Chapter Text
Phuket Province, Thailand – June 1994
Rain had a habit of coming uninvited in Phuket—sudden, soft, and stubborn. That afternoon, it painted the orphanage sky in shades of grey, dripping down the crooked gutters like a lullaby gone sad. The wind whistled through the rusted mesh windows of Baan Chivit Orphanage, rattling old toys and laundry left out too long.
Inside, the dining hall buzzed like a beehive of barefoot kids, all noise and elbows and chipped plastic trays. Rice. Fried mackerel. One lucky dumpling each.
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At a corner table sat Phuwin Tangsakyuen, age 8.
A pocket-sized know-it-all with knobby knees, sharp eyes, and a brain that devoured books faster than the old fan could turn. His shirt collar was always crooked. His socks never matched. And he hated—loathed—people who cried during story time.
But today... a boy was crying.
A new boy. Skinny. Shivering in a too-big donated shirt with sleeves that covered his hands. He stood by the window like he didn’t know where else to go. Rain clung to his lashes like sorrow, and though the room was loud, he made no sound.
Just tears.
Phuwin narrowed his eyes.
“Noisy without talking,” he muttered.
Then looked down at his tray. His prize: two dumplings. He’d gotten an extra one after helping Auntie Mali with the dishes. His victory of the week.
He stared at them.
Then at the boy.
Then groaned dramatically. “Ugh. Stupid conscience.”
Phuwin stomped over to the crying boy, slammed his tray on the bench beside him, and plopped down without asking.
“Eat it,” he said, pushing one dumpling toward him.
The boy blinked through tears. “Huh?”
“You’re crying. That’s gross. So eat. Food fixes crying.”
The boy stared at the dumpling. “But... it’s yours.”
“Now it’s not. Unless you’re rejecting my charity, in which case I’ll take it back—”
The boy snatched it. Nibbled. Then looked up, hopeful and still teary-eyed.
“I’m... Dunk,” he mumbled, voice soft like steamed cake.
“Phuwin. I hate crying, just so you know.”
Dunk nodded. “I cry a lot.”
“I can tell.”
And then, unexpectedly, Dunk laughed. A weird little hiccup-laugh that sounded like hope cracking through the clouds.
“You’re funny,” Dunk smiled, mouth full of dumpling.
“You’re weird,” Phuwin smirked.
And just like that, something happened. Something quiet but permanent. A click. A tether. A promise neither of them made out loud.
That night, they sat cross-legged under the orphanage’s leaking roof. The rain still fell. And so did the walls around their hearts.
---
Dunk talked endlessly, like he hadn’t had anyone to talk to in months.
“My mom and dad died in a flood,” he whispered. “I remember the water was brown. I don’t like the rain anymore.”
“I don’t remember mine,” Phuwin admitted. “I was a baby. But I hate the rain, too. It ruins my books.”
“I want to be on TV one day. Maybe I’ll be a model. Or an actor. Or—or—both.”
“I want to be a professor,” Phuwin said. “Maybe in Bangkok.”
“Wow. That’s far.”
“I’ll take you with me,” Phuwin muttered without thinking.
Dunk blinked. “Really?”
“…Only if you don’t cry all the time.”
Dunk grinned, even if his eyes were still watery. “Deal.”
And in that forgotten corner of Thailand, under a sky that hadn’t stopped weeping for hours, two orphaned boys made the smallest, most extraordinary promise: to stay.
---
From that day on, they were inseparable.
Phuwin punched anyone who teased Dunk’s lisp. Dunk braided Phuwin’s hair while he studied. They stole candy together. Built blanket forts together. Dreamed together.
They didn’t have parents. But they had each other.
And sometimes, when it rained, Phuwin would silently split his dumpling without being asked. And Dunk would eat half with a grin.
Because some love stories don’t start with roses or fate.
Some start with a dumpling and a borrowed umbrella.
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