Phuwin's eyes opened to darkness.
The ceiling fan spun in silence, blades cutting air he couldn't feel. His phone read 4:47 a.m. The bear was pressed against his chest, one arm draped over it like a child holding a lifeline.
He didn't remember falling asleep.
The room was still. The house was still. But something had pulled him up from the bottom of a dream he couldn't name, and now he lay there, listening to the empty space around him, waiting for the sound that had woken him.
A creak. A breath. Then—
A sound so raw it didn't belong to the world of kitchens and tea kettles and flour-dusted counters.
It came from downstairs.
Phuwin sat up, his heart already moving faster than his mind could catch. The floor was cold under his bare feet. He pulled on the hoodie draped over his desk chair—Pond's hoodie, the black one that smelled like him—and padded to the door.
The hallway was dark. Godji's door was open, her room empty, the bed unslept-in.
Another sound. Broken. Muffled. A sob swallowed by fabric.
Phuwin's chest tightened. He moved down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the wood groaning under his weight in a way it never did when he wasn't trying to be quiet.
The bakery was dark except for the small lamp Godji kept on the counter, the one with the cracked ceramic base that she'd never replaced because it reminded her of her mother. The light pooled on the tile floor, catching the edges of flour and sugar that never quite got swept clean.
And there she was.
Godji stood braced against the counter, both hands planted on the edge, her head bowed. Her shoulders shook with each breath, and the sound she made was not crying—it was something deeper, something that came from a place Phuwin had never seen her go.
His feet stopped at the bottom step.
He didn't know what to do. In 15 years of living here, through late nights and early mornings, through arguments and laughter and the quiet evenings when they sat in silence reading—he had never seen Godji break.
She was the one who held. The one who made tea. The one who said it'll be okay, baby when everything was falling apart.
And now she was bent over the counter in the dark, and Phuwin didn't know how to reach her.
But he crossed the tile anyway.
The floor was cold. His footsteps were soft. When he reached her, he didn't ask permission. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his chest to her back, his cheek to the space between her shoulder blades. She was shaking. He could feel it through the fabric of her apron, through the thin cotton of her shirt.
She went still.
"Aunty." His voice came out smaller than he wanted. "What's wrong?"
She didn't answer. Her hands were still planted on the counter, her knuckles white, her fingers spread like she was holding the edge of the world together.
"This isn't you," Phuwin said, and his own throat was tightening now. "You don't—you never cry. Not like this. Please." He pressed his forehead to her back. "Please tell me."
Godji's breath hitched. She pulled one hand off the counter and wiped at her face with the corner of her apron, a rough, almost angry motion. Then she straightened, slowly, and turned to face him.
Her eyes were red. Swollen. The skin around them raw. Her nose was running, and she didn't bother to hide it. She looked at him—really looked at him—and then her hand came up, trembling, and cupped his jaw.
Her palm was warm. Her fingers were cold.
"I saw her," Godji said. Her voice cracked on the last word. "I saw your mother slap you. In that hallway. I saw her hand hit your face, and I didn't—I didn't move."
Phuwin's breath stopped.
"I stood there," Godji continued, her thumb tracing his cheekbone like she was memorizing the shape of it. "I stood there like a fucking statue, and I watched her hit you, and I didn't say a word."
"Aunty—"
"Three years ago I saw Soònào's body on the concrete."
The name hit him like a physical blow. His hands fell from her waist, dropping to his sides. The space between them grew cold.
"I saw her," Godji whispered, her hand still on his face. "I saw her lying there, and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to fix it. I couldn't—" Her voice broke, and she pressed her lips together, trying to hold it in. "I saw her earlier that day. She came to the shop. She told me she loved the new cake I was trying. She said Aunty, one day I'm going to buy you a bigger kitchen, and I laughed and told her I didn't need a bigger kitchen, I just needed her to visit more often."
A tear slipped down Phuwin's cheek. He didn't feel it.
"And she said—" Godji's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "She said she would buy us a place. A place where we could all stay. Where you and she could live together and be happy. And I said okay, baby, I'll hold you to that, and I kissed her forehead and sent her home."
The silence stretched.
"She died that night."
Phuwin's knees felt weak. He reached behind him, found the edge of a table, and sat down hard. The wood groaned under him. His hands were shaking.
Godji didn't move. She stood there, her hand still raised where his face had been, her eyes fixed on the space he'd just left.
"I didn't know what to do," she said again, and this time her voice was smaller, younger, like a girl who had lost something she'd never get back. "I still don't know what to do. And when I saw your mother hit you, I thought—I thought not again. Not him. I can't lose him too. "
Phuwin looked up at her.
Her hands were trembling. Her apron was stained—flour and sugar and something darker, maybe tea, maybe tears. Her hair was messy, falling out of the bun she always wore. She looked smaller than he'd ever seen her.
And she was looking at him like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
"You're the only person I have," she said. Her voice was barely audible. "He's gone. She's gone. Your mother—" She stopped, shook her head. "You're all I have left."
Phuwin's throat closed. The memory of blood on his clothes rose between them, thick and suffocating—Soònào's blood from that night, from the phone call, from the morgue, from the dream he still had twice a week. He saw the concrete. He saw her body. He saw his own hands, trembling, reaching for her, and finding nothing but cold.
"I'm sorry," he said, and the words came out broken. "I'm sorry I scared you. I'm sorry I made you worry. I'm sorry I—" He pressed his palms to his eyes. "I'm sorry she's gone. I'm sorry I couldn't save her."
Godji moved before he finished speaking.
She crossed the space between them in three steps and dropped to her knees in front of him, her hands gripping his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face. Her eyes were fierce, wet, desperate.
"Don't you dare," she said, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare carry that. She was my niece. She was my blood. And I couldn't save her either."
Phuwin stared at her.
"We don't get to choose who lives and who dies," Godji said, her grip tightening on his wrists. "We don't get to choose what happens to the people we love. We only get to choose what we do with the time we have left."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she dropped her forehead to his knee, her shoulders shaking.
Phuwin sat there, frozen for a moment, and then his hand moved—slow, careful—and landed on the back of her head. Her hair was soft under his fingers. He stroked it the way she had stroked his when he was younger, when he was sick, when he couldn't sleep, when the world felt too big and too loud.
"I'm still here," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm not going anywhere."
Godji didn't answer. But her shaking slowed. Her breathing steadied. She stayed there, her forehead on his knee, her hands wrapped around his wrists, and he stayed there, his hand on her head, his thumb tracing slow circles against her scalp.
The refrigerator hummed. The lamp flickered once. Outside, the first light of dawn was beginning to creep through the front window, turning the fogged glass pale gray.
"I made a promise," Godji said eventually, her voice muffled against his knee. "When she died. I promised myself I would never let anything happen to you." She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. "And I broke it. I let your mother hit you. I let you fight that girl. I let you carry all of this alone."
"I'm not alone."
"You shouldn't have to be."
Phuwin looked at her—his aunty, his godmother, his best friend. The woman who had raised him when his mother couldn't. The woman who had let him cry on her shoulder when Soònào died. The woman who had made him tea every night for a month after the funeral, even when he didn't drink it, because she needed something to do with her hands.
He thought about what she had said about Soònào coming to the shop earlier that day, about her promise to buy them a place, about the kiss on the forehead she had sent her home with.
And he thought about all the times Soònào had talked about that bakery—how she'd said it smelled like heaven, how she wanted to work there when she graduated, how she'd told him once that when they were old, she'd buy the shop next door and they'd open matching cafés, like twins in a drama.
She had been planning a future.
And then she hadn't had one.
"I think about her every day," Phuwin said, his voice barely a whisper. "I think about the last thing I said to her."
Godji's eyes sharpened. "What was it?"
Phuwin swallowed. "I told her To fucking die. I told her I'd call her back after we fought. I was—" He laughed, a broken, hollow sound. "I was playing a game on my phone. I was trying to beat a level, and she called, and I told her I'd call her back, and when we did, we got into a horrible fight and I told her to die and I heard her screams and Yelling over the phone, A car Running over her. She died that night while on the phone with me."
The words hung in the air between them.
Godji was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached up, her hand finding his cheek again, and she said, "She knew you loved her."
"Did she?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation. "She talked about you all the time. Every time she came to the shop, she asked if you'd been in, if you'd eaten, if you were happy. She loved you more than anything in this world."
Phuwin's eyes burned. He didn't try to stop the tears this time.
Godji pulled herself up, her knees creaking, and sat beside him on the wobbling wooden table. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into her side. He let his head fall against her shoulder, and she held him the way she had when he was a child, when the nightmares came and he couldn't find his way back to sleep.
"We're a mess, aren't we?" Phuwin said, his voice wet and tired.
Godji let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "The biggest mess in this district."
"Pond's going to think we're insane."
"Pond's going to have to get used to it." She squeezed him tighter. "He's not going anywhere, is he?"
Phuwin shook his head against her shoulder. "He said he wants to marry me."
Godji went still.
"I know it's crazy," Phuwin said quickly. "I know we've only been together for—"
"He said he wants to marry you?"
Phuwin nodded, not daring to look up.
Godji was quiet for a moment. Then she said, her voice soft, almost wondering, "Did you say yes?"
"I said I wanted to marry him too."
The silence stretched. Phuwin braced himself for the teasing, for the warning, for the you're too young, you're moving too fast speech he'd been expecting since the moment the words left his mouth.
Instead, Godji said, "Then I guess I need to start planning a wedding."
Phuwin's head snapped up. "What?"
She was smiling. It was a small, tired, tear-stained smile, but it was real. "You heard me. If you're going to marry that boy, I need to start saving for a venue. And a cake. A better cake than the one I make here."
"Aunty—"
"And I need to teach him how to make your coffee the way you like it, because if he's going to be your husband, he needs to know those things."
Phuwin laughed, a wet, surprised sound. "You're insane."
"I'm your aunt. It's the same thing." She reached up and ruffled his hair, then pulled him back into her side. "But not yet. You're still young. You still have school. And you still have disciplinary hearings in 2 days before semester break."
The words landed like a weight on his chest.
"I know," he said.
"Are you ready for it?"
He thought about the videos. The witnesses. Ryu's face, swollen and bloody on the concrete. His own hands, slick with her blood. The silence that had followed in the yard, broken only by phones recording.
"No," he said honestly. "But I don't have a choice."
Godji's arm tightened around him. "You always have a choice."
"What choice? I hit her. I hurt her. I—" He stopped. "I don't regret it."
Godji looked down at him, her eyes searching his face.
"She slapped me first," Phuwin said. "She called me a whore. She said I was destroying Pond's life, that he was only with me because I seduced him, that I was—" He swallowed. "She said Soònào would be ashamed of me."
Something in Godji's eyes went cold.
"And I saw red," Phuwin continued. "I saw red, and I hit her, and I couldn't stop. I wanted her to stop talking. I wanted her to stop existing in the same world as me. And I didn't stop until she was on the ground."
Godji was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "Do you want to know what I think?"
Phuwin nodded.
"I think she deserved worse."
He blinked. "What?"
"I think she touched you, and she said those things about your sister, and she got exactly what she asked for." Godji's voice was hard, flat. "You're not a bad person for defending yourself. You're not a bad person for losing control when someone pushed you past your limit." She turned to face him fully. "But you do have to face the consequences. That's what adults do."
Phuwin nodded slowly.
"Whatever happens at that hearing," Godji said, "I'll be there. Pond will be there. Your friends will be there. And no matter what they decide, you're still my nephew. You're still the boy who helps me close the shop and steals my cookies when I'm not looking. You're still the person that boy loves."
Phuwin's throat tightened again.
"And you're still Soònào's brother," Godji added softly. "The one she talked about every day. The one she was so proud of."
A tear slid down Phuwin's cheek. He let it fall.
The dawn was getting brighter now, gray turning to pale gold, the first rays of sunlight catching the dust motes floating in the air. The street outside was waking up—a motorbike engine, a distant voice, the clatter of a shop shutter being raised.
"I should make coffee," Godji said, but she didn't move. "The regulars will start coming in soon."
"I'll help."
She looked at him, her eyebrow raised. "You're suspended. You don't have anywhere to be."
"I want to."
She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But you're making the pastries. I'm not letting you near the espresso machine after last time."
Phuwin laughed—a real laugh this time, surprised out of him. "It was one incident."
"You flooded the entire counter."
"The machine was broken."
"The machine was fine. You pressed the wrong button."
Phuwin opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.
Godji stood, wincing as her knees cracked, and held out her hand. He took it, letting her pull him to his feet. They stood there for a moment, hand in hand, in the pale golden light of the early morning.
"I love you, Aunty."
She squeezed his hand. "I love you too, baby."
She let go and walked toward the kitchen. Phuwin stood there for a moment, watching her go, feeling the weight of the night settle into his bones and the warmth of the morning begin to burn it away.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out. Pond's name on the screen.
I'm thinking about you. Wake up soon. I want to hear your voice.
Phuwin smiled, small and tired, and typed back.
Already awake. Come over. I'll save you a pastry.
The three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared, then appeared again.
On my way.
Phuwin pocketed his phone and walked toward the kitchen, where Godji was already pulling flour from the shelf, her back to him, her shoulders straight.
He stopped at the doorway and watched her for a moment. The way she moved—practiced, efficient, automatic. The way she reached for the sugar without looking. The way she hummed under her breath, something soft and familiar that he couldn't quite name.
She had held him. She had cried on him. She had told him about Soònào's promise.
And now she was making pastries like it was just another morning.
Phuwin stepped into the kitchen, grabbed an apron from the hook by the door, and tied it around his waist.
"You're doing the croissants," Godji said without turning around. "And don't burn them this time."
"I didn't burn them."
"They were black on the bottom."
"They were toasted."
She turned, a measuring cup in her hand, and gave him a look that said everything.
Phuwin held up his hands. "Fine. Croissants. No burning."
She nodded, satisfied, and turned back to her work.
And for the first time in a week, the kitchen felt like home.