The telephone rang, its sharp note cutting through the quiet. Phakphum's onyx eyes lifted from the clay figure and turned toward the phone resting behind him. He wiped his hands on the handkerchief he always kept nearby, then rose and walked to fetch the handset, which was not far away.
"Hello, dear. What are you doing? Have you had dinner yet?" his mother's voice came through—gentle, anxious, the voice of the woman who had given him life and whom he loved and revered.
"Good evening, Mother. I haven't eaten yet. Have you had dinner?" he replied, his tone polite.
"I have. Why haven't you eaten? Are you still working on a sculpture?" she chided knowingly—the sort of question only a mother who knows her child well would ask.
"Yes, Mother. I'm trying to sculpt something, but I don't even know what it will be yet," he answered.
The tall man shaping clay did not really know what he intended to make; he had only formed a frame. He trusted that inspiration would come in time and that a face would reveal itself beneath his hands.
"I'm cheering you on, dear. But don't forget to eat. I'm worried," his mother urged, her voice trembling enough for him to hear the emotion through the line.
"All right. I'll make dinner soon. I love you, Mother," he said.
"Your father and I love you too. Will you come home tomorrow? We miss our son so much," she asked.
The eldest son had moved away from the big family house and rented a small place to live alone, leading a simple life devoted to sculpting—his parents had no objections; their only wish was his happiness.
"Yes, I'll come to see you and Father tomorrow," he promised.
"All right, then I won't keep you. Please remember to take your medicine—consider that your mother's request." His mother hung up, and he padded into the kitchen.
The refrigerator opened with a soft sound. He took two eggs from their tray and cracked them carelessly into a pan; tonight's dinner was, predictably, fried eggs.
After he had eaten, he stood before the television. He picked up the weekly pill organizer, tipped today's tablets into his palm, and stared at them. He exhaled deeply before swallowing the pills, washing them down with a large gulp of water.
He found it humiliating, the ritual of swallowing pills he believed did nothing for him, yet he took them because his parents had pleaded with him to do so.
"They won't save me," he muttered. "They won't change a thing."
Phakphum was twenty-five—fresh from a prestigious university with a degree in hand. He made his living sculpting, a pursuit born of passion. He used to accept commissions, but those had ceased; some other, weightier cause in his life had halted that work, and he now sculpted only for himself.
He had time enough, he estimated, for perhaps two more sculptures—two more pieces he might complete before his body failed him. That was the measure of what remained: the hope he could finish them despite a weakening frame that increasingly hindered his aims.
After taking his medicine he climbed the stairs to his room with a book in hand. He lay back against the wooden headboard and opened it at the beginning. The volume was a new purchase: a hefty historical novel set in the closing years of King Rama VII's reign—a time when bandits roamed.
He read with a quiet absorption he had not expected. Initially he had meant to skim it in spare hours, to pass the tedium, but the story held him; though he did not usually favor period novels, this one would not let him go.
Even when he returned to the family home for a night, he had not left the book behind. He had meant only to stay the night, yet he could not part with it.
"Hello, Phuakphum. What are you doing?" came a familiar voice.
It was Parichat—his younger sister—fresh home from university. Their mother had told her the brother had returned, and she had hurried into the house, padding lightly into the living room to throw her arms around him.
He startled, then smiled warmly when he realized it was her.
"Hello. I was reading. You're back already?" he said.
"I am. What are you reading, Brother?" she leaned forward, curious to see the book he held. He smiled at her curiosity and showed her the cover.
"It's about the outlaws of the early years of King Rama VII," he said.
Her brows arched. "You read those kinds of books? You don't usually read historical novels like this."
"No, but this one gripped me. I bought it on impulse and now I can hardly put it down."
He could not explain why he had chosen this book; he only felt grateful that he had. The pages seemed to transport him to that time.
"You don't like these old-time stories, do you?" he asked teasingly.
"Not really. I'll go up to my room for a bit, Brother." Their brief conversation broke as she excused herself and climbed the stairs. He nodded.
"I love you, Phuakphum." she called back from halfway up.
"And I love you too, Parichat," he replied.
Smiles crossed both their faces, but Parichat's dark eyes shimmered with tears that seemed forever on the verge of spilling. She hurried away, and the house settled into its gentle quiet again.
That evening, the whole family gathered around the dinner table. Dishes that his mother, his sister, and the cook had prepared with care—each one a favorite of his—were laid out before them.
"Why do you make all of my favorites, Mother? Why not make some for Parichat, too? She'll be jealous," he teased.
Every dish seemed to be chosen for him, and he fretted that his sister might feel slighted.
"No, it's all right," she answered. "I wanted him to have his favorites. I helped Mother with the cooking."
"You did well—eat more, Parichat. You're far too thin," he chided gently, stroking his sister's head with an affectionate hand. She beamed; their parents looked on with tender, almost aching pride at the sight of their children's closeness.
They wished to hold that image in memory for as long as they lived.
Phakphum ladled food onto each plate with a smile, and they began to eat together. Conversation fluttered about the table—laughter came and went—but beneath the smiles his family's eyes betrayed a quiet sadness. He felt it, but felt powerless to change it.
The next morning he returned to his rented house. Today he had resolved upon his next sculpture: he would create the outlaw from the book—Chaiya Sornmon.
When he read the chapter about that thief, he could not explain why he felt compelled to sculpt him. Something seemed to urge him; he set the image from the page before him and adapted the features as his hands guided the clay.
He lifted fresh clay to add to the frame he had previously built. As he worked, a sudden dizziness overcame him. His hand froze on the figure's torso; his head dipped slightly in confusion. Darkness swam at the edges of his vision.
Seconds passed and the fainting withdrew; he returned to himself. At least this time the episode had not been severe enough to stop him from doing what he loved.
For days he sequestered himself, pouring every spare breath into that single sculpture. His family, concerned, came to visit him instead. They understood that he had been holed away because he was doing what he loved, and nobody begrudged his solitude.
His parents arrived bearing fruit and parcels. The car rolled to a stop before his little rental, and the sound of it drew him from the workbench. He set aside his tools and opened the door to welcome them.
"Hello," he said, a tender smile on his handsome face as he greeted them and ushered them inside.
"Hello. Are you sculpting, dear?" his mother asked, having looked after him since childhood; she already knew what he was doing even before they arrived.
They exchanged warm greetings. Phakphum's eyes flicked to the bags in his father's hands, and he reached to help.
"No, no. I'll carry them," his father insisted.
"Come inside, everyone," Phakphum invited. They set the packages in the kitchen while he led his parents to the studio room. His mother noticed another door that had been locked.
"What is that room, dear? Why is it locked?" she asked, pointing.
"A storage room," he answered.
"Who are you sculpting?" his father asked, circling the half-made figure. Even unfinished, the figure looked uncannily human. His father smiled dryly; like him, he had once loved the craft but had given it up years ago to let his son carry on.
"Just a little more and it will be done," his father said. "Would you like to finish it now?"
He supposed only the feet needed paint.
"Not today. I'd rather spend the time with you both," he replied.
He cherished these moments; his family's presence always came first. The sculpture required only minor finishing—perhaps it would be complete tomorrow or the next day.
"Just a little more. If you want to work, do. I love watching you sculpt," his mother said softly. Whenever his hands handled clay, his eyes brightened—an echo of his father's expression when he had once worked with the same devotion.
He rose and asked again for permission to continue painting the figure. They nodded, settled into chairs, and watched him. Tears welled in his mother's eyes as she looked upon her eldest son. His father, sensing her emotion, rubbed her shoulder and offered quiet comfort; their hands found each other and intertwined.
Within an hour the figure was painted and finished. Soon after, Parichat returned from university. In the kitchen she and their mother prepared the evening meal; Phakphum meant to help, but dizziness struck him once more, and his mother urged him to rest for fear of the sharp tools in the kitchen.
These recurrent ailments were an annoyance that stole from him what he wished to do.
When the meal was ready they sat again as a family. His mother placed food on his plate with tender care; he smiled weakly, grateful.
"Can Parichat sleep with you tonight?" his sister asked suddenly, remembering nights of childhood when she used to bring her pillow and blanket to his room.
"Yes. Parichat can take a fragrant bath and come up later. I'll prepare the pillows and blanket," he answered.
"All right," she replied, nodding with a smile, then returned to her meal.
"Will you and Mother sleep here tonight? I have prepared a room and cleaned it," he offered to his parents. He always cleaned the house in advance of their visits.
"Let's all stay together," Parichat coaxed, and their parents agreed after a quick look between them.
Smiles bloomed around the table. Conversation paused only long enough for them to eat properly.
He managed only half of the rice his sister had served; appetite slipped away without warning. He set his spoon and fork aside.
"Are you full, Brother?" Parichat peered at him as the family continued their meal.
"I am," he said.
"Eat a little more, please," she begged, seeing the half-plate before him—odd, since the dishes were all his favorites.
"No, thank you," he answered, and their mother gently intervened to restrain Parichat's coaxing. The hand on his arm fell away. Parichat lowered her head and continued to eat with a small, sorrowful expression.
He watched her and, not wanting to see her downcast, took another two bites to reassure her. Her face brightened again; though food was hard to swallow, he wanted to ease her worry.
The next morning they all had breakfast together at his small house. Parichat hurried to university for an afternoon activity, and his parents readied themselves to return to the family home. When they drove away, he watched the car until it had passed from view, then closed the door and walked back into the quiet house.
With his sculpture complete, he had nothing much to do all day.
"Shall I finish the book?" he wondered aloud. He had set it aside when inspiration came to sculpt Chaiya Sornmon and had meant to return to it now.
He went upstairs to fetch the book from the headboard. He picked it up and descended the stairs to the living room to read, but as he passed the sculpting room he noticed its door was ajar.
"I thought I locked it," he murmured. He had indeed closed it after showing his parents through. Had one of them left it open by accident? Or had an intruder come in broad daylight—who would dare?
Unease sat at his throat. He grabbed the cushion from the sofa as a makeshift defense and crept toward the door on careful feet. He paused at the threshold to peer inside. The room appeared undisturbed.
"Maybe I'm imagining things," he whispered. Still, he could not be sure, so he pushed the door open.
A shadow lunged from within. Strong arms wrapped about his throat, cutting off his breath. The blow sent him sprawling to the floor; the stranger mounted him and tightened a grip that made the world narrow to a single, suffocating point.
"Who are you?" the intruder snarled.
Strangled, Phakphum could not answer. He thrust his legs, planted his feet, and managed to twist, wrestling until the attacker lost balance and fell. He rolled and ended up straddling the man, locking a rough hand across broad shoulders.
"I live here. Who are you? Why are you in my home?" he demanded, gasping for air.
"I don't know," the man said hoarsely, struggling. Phakphum studied the stranger's face; something about it struck him as eerie—familiar in a way he could not place.
"Why are you in my house?" he repeated, pressing harder until the man stopped squirming.
"I don't know. Let me go, and when I get free I'll kill you," the attacker spat.
The stranger's voice remained obstinately defiant. If Phakphum let him loose now, he might be hurt—or worse.
As he considered what to do, the man struck again, toppling him and taking the upper hand. Strong hands closed around his throat as they had before.
"I don't know how I came here," the man panted. "I was shot—by that damned cop. I thought I was dead. I woke up and here I am, with no bullet wound at all."
The stranger's tale tumbled out in a breath: confused, raw, as if he had woken into this place from some other time. He claimed only instinct for defense had driven his actions.
Phakphum's understanding, already strange, began to sharpen. Then the world narrowed: his vision blurred, color drained, and darkness pooled at the edges until everything slipped away.
Was he to be choked to death? Had fate shifted, that the sculpture he had made should be the instrument of his undoing—bringing about his end before the disease could finish its work?