Along a narrow stretch of asphalt winding through the heart of the forested hills,
an old, faded pickup truck moved in solemn silence.
The world around it stood still—unwelcoming, almost as if it had forgotten the presence of people.
The engine growled low, the sound threading through thick underbrush,
echoing like the groan of something ancient, newly awakened.
Dark smoke coiled into the canopy, met by a mountain wind so cold it seemed to freeze fragments of memory mid-air.
The window on the passenger side slid down completely.
The wind hit Sombat's face—a quiet sixteen-year-old boy—sitting beside the driver like a ghost of someone else, barely present.
His eyes stared deep into the thick forest lining the roadside.
Not to admire the view—
But to search.
In the driver's seat, Nipha—his mother—held the steering wheel with one hand, knuckles taut, wrist stiff.
Her eyes, blank as frosted glass, reflected nothing but the past.
Her right hand brought a cigarette to her lips. She inhaled deeply—
The way someone breathes when they're too tired to speak,
or perhaps too afraid that speaking might summon something better left forgotten.
A pale plume of smoke swirled in the wind, fading like a confession never quite spoken.
The truck bed behind them was loaded with the sum total of their lives—
essentials, nonessentials… fragments.
Not heavy by weight.
But far too heavy to put down.
"..."
Then the engine cut out—suddenly and completely.
As if something had reached in and switched off not only the truck—
but their thoughts.
Everything stood still.
Only the wind through the leaves began to stir,
growing louder…
like the forest whispering to itself that the guests had arrived.
The truck came to a stop in front of a small, low-built wooden house—washed out and pale.
Nipha stepped out without a word.
Bang!
The door slammed shut, loud in the hush of the place.
Sombat gazed at the house, thoughts swirling.
"It looks worn down. Silent. And yet… it stands tall, as if rooted proudly in the wild."
"Sombat! Come help unload the truck—now!"
Nipha's voice rang out sharply, slicing through his thoughts.
She stood with her head down, fiddling with the padlock on the door.
Her fingers moved with the ease of someone well-practiced—
but she didn't glance back at her son, still sitting unmoving in the passenger seat.
Sombat stepped out.
His footsteps were soft, like dry leaves falling.
He paused beside the truck, hesitating.
His eyes swept the surroundings—
as if he were trying to listen for something unseen.
Other houses dotted the area, not far apart.
But each one seemed shut in, silent,
void of even the sound of birds or wind.
As if warmth had long since drained from this place—
leaving only shells of homes standing in emptiness.
A man and woman walked slowly past the house.
Their expressions were blank—no smiles, no curiosity.
They didn't even glance at the boy by the truck.
As though his existence was no more than a wisp of air.
Something weightless. Unspoken.
This village seemed to have boundaries—
not fences, but invisible walls.
People stayed within themselves.
Doors were shut tight,
not just against wind or eyes—
but perhaps against truths they didn't want slipping in.
"Hurry up and bring the things in, Sombat! The sun's going down!"
Nipha's voice again.
Firm. Urgent.
Allowing no delay.
It wasn't just a reminder about time.
It sounded like a warning—
That something was coming with the dark.
Sombat flinched slightly, his head turning instinctively.
His eyes left the retreating figures of the couple,
and returned to the truck bed.
His small hands carefully untied the rope that held their belongings in place.
No words. No sounds.
Only the breath of a boy trying to keep still.
He lifted the first box from the truck.
And stepped into the old wooden house—
the only inheritance left from his great-grandfather.
A house he wasn't sure could ever be called home.
Or if it would simply be…
another stop on a path that led nowhere,
with no answers at all.