Kawin's voice echoed through the half-lit office, sharp and low, like someone trying to hold himself together by force.
> "Khrap… I understand.
We will pay soon… Just give us a little more time."
He pressed his fingers into his temple, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. Papers were scattered across the desk—ledgers, overdue invoices, red-stamped warnings. The room felt exhausted, like it had been holding its breath for years.
Rak stood behind the glass partition, unmoving, just watching him silently. The air inside the small office felt heavy—too many unpaid bills, too much silence. For a moment, he thought about stepping forward, saying something—but his chest tightened with guilt.
He couldn't listen anymore.
He didn't have the right.
He didn't deserve to stand there.
The moment the conversation ended, Rak stepped back, quietly, as if he were something uninvited. The floor creaked faintly.
By the time Kawin sensed the presence and turned—
The doorway was empty.
---
Just beside the café, the small stationary shop buzzed with soft music and the smell of fresh paper. Through the glass, Rak noticed a young man sitting behind the counter, tinkering with what looked like a half-open laptop, wires spilling across the desk. He was probably around Kawin's age—lean, sharp-featured, with round glasses that kept sliding down his nose.
The boy — inside, tidying scattered papers with an easy smile despite the mess. There was a quiet optimism in the boy.
Rak exchanged a brief look with the boy.
The boy grinned faintly.
Rak also smiled faintly.
For a moment, Rak envied that lightness.
In Switzerland, everything around him had been clean, perfect, silent — but also lonely.
Here, even the struggle felt human.
He drew a long breath, tasting the humidity and the scent of brewing coffee from the café next door, and thought quietly — maybe this is what Krit had meant… life that still tries, even when it hurts.
---
Outside, the afternoon was humid and heavy.
Rak and Art sat in a small café next to the company building. The wooden sign above the entrance read "CaféChan." It smelled of coffee, toasted bread, and rain-soaked soil. They took a corner table by the window where they could still see the company's nameplate through the glass.
Art stirred his iced tea, looking at Rak carefully.
> "You saw him?"
Rak nodded slowly.
"Yes… I saw him. He looked… exhausted. The whole place felt like it's holding its breath.
Not a single person inside."
You didn't talk to him?"
> "No," Rak murmured. "I couldn't. What could I even say? "
Krit's office… it felt like ruin.
Like something that used to breathe and now only remembers how."
His voice broke on the last line.
Art sighed, resting his elbows on the table.
"Rak… maybe you don't need to tell anything yet. Sometimes you help more by staying quiet. "
Rak leaned back, eyes wandering to the sign outside—Chansiri Techworks.
At the counter, a middle-aged man paused mid- wipe of a ceramic mug. He had kind eyes—tired eyes—but steady ones. He walked over with the quiet confidence of someone who didn't need to impose.
A soft, low voice interrupted them.
> "You want to help Krit's company?"
Both men turned.
> "I heard the name, Krit," he said. "And I saw you walk into that office earlier."
Rak hesitated, then answered honestly.
> "We're… friends," he said quietly. "From Switzerland."
The man gave a slow nod, then extended his hand.
> "I'm P'Thira. I own this café.
Krit's father Khun Sorachai Chansiri was my friend—no, more like a brother."
Rak and Art exchanged glances.
> "You knew him ?"
> "Since university," P'Thira said with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "He was a good man. Too good for business, maybe. When I lost my government job—someone accused me in a corruption case I didn't even touch—everyone disappeared. Everyone except him. Khun Sorachai helped me to open this café. Told me, 'Life's not over unless you stop standing.'"
He paused, wiping his hands on the apron.
> "Then he died. Car accident you probably know it. After that, everything started to crumble. His wife Khun Ratri and Krit tried to keep things running, but it's hard. The old clients stopped trusting them. Their company's shares fell by 50%.
P'Thira inhaled slowly, like someone holding an old ache.
> "Too small to compete, too honest to cheat."
Rak's heart squeezed painfully.
> "What about his family now?" Art asked gently.
P'Thira sighed, glancing toward the company building.
> "His mother hasn't spoken since the funeral. Wheelchair-bound, lives with an old nanny. The younger brother Nattawat "Nat" is still studying, trying to help where he can. Krit's grandfather visits from Chiang Mai, but he's not in the best health either.
It's… painful to watch."
The café fell silent except for the hum of the ceiling fan.
Rak stared at his untouched cup.
> "So that's what he left behind…" he murmured.
P'Thira placed a cup of warm black coffee in front of him, steady and kind.
> "You said you wanted to help," he said softly.
>"Then start with the one still standing—
He meant Kawin.
> " He's trying, but he can't do it alone."
Rak lifted his gaze, meeting the older man's eyes.
> "You'll help us?"
> "If it means saving what my friend built," P'Thira said with quiet conviction, "then yes.
But you must be patient.
> "People in grief don't accept rescue.
They accept companionship
Rak nodded slowly, feeling something in his chest shift—a purpose, faint but real.
And for the first time since the accident
He had a direction.
Not forgiveness.
Not redemption.
Just the first step toward it.