A door stood alone in the dark.
There was no floor, no ceiling, no walls—just black, endless, and silent. Except for the door. It hovered in space, solid and still. Its small, square window shone with blinding white light.
Khun Suradech...?
The voice echoed from nowhere. Soft at first. Barely there.
Khun Suradech...??
Louder now. Sharper. Urgent.
KHUN SURADECH!
Niran's eyes flew open. He jolted upright in bed, breath ragged, heart hammering in his chest like it was trying to break out. One hand clutched his t-shirt over his heart; the other raked through his sweat-damp hair. He looked around, disoriented. His bedroom. Pale light through the curtains. Faint birdsong outside.
Normal.
Except it didn't feel normal.
He turned toward the window. The light was just sunlight now, soft and gold—but for a heartbeat, he could've sworn it was white. That white. Niran muttered to himself. "Weird."
He looked towards his clock, swung his legs out of bed, and began the morning routine. Splash of cold water. Toothbrush. Button-up. Slacks. Gel in the hair, not too much. Watch on the wrist. Dream still in his head, like static under his skin.
—
By the time he pushed open the glass doors of Sawasdee Realty, the office was already humming with low chatter and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. AC fans buzzed above. A kettle boiled somewhere in the back. Niran slipped inside, gave a wai and a nod. "Morning, everyone."
"Look who decided to join the land of the living," Sara said without looking up from her screen. "You look like a ghost," Bua added. "Like, no offense, but you could haunt someone right now." Niran tossed his bag onto his desk. "Thanks for the warm welcome."
"You okay?" King called from the copy machine. "You look... I dunno. Sleep-hungover?"
"Rough night," Niran said, tugging out his chair. "Couldn't sleep. I had some weird dreams."
"Ah Ha!" Sara said, pointing dramatically. "I knew you were watching that ghost-hunting show again."
"That's the thing! I didn't even turn the TV on."
"Oh, then it's worse than we thought," Bua said. "He's got natural demons now." Niran rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. "Can demons file complaints? I might have a few." King wandered over with a fresh-printed listing sheet. "What kind of dream?" He hesitated, then shrugged. "Just this door. Suspended in nothing. Black water all around. The window was…too bright. And someone was shouting my name."
"Oooh." Sara wiggled her fingers in mock spookiness. "Creepy and symbolic. That's a double feature."
"Sounds like your subconscious wants you to open some metaphorical door," Bua said, sipping his latte. "Or maybe your bladder."
"Come on," Niran said, laughing. "I'm being serious here."
"Alright, alright," Sara said. "Real talk—if it happens again, write it down. Dreams repeat for a reason. I saw it on TikTok."
"Yeah," King added, mock-wise. "And if the door starts following you into real life, run."
Niran opened his laptop. "You guys are really helping me feel safe and stable. Thaaanks." his voice dripped with sarcasm. Just then, the front door opened with a telltale chime—and in stepped Kannika, their regional manager, clipboard in hand and eyes like a hawk.
"Good morning," she said, voice light but lethal.
Everyone froze for half a second, Sara sitting up extra straight and fixing her hair. "Morning, Khun Kannika!" they chimed in near-unison, like schoolkids caught gossiping. She smiled. "Glad to hear the team spirit's alive. Now, maybe direct some of that energy toward our client proposals?" She turned her gaze toward Niran. "And Niran—no more ghost stories on company time."
Niran gave her a salute. "Yes, boss." She raised an eyebrow. "Save the dreams for your lunch break. I want that new project by noon."
"Understood," he said. With that, she clicked off toward the back office, heels sharp against the tile.
Bua leaned over, whispering, "See? Even she thinks your dreams are cursed." Sara reached for her tea. "No pressure, Niran. Just don't bring any dark spirits into the Thursday team meeting."
"I'll try to keep the hauntings down to a minimum," he said, opening his inbox. "But if I start levitating, someone please film it."
"You know we would," King said, already grinning.
They laughed—and for a moment, the dream felt far away again.
But only for a moment.
The morning blurred into a familiar rhythm—emails, calls, printouts—but the dream wouldn't leave him alone. Every time Niran glanced at his screen, the white of his inbox felt a little too bright. Every time someone said his name, he half-expected it to echo, drawn out and hollow—
Khun Suradech…
He shook his head once, hard.
"Hey." Sara's chair rolled over until she bumped his desk. She squinted at him. "You're staring at that spreadsheet like it stole your wallet." Niran blinked. The numbers swam back into focus. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit," she said. "Eat something before your brain files for bankruptcy." She shoved a plastic-wrapped bun across his desk. Pork floss and chili paste. His favorite. "You didn't have to—"
"You look like a ghost, and I want my commissions. Keep the real estate zombie alive, please." He smiled despite himself. "Thanks." King appeared at his shoulder, leaning over both of them. "Heads up, lover boy. You're with me at the Sathorn condo this afternoon. Client at two." Niran frowned. "I thought Bua was—"
"Swapped," Bua called from his desk. "I'm riding with Sara to the townhouses, remember? She needs my winning personality."
"I need someone who can lift heavy boxes," Sara corrected.
"You love my personality," Bua shot back. King slung an arm briefly over Bua's chair as he passed, fingers brushing the back of his neck. It was nothing, just a casual touch—but Bua went oddly still for a second, then swatted him away with a muttered, "Get off, you're sweaty."
Niran watched, something warm and distant stirring behind his exhaustion. Everyone else seemed to exist in these small, easy orbits. Leaning. Bumping shoulders. Sharing snacks. He swallowed a bite of bun that tasted suddenly dry.
"Two o'clock," King repeated, tapping Niran's monitor. "Wear your 'please buy this unit and save my soul' smile."
"Right, boss," Niran said.
By the time they pulled into Sathorn, the midday heat had turned the streets into shimmering glass. The condo building rose above them—steel and glass, the kind of expensive minimalism that made rich people feel spiritual.
In the elevator, King adjusted his tie in the mirrored wall.
"You sure you're good?" he asked, catching Niran's reflection. "You've been weirdly quiet all day. Like, more than your normal introvert tax."
"Just tired," Niran said. "I keep thinking of…"
"The door again?"
"Yeah."
King made a thoughtful face. "You know, my grandma says if a door keeps showing up in your dreams, it's either opportunity or death." Niran stared at the floor numbers ticking up. "…Comforting."
"She also says not to eat beef on Wednesdays or your ancestors cry, so. Take it with a grain of salt."
The client was a middle-aged couple with too much money and too little patience. Niran slipped into his practiced mode: open palms, soft voice, easy jokes. They toured the unit, nodding at marble countertops and city views. His body moved on autopilot; his mind floated somewhere between the past night and the next.
When they stepped onto the balcony, the sunlight hit him full in the face.
For a split second, it wasn't blue sky. It was white. Blinding, flat, swallowing all depth.
His lungs forgot their job. The balcony rail blurred, the city dissolved, and all that existed was that impossible, window-bright—
"Khun Suradech?"
The client's voice snapped him back. He blinked rapidly. The city slammed into place again: cars, cranes, smog-fuzzed skyline.
"Yes, sorry," Niran said smoothly. "The sun's a bit strong today. You were asking about the maintenance fees?"
He finished the showing without further incident, but his fingers shook when he handed King the folder. "You okay?" King asked once they were back in the car. "Fine," Niran lied. "Just need sleep."
The lie followed him all afternoon.
On the way home, traffic around Asok snarled into a slow, choking crawl. Niran's head throbbed in time with the brake lights. When the line of cars lurched forward only to stop again, he sighed and switched lanes, taking a side street he didn't usually use.
He almost didn't notice the building until his gaze snagged on the sign: Arthit Mental Health Center.
Plain facade. Tinted windows. Automatic glass doors sliding open and shut as people drifted in and out—some in uniforms, some in street clothes, some clinging a little too tightly to the hands beside them.
As his car crawled past, the doors opened again.
A man stepped out, adjusting the strap of a messenger bag slung across his body. He wore a light blue polo with the center's logo embroidered near the collar and an ID badge on a lanyard. Not a doctor's white coat—something more casual, like staff you'd barely look at twice.
Except Niran did.
The world narrowed.
His breath stopped.
The man turned his head, laughing at something a nurse beside him said, and for a heartbeat their eyes met across the slow-moving traffic.
Dark, steady eyes. Calm mouth. A face that tugged something deep in Niran's chest like a hook.
The horn behind him blared. The line of cars had moved; he hadn't.
Niran jerked, pressing the accelerator. By the time he dared glance back at the sidewalk, the man in the blue polo was gone.
That night at home, he told himself it was just a coincidence. The echo of a face his brain wanted to see. He made instant noodles, left half uneaten, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
When sleep finally took him, it dragged him straight to the dark.
The door was there, waiting.
Alone in the void, wood grain impossibly detailed, window square and glaring white. No floor beneath his feet, no sense of up or down—just that door, as solid as anything in waking life.
Niran stepped closer. His hand rose of its own accord, fingers reaching for the knob.
"Khun Suradech."
The voice came again, clearer now. Male. Close.
He turned toward the sound.
A shadow moved behind the white window. A silhouette of a man, broad shoulders, head tilted like he was listening.
"Who are you?" Niran asked.
The door did not open.
But the light behind the glass flickered, softening just enough that for a heartbeat—just one—Niran could almost make out the curve of a mouth, the line of a nose.
The face of the man in the blue polo?
Then the light flared blindingly white, erasing everything, burning through his vision until there was nothing at all.
He woke with his heart racing, pillow damp, throat tight. The alarm on his phone blaring, indicating the start of a new day.