The kettle clicked off by itself, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, and no one moved for a few seconds even though the water was ready.

  A woman stood at the counter with her phone resting against a jar of sugar, the screen still showing a paused clip of the shrine, her finger hovering as if she might press play again and then deciding not to.

  She poured the hot water slowly into a chipped mug, watching the steam rise and fog her glasses, then stirred powdered creamer with a spoon that clinked too loudly against the ceramic.

  In the living room behind her, the television murmured with a morning talk show, hosts laughing at something that had already passed.

  On the coffee table, incense sticks lay unopened beside a plastic bag of oranges that had been bought the night before because someone online said citrus was respectful.

  Her husband sat on the floor with his back against the couch, scrolling through comments with one hand and rubbing his knee with the other, the movement steady and absent.

  “They say light three,” he said, not looking up. “Three is better than one.”

  The woman nodded and carried the mug to the table, setting it down carefully so it would not spill, then picking up the incense box and peeling back the thin plastic.

  The scent leaked out immediately, dry and sharp.

  She counted the sticks twice before lighting them, holding the flame to the tips until they caught and then shaking her hand gently to put the fire out, watching the smoke curl.

  In another apartment across the city, a teenage boy balanced his phone against a stack of textbooks and knelt awkwardly on the tile floor, his knees pressing into the grout lines.

  His mother hovered near the doorway, arms folded, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to say something and then choosing not to.

  The boy whispered words he had copied from a comment thread, stumbling over the pronunciation, pausing to check his screen before continuing.

  The incense in front of him burned unevenly, one stick already shorter than the others.

  At a storefront temple that had recently added a donation QR code to its entrance, a monk adjusted his robe and checked his reflection in a small mirror before stepping outside to greet a group of visitors holding phones out in front of them.

  They bowed quickly, some too fast, others too deep, then raised their screens again, angling for the best shot of the altar.

  “Is this the right one,” a woman asked, pointing. “The goddess from the video.”

  The monk smiled politely and gestured toward the offerings table. “You may pray here,” he said.

  She hesitated. “Will it work.”

  He did not answer right away.

  Back in the dorm room where the shrine now sat dark, the candles unlit and the air stale, a custodian pushed a mop slowly across the floor, the water sloshing softly in the bucket beside him.

  He paused near the desk and frowned at the arrangement left behind, the bowl empty now, the fruit beginning to soften.

  He nudged the desk slightly to mop underneath and the shrine shifted, just a little, enough to make him stop and steady it with his hand.

  “Careful,” he muttered, though no one was there.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  In the hospital, Korn’s sister sat with her hands folded in her lap, watching a doctor speak quietly with a nurse near the door.

  She nodded when they looked at her, though she did not fully understand what was being said, and pressed her lips together, focusing instead on the way the curtain swayed slightly from the air vent.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Another message.

  Another clip.

  Someone had edited the goddess’s single sentence into music, layering it with soft tones and subtitles in three languages.

  I am tired.

  She turned the phone face down.

  At a small shop selling amulets and charms, a line formed near the counter, people holding slips of paper with names written carefully in pen.

  The shop owner moved slowly, selecting items from drawers, tying string knots with practiced fingers, murmuring instructions.

  “Light it at midnight,” he told one customer. “Face east.”

  To another he said, “No meat today.”

  A third asked, “How many times.”

  “As many as you promised,” he replied, not looking up.

  Outside, a man leaned against the wall watching the line, his hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable.

  Some people recognized him.

  Others did not.

  In a cramped bedroom, a woman sat cross legged on her bed, the laptop open beside her displaying a live stream of a makeshift ritual being conducted by an influencer monk with a large following.

  She followed along, bowing when he bowed, touching her forehead to the mattress, then glancing up at the screen to make sure she was doing it right.

  Her cat stepped across the offerings, sniffed a candle, and flicked its tail.

  “Hey,” she whispered, shooing it gently away.

  The monk on the screen smiled and asked viewers to share the stream for blessings.

  She hesitated, then tapped the button.

  In the dorm room, the custodian finished mopping and wrung out the cloth, the water splashing into the bucket.

  As he turned to leave, he glanced back once more at the shrine.

  For a moment, he thought he saw movement, a slight shift of shadow, but the lights flickered and the impression passed.

  He shrugged and turned off the light.

  At the hospital, the sister reached out and adjusted her brother’s blanket, smoothing it down over his chest, then sat back and folded her hands again.

  She stared at the monitor, counting the beeps without realizing she was doing it.

  In a crowded apartment, a family gathered around a low table, candles burning low as they recited prayers together, their voices overlapping and occasionally stumbling.

  A child yawned.

  Someone whispered for him to pay attention.

  The incense burned down to ash.

  Nothing happened.

  At the temple, the monk closed the donation box and locked it, the clink of coins loud in the evening quiet.

  He turned to see the man still leaning against the wall.

  “People are confused,” the monk said.

  The man nodded. “They always are.”

  “They think repetition is devotion,” the monk continued. “They think volume is belief.”

  The man smiled faintly. “It is easier to perform than to stay,” he said.

  In the shop, the owner counted the day’s earnings, stacking bills neatly, then glanced at the clock and sighed.

  The line had thinned but not disappeared.

  Outside, the man pushed off the wall and walked away, his steps unhurried.

  In the dorm room, long after the lights were out, the shrine sat untouched.

  No phone pointed at it.

  No comments rolled past.

  No one spoke.

  The air was still.

  At the hospital, Korn’s sister finally stood and stretched, rubbing her arms to warm them, then picked up her phone again.

  She opened the last message she had ignored.

  It was simple.

  We tried everything.

  She typed back slowly.

  So did we.

  She looked at her brother, then at the darkened window, then set the phone down.

  Across the city, candles burned out one by one, incense turned to ash, streams ended, chants faded, and people sat with the quiet they had been avoiding.

  The rituals did not work.

  And no one said why.