The sea was calm, and the towers were empty.
Thanom sat on the thirtieth-floor balcony of what had once been the Maritime Sky Resort, feet up on a cracked plastic chair, netting draped across his lap like a faded memory. Below him, the gutted lobby yawned open to the wind. Salt had eaten through the glass years ago. Seagulls nested in the elevator shafts.
Pattaya had been officially evacuated two weeks ago. Ministry crews had come through with clipboards and relocation forms. They logged residents, issued deadlines, then left without enforcing them. Final clearance was scheduled for next week.
He had until Monday.
Thanom wasn’t stubborn. He wasn’t defiant. He just… wasn’t ready.
He still fished. Not well, and not often, but enough. The old pier near Bali Hai had mostly collapsed, but he had a skiff tied to one of the seawall cleats. Squid came at night if you knew when. Mackerel sometimes. Crabs if the traps held.
The air was good here. Better than Bangkok, he was sure of it.
He tuned the radio, flicked past the silence, and stopped on a low voice fuzzing through static.
“…Kyoto, Osaka, and Nagoya merged last quarter under the Urban Consolidation Initiative. Tokyo is now restricted, maintenance only. Japan’s fertility rate remains under 0.6. South Korea’s Assisted Parenting Program has ceased operations…”
He clicked it off. He’d heard enough. The numbers didn’t matter anymore. Collapse had no urgency—it just spread, quietly, like rot.
Inside the room, the kitchenette light still worked. He boiled water for instant coffee and watched the steam spiral into the air like a slow ghost. On the far wall, a child’s drawing remained taped to the plaster: sun, sea, a family holding hands. Left behind by the last real residents. He hadn’t touched it.
Sometimes he thought about the people who used to live here. Russian tourists, loud Australians, Bangkok families escaping the city for a weekend of heat and hotel buffets. All gone now. Their laughter had become a kind of myth, the way old fishermen talked about storms no one remembered.
He’d once run a restaurant near Second Road. Fried fish, grilled clams, beer. His wife had died in 2120. No children. No legacy. Just the sea and this place.
He looked out over the coastline. Weeds now cracked the old motorways. Billboard scaffolding stood bare. The beach had grown narrow, reclaimed by tide and time.
He spotted someone walking the shore. A woman, maybe thirty, carrying a bundle—child, probably. She had stayed, too. There were still a few of them scattered in the high-rises. Ghosts in the bones of a holiday town.
They’d all be gone next week.
Thanom sipped his coffee and watched the light fade. Somewhere to the west, a boat blinked. Still working, like him. Still pulling what could be pulled from the sea.
He thought about Bangkok. The relocation forms promised a small unit in Zone B. Power guaranteed four hours a day. Two meals, sometimes three. Crowded blocks. Grey air. Synthetic light.
He would go. He wasn’t foolish. But not tonight. Tonight he would sleep in his high-rise, listen to the wind cut through the elevator shaft, and feel the sea breathe. Ah, that wind. His faithful friend, the wind.
The child’s drawing on the wall fluttered once in the breeze. He looked at it for a long time, then stood up and turned off the light.
Five days left.