Chapter Text
The street was almost empty. The air was cool, not cold, but enough to slip under Thup’s jacket and settle against his skin. He kept his hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, steps even.
He felt it before he heard it. A shift in the air. A presence sliding into step beside him. His skin prickled along his arms.
“You can hear me.” The voice brushed against his ear — not loud. Not angry. Just… certain.
Thup didn’t look. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t answer. He kept walking as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.
A soft chuckle followed him. “Stop pretending.” The presence moved closer, matching his stride perfectly. “You see us. You hear us. All of us.”
Thup’s jaw tightened. His pace quickened. He hated it when they said that. Like it was something special. Like it was a gift.
“Don’t ignore me,” the ghost said, voice hardening. “You don’t get to ignore us.”
Thup swallowed and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. If he looked, it made them stronger somehow. More real.
“Leave me alone,” he muttered under his breath.
The ghost laughed — sharp, echoing wrong in the quiet street. “You think I can just leave?” The voice dropped lower. “You have your gift for a reason. You’re supposed to use it.”
Cold fingers wrapped around his wrist.
Thup gasped.
The touch was like ice sinking into bone. His body reacted before his mind could — he stumbled forward, nearly losing his footing.
“Let go—” His voice cracked. “Please. Just let me go.”
The grip tightened. Pain bloomed up his arm.
“I need you,” the ghost hissed near his ear. “Don’t you dare walk away.”
Thup’s breath came fast now. “Please— I don’t want to— I can’t— just let me go—”
Something slammed into the ghost. A force. Violent and sudden.
The pressure on his wrist vanished. The stubborn ghost staggered backwards, hissing, his form flickering like a distorted shadow.
“That’s enough.” The new voice was steady. Deep. Controlled. A figure stepped between them.
Thup froze.
The newcomer looked… different. Not transparent in that unstable way. Not twisted or blurred at the edges. He stood solid — clearer somehow. Defined. The air around him didn’t feel rotten or heavy.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” The stubborn ghost snarled. “He’s mine first. You can wait your—”
“I said,” the newcomer interrupted calmly, “leave the boy alone.”
For a few long seconds, nothing moved. Then the stubborn ghost’s form trembled — and vanished. Like smoke ripped apart by wind.
The street fell quiet again.
Thup didn’t realise he was still clutching his wrist until the newcomer turned to him.
“Are you okay?”
Thup stared at him. There was no hunger in the ghost’s eyes. No desperation clawing outward. Just concern.
“I’m used to it,” Thup said finally.
The ghost’s jaw tightened slightly. “That doesn’t make it okay.”
Thup looked away. “They all come looking for help. They know I can see them.” A quiet breath. “Some are just more persistent than others.”
The ghost was silent for a moment.
“I was looking for you too,” he admitted.
Thup’s shoulders stiffened.
“But,” the ghost added quickly, “if you say no, I’ll leave. I won’t bother you again.”
That made Thup look at him. He thought about the way this ghost had stepped in without hesitation. The way he’d asked if he was okay. The way he was standing now — not crowding him, not reaching for him. Respecting his boundaries.
“What do you need help with?” Thup asked.
The ghost hesitated, just a fraction.
“I want to know how I died,” he said. “And who I was before.”
A small frown creased Thup’s brow. “You don’t know who you are?”
“I only know one thing.” The ghost met his eyes. “My nickname. Singha.”
The name settled between them.
“I’m Thup,” he said quietly.
Singha nodded once.
Thup glanced toward his house at the end of the street. He didn’t hesitate. “Come with me,” he said. “We can try looking for information.” The words left his mouth before his fear could stop them.
They walked the rest of the way in silence.
It wasn’t until the door closed behind him and he stepped into the living room that it hit him. He had just invited a ghost into his house. He’d never done that before. And never thought he would ever do it.
Singha followed quietly, stopping just inside the room like he was waiting for instruction.
Thup grabbed his tablet from the table and sat on the couch, tucking one leg under himself.
Singha remained standing. Looking at him. Not demanding. Just waiting.
“You can sit,” Thup said after a second.
Singha nodded and lowered himself onto the couch beside him — careful, measured. He left a small space between them.
“Do you know anything else?” Thup asked, pulling up the search bar. “Aside from your nickname?”
Singha shook his head. “Just that.”
Thup typed it in. The screen filled with results almost instantly. Celebrities. Athletes. Musicians. Page after page of people who were very much alive. Nothing about a death. Nothing about the ghost sitting next to him.
Thup scrolled. And scrolled.
Singha watched the screen, his expression unreadable at first. But slowly, something shifted. A shadow of guilt. He hadn’t meant to drag the boy into this.
“I’m sorry,” Singha said quietly.
Thup didn’t look at him. “For what?”
“For this.”
Thup’s fingers kept moving across the screen. “It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine.
Singha could see it in the tight line of his shoulders. In the determination that bordered on stubbornness.
After several more minutes, Thup exhaled sharply and set the tablet down on the table. Before Singha could say anything, Thup stood and hurried down the hallway. Singha remained on the couch, staring after him.
A minute later, Thup returned — a sketchbook tucked under his arm, a pen in hand. He sat back down beside Singha. “I might have a better idea.”
Singha looked at him.
“I’ll draw you. Then I’ll go check if I can find any information from the police.”
Singha stilled. Police. Something flickered in his chest at the word — not memory exactly. Just… something.
“I hope you find something,” he said honestly. “It might be our last option.”
Thup nodded and flipped open the sketchbook.
The first lines were quick and light — mapping structure. Jawline. Cheekbones. The slope of his nose. The intensity of his eyes.
He leaned closer unconsciously, studying every detail like he was afraid to miss something.
Singha sat perfectly still. Watching him. The way Thup’s brows furrowed when he concentrated. The way his heterochromatic eyes sharpened with focus. The way his lower lip caught between his teeth when a line didn’t sit right.
He was so focused on capturing every detail of Singha’s face that he didn’t notice the way Singha was looking at him. Not like every other ghost. Not like someone desperate for answers. But like a man who had just found something he didn’t know he’d been searching for.
The police station smelled like old paper and burnt coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, too bright, too white. The kind of light that made everything look exposed.
Thup stood just inside the entrance, fingers curled around the edges of his sketchbook like it was the only solid thing in the room. He must’ve looked like a lost puppy. Small. Hesitant. Completely out of place.
Singha stood half a step behind him. No one noticed the ghost.
One officer noticed Thup. He approached with steady steps, posture straight, uniform crisp. His presence felt firm — grounded. “Can I help you?”
Thup swallowed.
“I… I’m looking for a friend,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with him for a while, and I’m worried.”
The officer studied him for a moment — taking in the sketchbook, the nervous grip, the too-wide eyes.
“What’s his name?”
Thup hesitated. “I only know his nickname.”
The officer’s brow furrowed slightly.
“But,” Thup rushed, opening the sketchbook with careful hands, “I drew him.” He tore the page out gently and held it forward. “HIs name is Singha.”
The officer took the portrait. And everything changed. His fingers tightened around the paper. His eyes scanned the drawing once, twice. And then they filled with tears. Not subtle. Not controlled. Immediate.
Thup’s breath caught.
The officer’s voice, when he spoke, was rough. “This… this is Inspector Singha.”
Singha went still beside him.
“He got into a car accident a few days ago,” the officer continued, struggling to keep his composure. “He—”
A voice from across the station cut through the moment.
“Mek! We need you over here!”
Beside him, Singha spoke quietly, so only Thup could hear. “I think I got what I wanted. We can leave now.”
Thup’s fingers trembled at his sides. He forced himself to look at the officer whose eyes were still glassy, still locked on the portrait like it might disappear.
“Thank you,” Thup said softly.
Mek blinked, pulling himself back into professionalism. He handed the drawing back with careful hands, as if it were fragile.
Thup stepped back. “I’m leaving. You should… go do your job.”
Another call from deeper inside the station.
“Mek!”
Mek gave a small, stiff nod before turning away, shoulders squared, already forcing himself back into the rhythm of duty.
Singha sat still in the back of the taxi. His hands rested on his knees, fingers loosely curled like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.
Thup sat beside Singha, staring forward — but his attention kept drifting sideways. He watched the ghost from the corner of his eye. He wanted to ask if he was okay. Wanted to ask what he was thinking. But he didn’t. Talking to empty air would earn him a look in the rearview mirror. Or worse. So he stayed quiet.
The taxi ride passed in silence. By the time they reached Thup’s street, the sky had deepened into full night. The driver dropped him off at the corner, barely glancing at him as he paid.
Singha followed as Thup walked the rest of the way home. They stepped into the living room. And for a moment, neither of them moved.
Thup finally turned to him. “Are you okay?”
Singha blinked slightly, as if the question had pulled him out of somewhere far away. “I’m… not sure.” Honest. Not defensive. Not distant. Just uncertain.
Thup nodded slowly. He understood that feeling more than he liked to admit.
The room settled into another quiet moment before Thup spoke again. “What are you going to do now?”
Singha leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting to the floor. He thought about the police station. The portrait in Mek’s hands.
“I thought,” he said slowly, “that when I found out who I was… or what happened… I would know what to do next.” A small pause. “But I don’t.”
Before he could even realise what he was doing — before he could stop himself — Thup spoke. “You could stay here.”
Singha looked up.
“Until you figure out what you want to do next,” Thup added quickly.
The silence that followed stretched long enough for Thup to feel heat creep up his neck.
Singha stared at him for a few seconds.
“Are you sure you want to keep a ghost in your house?” he asked quietly. It wasn’t teasing. It was genuine concern.
Thup huffed softly and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted. “But…” Thup hesitated before finishing the thought. “You’re not like the other ghosts.”
Singha didn’t speak.
Thup glanced around the quiet living room. “And honestly,” he added with a small shrug, “you’re making the house less lonely.”
The confession slipped out more easily than expected.
Singha imagined it then. The boy alone in this house. Day after day. Surrounded by ghosts he didn’t want. And no one he did. Something in Singha tightened. He didn’t like the image.
“Alright,” Singha said finally.
Thup looked back at him.
“I’ll stay.” A small pause followed. “Just until I figure things out.”
Relief softened Thup’s shoulders.
“Okay.”
And then—They both realised they were still standing in the middle of the living room. Doing absolutely nothing. The moment stretched awkwardly. Neither of them seemed to know what came next.
Singha cleared his throat lightly and glanced around the room. His eyes landed on the clock hanging above the doorway.
“You’ve been helping me for hours,” he said.
Thup followed his gaze.
“Oh.”
Now that Singha mentioned it, his stomach quietly reminded him it existed.
“You must be hungry,” Singha added.
Thup opened his mouth to protest.
Singha continued first. “I can help with dinner.” The offer sounded strangely natural.
Thup blinked at him. “You can?”
A faint hint of amusement flickered across Singha’s face. “I can cook. Or at least I assume I could.”
That made Thup laugh. “Alright,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. “Then you’re actually helping.”
Singha followed.
The kitchen lights flicked on with a warm glow, softer than the harsh white lights of the police station.
Thup opened one of the cabinets, scanning the shelves.
Singha leaned against the counter beside him, looking inside over his shoulder.
“What do you usually cook?” he asked.
“Usually?” Thup snorted softly. “That implies I cook regularly.”
Singha raised an eyebrow.
Thup grabbed a pack of noodles.
“Tonight we’re lucky,” he said.
Singha took the pot from the cabinet before Thup could reach for it and set it on the stove.
Thup paused. “You do know where everything is already?”
“I’m guessing,” Singha said calmly.
Somewhere along the way, the earlier awkwardness faded. The tension from the police station softened. Conversation came easier. Small comments. Quiet questions. Nothing heavy. Nothing painful.
The whole situation began to feel normal. Like Singha leaning against the kitchen counter while Thup cooked was something that had been happening every night for a long time. Like this strange, impossible arrangement had always existed. Like a ghost staying in his house was simply part of Thup’s life now.