The phone was balanced against a plastic cup, its screen smudged with fingerprints, and the candle flame wavered each time the air conditioner clicked on.

  The dorm room was small and shared, though tonight only one bed was occupied, the other stripped bare except for a folded blanket at the foot, and the shrine sat on the desk where a laptop used to be, pushed back just enough to make space.

  Someone adjusted the phone angle carefully, nudging it a few centimeters to the left, then stepping back to check the frame.

  “You can see her face now,” a girl whispered.

  Another voice answered from off screen, “Don’t get too close, you’ll block it.”

  The bowl of water trembled slightly as footsteps crossed the room, the surface catching the candlelight in uneven ripples.

  Sao Chom stood where she always did, just behind the offerings, her outline clearer than before but still thin at the edges, as if she were being drawn repeatedly and never finished.

  Her hands were folded in front of her.

  She did not move.

  On the screen, hearts began to rise slowly, floating upward in a steady stream.

  Someone typed a comment.

  Is this real.

  Another followed immediately.

  My grandmother looks like this in my dreams.

  A third.

  Ask her about lottery numbers.

  The girl closest to the desk cleared her throat. “We’re live,” she said, louder now, her voice trying to sound calm. “This is the shrine from the post yesterday. Please be respectful.”

  Behind her, a boy adjusted the curtain, blocking out the corridor light so the room fell into a softer darkness.

  The candle crackled.

  The goddess did not react.

  “Can she hear us,” someone asked.

  The girl hesitated, then said, “She listens.”

  The word lingered in the room, hanging awkwardly between them.

  Another phone buzzed, then another, the sounds overlapping as notifications stacked faster than anyone could read.

  In the hospital across town, a nurse pulled a chair closer to the bed and checked the monitor, jotting down numbers on a clipboard.

  She glanced at the young man lying still beneath the thin blanket, then adjusted the IV line with practiced hands, smoothing the tape down firmly so it would not peel.

  His sister sat in the corner scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving quickly, her eyes red but focused.

  She stopped suddenly and tilted the screen toward the nurse.

  “Have you seen this,” she asked.

  The nurse leaned in, squinting.

  On the screen was a familiar image, a small shrine in a cramped room, candles burning close together.

  In the center, a woman stood.

  The nurse straightened. “People will believe anything,” she said, but her voice was quieter than before.

  Back in the dorm room, someone set down a plate of fruit carefully, arranging the pieces so none overlapped.

  “Say your name,” a voice from the live chat prompted, read aloud by the girl.

  The girl swallowed. “She doesn’t,” she said. “She doesn’t like that.”

  A comment appeared.

  Then how do we know she’s real.

  Another.

  Blink twice if you’re there.

  The goddess’s gaze remained fixed ahead.

  The air grew warm as more people crowded into the room, shoulders brushing, someone apologizing softly as they squeezed past to get closer.

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  The phone vibrated slightly from the movement but stayed upright.

  At the edge of the frame, a young man leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching silently.

  He had been there since the beginning, though no one remembered when he arrived.

  “Ajarn,” someone said quietly, recognizing him now. “Should we ask her something.”

  He shook his head once. “She is already answering,” he said.

  “Answering what,” the girl asked, without turning.

  “What you are doing,” he replied.

  A pause followed.

  The girl reached out and adjusted the incense, tapping ash into a small tray.

  “People want help,” she said. “That’s not wrong.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It is not.”

  On the screen, the viewer count climbed.

  People commented from different places, different languages, some asking for blessings, others demanding proof.

  Someone typed.

  Tell her my mother is sick.

  Another.

  Ask her why my husband left.

  A third.

  I’ll donate if she fixes this.

  The girl’s hands trembled slightly as she read.

  She glanced at the goddess, then back at the phone.

  “We can’t do all that,” she said. “We’re not promising anything.”

  A voice from behind her said, “But she can help. Right.”

  No one answered.

  In the hospital room, the sister stood and walked to the window, pulling the curtain back a few inches to let in the city lights.

  She looked at her brother, then back at her phone.

  The live video had been shared into a group chat without explanation.

  She watched for a moment, her fingers tightening around the device.

  The goddess’s face filled the screen.

  “She looks tired,” the sister murmured.

  The nurse did not respond.

  Back in the dorm room, the girl leaned closer to the shrine, lowering her voice. “You’re okay, right,” she whispered, though the microphone picked it up anyway.

  The goddess’s eyes shifted.

  It was small, almost nothing, but the chat exploded.

  Did you see that.

  She moved.

  That’s fake.

  Zoom in.

  The girl stepped back, her breath shallow.

  “She doesn’t like being crowded,” she said quickly.

  The young man by the wall uncrossed his arms. “Then you should stop,” he said.

  The girl turned. “Stop what.”

  “This,” he said, gesturing at the phone.

  Silence spread through the room, broken only by the hum of electronics and the distant sound of laughter from the corridor.

  “We’re helping,” someone said defensively.

  The man nodded. “You are feeding her,” he said. “But not with what she needs.”

  A comment appeared, read aloud by another student.

  What does she want.

  The man did not answer.

  Instead, he stepped forward and picked up one of the offerings, a small packet of sticky rice.

  He held it for a moment, then set it back down carefully.

  “She wants someone to stay,” he said.

  The girl frowned. “People are staying. Look.”

  “They are watching,” he corrected.

  The goddess’s outline flickered, just slightly, like a signal adjusting.

  The candle flame bent sharply to one side, then straightened.

  On the phone screen, a brief distortion rippled across the image, drawing gasps from the room.

  The viewer count spiked.

  At the hospital, the monitor beeped softly as the nurse adjusted a setting.

  The sister’s phone buzzed with messages.

  Have you seen this.

  Isn’t this Korn’s shrine.

  She looked at her brother again, then back to the screen.

  The goddess lifted her hand.

  It was a simple movement, slow and deliberate, her fingers curling inward slightly before resting again.

  The chat froze for a second as if the system struggled to keep up.

  Then comments poured in faster than before.

  Ask her something.

  She’s responding.

  This is real.

  The girl swallowed hard.

  “What should we ask,” she said, looking around the room.

  No one answered right away.

  Finally someone said, “Ask if she can wake him.”

  The girl stiffened. “We’re not doing that.”

  “But everyone knows,” the voice insisted. “This is because of him. Right.”

  The man by the wall closed his eyes briefly.

  “She cannot do what you refuse to,” he said.

  The girl looked at him. “What does that mean.”

  He met her gaze. “You want her to fix what attention broke,” he said. “But you will not give her quiet.”

  The goddess’s hand lowered.

  Her eyes shifted again, this time toward the phone.

  The screen flickered.

  For a moment, the image sharpened, the lines of her face clearer than they had ever been.

  The chat slowed, then stopped entirely, as if everyone were holding their breath.

  In the hospital room, the sister felt her phone vibrate and nearly dropped it.

  On the screen, the goddess looked straight ahead.

  Her lips parted.

  She spoke once.

  “I am tired.”

  The words were plain.

  In the dorm room, no one moved.

  The candle sputtered and went out, leaving a thin line of smoke curling upward.

  The live stream ended abruptly, the screen going dark as the phone tipped and fell face down on the desk.

  In the hospital, the monitor continued its steady rhythm.

  Korn did not wake.

  The goddess had gone online.

  And that was all she said.