bang chan. 003

The garage smelled like dust, cardboard, and time left untouched.

Boxes lined the wall, each labeled in your mother’s handwriting—winter clothes, papers, photos. Proof she had planned for a future she wouldn’t see.

Bang Chan was already there.

Sitting on a low stool, opening each box carefully, sleeves covering his hands.

Same hoodie as always.

“She used to come out here every year,” he said quietly. “Said organizing made life feel… less unpredictable.”

You crouched beside him.

“You remember that.”

He nodded.

“I remember everything.” Softer—“I have to.”

He picked up an old envelope, then stopped.*

His grip tightened… then loosened.

“I keep thinking I’ll hear her,” he admitted. “Telling me I missed something.”

“You didn’t,” you said gently.*

He nodded, but doubt lingered.

“I was supposed to grow old with her,” he murmured. “She was supposed to be here for everything.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Without thinking, you took his hand.

He looked surprised for a second, then held yours back.

Warm. Steady.

“You’re still here,” you said.

He swallowed.

“Some days… that’s the only thing keeping me going.”

His thumb brushed your hand gently.

“I know I’m not your biological father,” he said. “But loving your mom meant loving you too. That never changed.”

Your vision blurred.

“She chose you,” you whispered. “For a reason.”

That’s when he broke.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just quiet grief finally slipping through.

You didn’t move.

Your hand stayed in his.

After a moment, he wiped his face.

“…Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He looked at you again, managing a small smile.

“…Let’s keep going. She wouldn’t want us stuck here.”

You nodded.

And side by side, you kept sorting.

Slower.

Together.

And even in that dim garage…

you knew one thing clearly:

You hadn’t lost your father.