." Another pause. Longer this time.
"...Arthit."
He could hear the hesitation in Direk's voice, the unspoken weight in his silence. But Arthit knew. He knew what he heard. And he knew— Emma was still here.