The small garden tucked in the outskirts of London felt like a hidden sanctuary, where time seemed to have forgotten its passage. The cobblestone path was flecked with moss, wildflowers bloomed freely around, and in the distance, a few climbing roses twisted around a wooden trellis, releasing a delicate fragrance in the cool autumn breeze. The only sounds were the chirping of sparrows and the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind.

Film sat on a wooden bench under an old maple tree. The sparse canopy cast dappled sunlight onto her shoulders. She gazed upward at the drifting clouds, carrying a rare sense of calm. After days haunted by Thana Wisa, by blurry images straddling reality and illusion, this quiet moment felt like a gift.

Namtan placed a hand on Film’s shoulder and leaned down, whispering:
“I’m going to grab some drinks. You just wait here a moment.”

Film smiled faintly and nodded. For a brief instant, their eyes met—peaceful and complete. Then Namtan’s figure receded, winding along the cobblestone path, disappearing behind the climbing roses.

Film exhaled slowly, leaning back, relaxing her shoulders. This space, she thought, felt like a safe dream. But suddenly, a familiar scent made her heart skip a beat.

It was the scent of red roses.

She turned her head.

A man stood a few steps away. He wore a white shirt, holding a bouquet of crimson roses, each petal plump as if freshly picked. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting his long shadow over the gravel.

Film held her breath.
“Tha… Thanit?” The name escaped her lips, trembling.

He stepped closer, his face unchanged from the memories seven years ago. His eyes were deep, holding a storm long restrained. A fleeting smile appeared—warm yet shadowed.

“It’s me again, Thana,” he said, voice low, echoing from the past. “We meet again today, don’t we, Film?”

Film gripped the edge of the bench, her hands tightening. Memories surged: the days of her youth, the close presence of her best friend’s brother, the sunlit afternoons filled with laughter, the way he had looked at her with unhidden affection.

But all of that had changed now.
“Why… why are you bringing flowers?” Film took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

“To give to you,” Thanit said, extending the bouquet, eyes burning. “You know. All this time, the one I wanted… has always been you.”

Film shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. His words cut through her like a knife. But when she opened them, there was no wavering—only resolve.
“Thana… stop chasing me,” she said, voice trembling but firm. “I already have Namtan.”

Time froze.

Thanit’s smile shattered. Pain twisted in his eyes, instantly turning into a restrained fury. His hands trembled, the bouquet clenched tightly. The petals rustled, deep red dropping like blood onto the gravel.

“No…” he whispered, hoarse. “If you don’t belong to me… you cannot belong to anyone else either.”

A snapping sound echoed as the flower stems broke under his grip. He threw the bouquet to the ground. The roses burst and crushed into the soil, petals trampled mercilessly under his shoes.

Film froze. Her heart contracted painfully. She wanted to call out, to reach for some reason in him, but her throat choked. Not out of lingering affection, but because she feared that a single word could be the final knife piercing Thana’s fractured heart.

She whispered, trembling: “You…”
But he did not turn back.

Thana’s figure walked away, each step heavy, as if dragging the sky into collapse. He vanished around the bend, leaving only the pungent scent of roses in the wind, and a trail of shattered petals—evidence of the rage just unleashed.

Film sat motionless. Hot tears streaked down her cheeks. Her hands trembled on her lap, unsure if it was fear or sorrow. In her mind, his words repeated like an inescapable curse:
“If you don’t belong to me… you cannot belong to anyone else either.”

“Film!”—a familiar voice called out.

Startled, Film turned. Namtan ran along the path, carrying two steaming paper cups.

“Are you okay?” Namtan asked, panic in her voice as she saw Film’s pale face. She placed the cups into Film’s hands, then bent down to grasp her shoulders.
“Your face… it’s so pale. What happened?”

Film looked at Namtan, tears brimming, seeking a final anchor. But she didn’t answer. All she did was squeeze Namtan’s hands, shaking, unable to speak.

Namtan tightened her grip, breath quickening with worry.
“Don’t stay silent like this… tell me, what happened?”

Film pressed Namtan’s hand to her cheek, forcing a smile—a crooked one. She couldn’t explain. She couldn’t say that Thana had just stood there, leaving behind a cruel curse.

Outside, the rain began to fall. Droplets pattered against the glass dome, rolling over petals and the moss-speckled gravel. The sound reverberated through the quiet space, making everything feel heavier.

Film held Namtan’s hands tighter, clinging to her only lifeline. In her mind, Thana’s words repeated endlessly, haunting like an echo in a deep cave.

The rain was cold—but her heart was colder.

In the garden, beneath the old maple, two hands clasped tightly, trembling against a storm they both knew was still waiting ahead.