Surasak Nimit’s small shop in Din Daeng had changed little in appearance, but within its walls the world felt different. His son Prasert had returned, no longer ashamed, and had placed a new iron in his father’s hand. Sleek and silver, it whispered of renewal. Yet Surasak could not let go of the memory of the old iron—the scars, the burns, the years pressed into fabric and skin alike.