The morning begins with rain tapping against the windows in a steady pattern that makes it hard to tell how long it has been falling, and Narin wakes to the sound without moving right away, his eyes open but unfocused as he listens to water sliding down glass and dripping from the edge of the air conditioning unit outside.

  He reaches for his phone on the bedside table and checks the time, then sets it back down in the same spot, aligning it with the edge of the table before sitting up and placing his feet on the floor.

  In the bathroom he turns on the light and brushes his teeth slowly, watching foam gather at the corners of his mouth, and when he spits he rinses twice, as if the first time was not enough, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before washing his face.

  The mirror reflects him clearly now, no flicker or distortion, and he leans closer to inspect a small blemish near his jaw, pressing it lightly with his finger until it turns pale, then releases it and watches the color return.

  He showers quickly, the water warm but not hot, and he stands under the stream with his head bowed, letting it run over his hair and shoulders, and when he steps out he dries himself carefully, folding the towel afterward and hanging it straight.

  In the kitchen he prepares breakfast with the same routine he has fallen into, cracking two eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a fork, the metal scraping softly against ceramic, and he pours the mixture into a pan where oil sizzles lightly.

  He eats standing at the counter again, chewing without hurry, and he notices the rain has slowed to a mist outside, the city blurred and gray through the window.

  As he rinses his plate, there is a knock at the door, light but deliberate, and he pauses with his hands still under the running water, listening.

  The knock comes again, a little firmer this time, and he turns off the tap, dries his hands on a cloth, and walks toward the door.

  When he opens it, a man stands in the hallway holding a thin folder under his arm, dressed plainly, his hair neatly combed, his expression neutral in a way that does not invite questions.

  Good morning, the man says, his voice calm, and he inclines his head slightly. I am Khun Phum.

  Narin nods and says good morning back, stepping aside to let him in, and he does not ask how the man knows where he lives or why he is here.

  Khun Phum removes his shoes and places them neatly by the door, lining them up with Narin’s, and he walks into the living room, glancing around briefly before taking a seat on the sofa when Narin gestures toward it.

  Narin offers him water, and Khun Phum accepts, watching as Narin fills a glass and sets it down on the table, the condensation already forming on the sides.

  They sit in silence for a moment, the sound of the refrigerator humming faintly in the background, and Khun Phum opens his folder and removes a few papers, placing them on the table but not pushing them toward Narin yet.

  Outside, someone walks past in the hallway, their footsteps fading quickly, and Narin clears his throat.

  What is this about, he asks, his voice even.

  Khun Phum folds his hands together, resting them on his knee, and looks at Narin without blinking. It is about the night your wife died, he says.

  Narin’s fingers tighten around the edge of the table, and he looks down at the papers without reading them, then back up.

  The official report was already made, he says. It was ruled an accident.

  Khun Phum nods slowly. Yes, he says. That is what the report says.

  He pauses, as if waiting for Narin to add something, and when he does not, Khun Phum reaches for one of the papers and slides it closer.

  This is a statement from the emergency call center, he says, tapping the page lightly. Or rather, the absence of one.

  Narin’s eyes follow the movement of Khun Phum’s finger, and he swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

  I was there, he says after a moment. I tried to help.

  Khun Phum does not respond immediately. Instead, he takes a sip of water and sets the glass back down, aligning it carefully with the corner of the table.

  Did you call an ambulance, he asks.

  Narin opens his mouth, then closes it, and he shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and uncrossing it again.

  I thought, he begins, then stops. I thought it was not serious at first.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Khun Phum watches him quietly, his expression unchanged.

  The building manager is outside, he says after a moment. And the guard. They are reviewing some things.

  Narin’s shoulders tense, and he leans back slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window.

  People have been talking, he says. Online. Making things up.

  Some things are not made up, Khun Phum replies.

  In another apartment on the same floor, Ploy sits at her small dining table, scrolling through her phone with one hand while stirring a pot of soup with the other, the steam fogging her glasses.

  She pauses when she hears voices in the hallway, one unfamiliar, and she turns down the stove, listening, her spoon hovering above the pot.

  Downstairs, the security guard stands with the building manager in front of a monitor, pointing at the screen where a time stamp flickers, and the manager frowns, adjusting his glasses and leaning closer.

  Back in Narin’s living room, the air feels heavier, and Narin rubs his palms together slowly, leaving faint marks of moisture.

  I was on a call, he says, his voice quieter now. A client. It was important.

  Khun Phum nods once. And your wife asked you to take her to the hospital.

  She said she felt dizzy, Narin says, and he looks at his hands as he speaks, watching his fingers move. She said there was pain.

  And you told her to wait, Khun Phum says.

  Narin does not answer right away. He reaches for the water glass and takes a sip, then sets it back down without finishing it.

  I told her to sit down, he says. To calm down.

  Khun Phum opens another paper in the folder, reading silently for a moment before speaking again.

  The neighbors reported hearing movement, he says. A thud. Then crying.

  Narin’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head slightly.

  People hear what they want to hear, he says.

  Khun Phum looks up. Did you hear her crying, he asks.

  The question hangs in the air, and Narin’s eyes flick toward the hallway, then back to Khun Phum.

  Yes, he says quietly.

  There is a long pause, broken only by the distant sound of an elevator bell.

  Why did you not call, Khun Phum asks.

  Narin’s hands clench into fists, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  I thought it would stop, he says. I thought she was overreacting. She had done that before.

  Khun Phum tilts his head slightly. And when it did not stop.

  Narin’s voice drops further. I panicked, he says. I did not know what to do.

  Outside, the rain begins again, light but persistent, tapping against the glass.

  In the hallway, Ploy steps out of her apartment with her trash bag, and she slows when she sees the unfamiliar shoes by Narin’s door, then looks away and continues toward the chute.

  Khun Phum closes the folder and rests it on the table.

  There is one more thing, he says. The guard altered the footage.

  Narin looks up sharply. Altered how.

  He removed a few minutes, Khun Phum says. The part where you were standing in the doorway.

  Narin lets out a short breath, almost a laugh, and he leans back again, staring at the ceiling.

  So what now, he asks. Are you here to arrest me.

  Khun Phum shakes his head. That is not my role.

  Then what is, Narin asks, his voice rising slightly.

  Khun Phum stands and walks toward the window, looking out at the gray cityscape below, and he speaks without turning around.

  Someone needs to say what happened, he says. Out loud.

  Narin stands as well, his movements stiff, and he steps closer, stopping a few feet away.

  I did not kill her, he says.

  Khun Phum turns to face him. No, he says. You did not.

  The words land heavily, and Narin exhales, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.

  But you did not help her when she needed it, Khun Phum continues.

  Silence fills the room again, thick and pressing, and Narin’s gaze drops to the floor.

  In the security office, the guard removes his cap and runs a hand through his hair, then sets the cap back on the desk, smoothing it out.

  In the hallway, Ploy returns from the trash chute and pauses outside her door, listening again, then unlocks it and steps inside, closing it quietly.

  Back in the living room, Narin’s voice is barely audible.

  I should have called, he says.

  Khun Phum nods once. Say it again, he says.

  I should have called an ambulance, Narin says, louder this time, his throat tight.

  Khun Phum waits.

  I did not call because I did not want trouble, Narin continues, his words coming more quickly now. I did not want questions or costs or delays. I thought about myself first.

  He stops, his breathing uneven, and he presses his lips together, then speaks again.

  I regret it, he says.

  Khun Phum studies him for a long moment, then closes the folder and tucks it under his arm.

  Thank you, he says.

  For what, Narin asks, his voice hoarse.

  For telling the truth, Khun Phum replies.

  He walks toward the door and puts on his shoes, adjusting the laces carefully before standing.

  As he opens the door, he pauses and looks back at Narin.

  It does not change what happened, he says.

  Then he steps into the hallway and closes the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding louder than it should.

  Narin stands alone in the living room, the rain still tapping against the windows, and he sinks back onto the sofa, covering his face with his hands.

  On the table, the papers remain where they were, untouched, and the glass of water has warmed, condensation pooling at the base.

  The truth has been spoken, but the room feels no lighter.