13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡn1kz7T2AOv
At exactly 3:12 a.m., the silence in the room shattered — not with sound, but with a presence.
Thanaphon Wattanakul lay stiff beneath his thin blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He hadn’t moved in hours. Not since he felt the air grow colder. Not since the hairs on his arms rose, warning him, like they always did, that something had arrived.
"Please..."
A girl’s voice, thin and echoing, rose from the foot of his bed. "Please help me... they buried me wrong..."
Than didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe loudly.
He stared at the tiny crack on the ceiling. He knew the voice wasn't real — not in the way people understood real. But he also knew better than to answer. Because if he spoke… it would see him. It would know.
"They didn’t find my legs..." the ghost whimpered.
"They forgot my name..."
The closet creaked.
The air grew damp.
A shadow, flickering like candlelight, slid along the wall. Not walking. Not floating. Just existing, right there beside him.
He curled his fingers into the bedsheet. Don’t speak. Don’t look. Don’t breathe too hard. Just wait.
This was Rule #1.
---
He had been nine when he saw his first ghost — a drowned boy at the edge of a rice field.
Eleven when one followed him home and scratched symbols into his mirror.
Fourteen when he tried to tell his mother and watched her face shift into that same careful blankness adults use when they’re afraid of what their child just said.
So Than learned to stop talking about it. He buried the sight deep inside, like a cursed heirloom passed down from a bloodline he never asked for.
Now, at seventeen, Than knew the rules.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t run.
He endured.
---
At 3:14, the voice faded.
At 3:15, the air warmed again.
And by 3:16, Than finally exhaled.
He turned on his side and closed his eyes, knowing he’d get maybe two more hours of sleep — and another ghost tomorrow.
---
Morning light didn’t chase away the dead.
Not for Than.
The girl from last night hadn’t vanished. She sat now beneath the tamarind tree on the school lawn, humming to herself while the wind passed through her faded white dress.
Than tried not to look at her as he passed.
"You didn’t help me," she whispered.
He kept walking.
---
Inside the classroom, Than dropped into his seat by the window and pressed his forehead to his arm. His uniform clung to his back — not from heat, but from exhaustion. One week of school left before exams, and all he could think about was the fact that the ghost hadn’t blinked once.
Nin plopped into the seat beside him. Her ponytail bounced as she poked his shoulder.
"You're doing that haunted-ghost-boy face again."
He grunted. “That’s just my face.”
She snorted. “Well, your face needs to sleep more. You look like you’ve been cursed.”
Than’s heart skipped — but she didn’t know. She was joking. Always joking.
He looked up at her, managing a half-smile. “Math exam?”
“Don’t remind me,” she groaned. “If I fail, I’m dragging you into the spirit world with me.”
Than flinched.
Nin didn't notice.
---
That evening, Than took a path he hadn’t used since childhood — a shortcut that led through the thicket behind the school and into the forest near the old shrine.
He didn’t know why.
It was as if something was calling to him. The wind pressed against his back. The crows didn’t caw. Even the dogs didn’t bark. Just silence.
The shrine stood small and forgotten among the gnarled trees. Its red torii gate sagged with age. A torn silk ribbon hung from the top beam — tied there by villagers long ago to seal something away.
Than stared at it.
His chest tightened. His breath caught.
He shouldn’t be here.
But his legs moved forward.
The ribbon — worn, fraying — drifted like it knew he’d come.
He reached out. Just touched it.
And the ribbon snapped.
In that instant, the sky hushed. The air stilled. The clouds above peeled away from the moon, bathing the shrine in silver light.
A voice — smooth, smug — curled around him like smoke.
"Took you long enough."
Than spun around.
Standing where no one had stood before, under the ghostlight of the moon, was a boy. Maybe his age. Maybe older. Pale skin, bare feet. His school uniform was decades out of date — buttoned high and pristine — and his eyes glowed faintly, like distant stars through mist.
His smile was crooked. Teasing. Dangerous.
And beautiful.
Than took a step back.
"You can see me," the boy said, almost delighted. "Finally."
Than tried to speak, but his voice caught in his throat.
The boy’s smile deepened, full of teeth and mystery.
"Let’s get one thing straight," he said, walking closer.
"You broke the seal. So now… we’re stuck together."
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