(Thailand, 2004.)
The world is full of things we can't explain.
I never thought I'd be someone to experience one firsthand.
My name is Koy. I'm from Thailand.
Most nights I work alone at a relay tower outside Nakhon Pathom.
It's a small concrete block set in the middle of a field, surrounded by grass that hums when the wind pushes through the power lines. The air there always smells faintly burnt — dust, static, and something like rain that never arrives.
The job's simple. Check the meters. Log the hum. Make sure nothing catches fire.
Mostly, it's waiting.
Listening.
The tower doesn't really talk, but sometimes I think it breathes.
When you've been awake long enough, that kind of thought stops sounding strange.
That night the air pressed down heavier than usual.
The heat had gone wet and lazy, and even the insects seemed to give up.
I could hear the static pulse in my ears — a low tone that faded when I blinked too long.
I packed my tapes, shut off the lights, and stepped outside.
The road shimmered under the orange lamps, the asphalt still bleeding warmth from the day.
My boots stuck faintly with each step.
It wasn't raining, but it felt like it might start any second.
A few hundred meters before the bridge, I saw someone sitting at the roadside kiosk — one of those concrete stalls that sells cold drinks in daylight and ghosts at night.
A single fluorescent bulb flickered behind the mesh window.
For a moment I thought I was imagining him.
Then he raised a hand, smoke curling between his fingers.
"Manit?"
He turned.
The same loose shoulders. The same easy grin.
"You still taking the night shift?" he asked, like no time had passed at all.
"Guess so," I said. "Somebody has to keep the tower from falling asleep."
He laughed, soft and tired, and the sound seemed to ripple through the still air.
"Some habits don't let go."
We talked for a while — about the new supervisor, about the static that never really stops, about the way the crickets vanish all at once right before dawn.
He listened like he'd already heard every word before.
When I mentioned the rhythm in the hum — that faint heartbeat under the noise — he tilted his head.
"Be careful with that," he said. "Some sounds don't like being found."
He said it gently, almost kindly, like advice from someone who'd made the same mistake.
I laughed. "You sound like Hana."
"Maybe she's right."
He stood, stretched, and flicked his cigarette into the canal.
For a second, I saw its glow travel across the water — a tiny red vein disappearing into black.
"See you around, Koy," he said, and walked down the road until the dark took him whole.
Morning came without warning.
When I opened my eyes, the world felt too bright, the kind of brightness that doesn't wake you up.
The air smelled of soy, smoke, and newspapers.
I'd fallen asleep at a bus stop somewhere between the fields and town.
The man at the corner shop nodded when I came in, his radio tuned to static instead of music.
I bought a bottle of water and a folded paper from the stack beside the till.
My hands felt slow — maybe from the heat, maybe from the hum still echoing in them.
I sat by the window and unfolded the paper.
Halfway down the local page, I found him.
Relay Worker Found Dead After Storm — August 10, 2004.
Authorities identified the victim as Manit Preecha, 27, a technician at the Nakhon Pathom relay site.
He is believed to have died four days ago during an electrical surge.
The photo was grainy, but I knew that shirt.
Light blue. Sleeves rolled.
Exactly what he'd been wearing hours ago.
I stared until the text bled a little, until I realized I'd stopped breathing.
The shop's radio kept humming, a low note without a song, the same frequency as the tower's heart.
The old man behind the counter asked if I was all right.
I nodded, folded the paper carefully, and said, "Just déjà vu."
Outside, the sun hit hard enough to dry the sweat on my neck.
The road was quiet — not empty, just quiet in a way that feels personal.
I walked home slower than usual, bottle half-empty, the folded paper tucked under my arm.
When the first breeze touched my face, I thought I heard him again.
That same voice, gentle and ordinary:
"See you around."
I stopped, turned, saw no one.
The air around me didn't move.
It hung — thick, waiting — like the moment before a radio finds its station.
I didn't say anything back.
I just kept walking.
And the hum came with me.
(End of Chapter 1 — "Quiet Places")