The first thing the night shift cashier does when she unlocks the small convenience store gate is wipe down the counter with a damp cloth that smells faintly like artificial lemon, pressing her palm flat as she pushes crumbs and dust into a neat line before flicking them into a plastic dustpan with two careful taps against the counter edge, while the fluorescent lights above her buzz in a steady low note that never quite fades into the background no matter how long she stands there listening to it.

  Outside, someone is dragging a trash bin across uneven pavement, and the wheels make a hollow clacking sound that repeats every few seconds like someone knocking without patience.

  She sets a rice cooker behind the counter, measures one cup of rice into the metal bowl, rinses it three times until the water runs mostly clear, then plugs the machine into an extension cord that has been taped together in two places where the plastic split open months ago.

  On the shelf beside the cigarette display, her phone vibrates once, then again, then keeps vibrating in short bursts that make the loose coins in the plastic tray tremble and click together softly.

  She glances at it but does not pick it up yet, because the morning delivery driver is already pushing open the glass door with his shoulder, balancing a crate of bottled tea against his hip while muttering something about traffic and construction and people who do not know how to merge properly.

  “You see this road outside now,” he says, setting the crate down with a soft thud and rolling his shoulders back slowly. “Every day worse.”

  She nods, still wiping the counter, pressing harder over a sticky patch near the register.

  The phone keeps vibrating.

  “You going to answer that,” he says, already opening another crate, already stacking bottles into the fridge in neat rows by color and label direction.

  “Probably just group chat,” she says, finally picking it up, thumb hovering over the screen.

  It is not the group chat.

  It is a livestream notification from an account she does not follow, but the title is written in Thai and English together, and the thumbnail shows a shrine she recognizes even though it is supposed to be gone now.

  The shrine that used to sit between the old bus stop and the empty lot where the new mall construction fence has already gone up.

  The shrine with the faded red ribbons and cracked ceramic incense holder and the small chipped statue that most people stopped noticing years ago.

  She taps it open.

  The video is shaky, like someone is holding a phone in one hand and not paying attention to framing or lighting or anything that would make it look professional.

  Comments are already scrolling fast.

  Someone types: Is this real time

  Someone types: Where is this

  Someone types: I thought they demolished that already

  Someone types: Stop faking ghosts for views

  The camera points at a small wooden table.

  On the table is the statue.

  Not broken.

  Not dusty.

  Clean, like someone washed it carefully and dried it with a soft cloth, because water still clings in tiny lines along the carved edges.

  Three incense sticks burn in a ceramic bowl that looks new, not the old cracked one people used to see.

  The cashier sets her cloth down slowly, pressing it flat on the counter without looking away from the screen.

  The delivery driver closes the fridge door and glances over.

  “What you watching,” he says.

  “Nothing,” she says automatically, then adds, “Just live video.”

  The person holding the phone moves closer.

  The statue fills the screen now.

  The face is simple and smooth, with eyes that look slightly downward like they are focused on something at chest level, like they are watching hands move instead of looking at faces.

  The comment count climbs.

  The cashier reaches for the volume button and turns it up.

  There is no music.

  No chanting.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Just background sound.

  Wind.

  Fabric moving.

  Someone breathing very slowly.

  The delivery driver leans one elbow on the counter.

  “Looks like shrine thing,” he says. “People do this for donations now.”

  She nods, but her fingers press tighter around the phone edges.

  The rice cooker clicks into cooking mode behind her, the switch snapping down with a small plastic sound that feels louder than it should.

  Across the city, in an apartment where the air conditioner drips steadily into a plastic bucket someone forgot to empty, Korn’s roommate sits cross legged on the floor eating instant noodles straight from the pot because he does not feel like washing another bowl, watching the same livestream on a laptop balanced on a stack of architecture textbooks he has not opened in two weeks.

  “Hey,” he calls toward Korn’s closed bedroom door, mouth still full. “You see this yet.”

  No answer.

  He slurps noodles, wipes broth from his lip with the back of his hand, and keeps watching.

  The camera shifts again.

  Now it shows hands.

  Older hands.

  Not wrinkled exactly, but with skin that looks thinner, like it has been washed too often with strong soap.

  The hands light another incense stick.

  One comment scrolls past slowly because someone pinned it.

  Where did you find her

  Another comment.

  Who is filming

  Another.

  Why is the construction fence gone

  The roommate sets the pot down beside him and stands up, stepping over a pile of unfolded laundry, knocking a sock loose that lands half on his foot and half on the tile floor.

  “Korn,” he says again, knocking on the bedroom door with two knuckles, light, like he is not sure if he wants an answer.

  Inside the room, Korn lies on top of the blankets fully dressed, one shoe still on, phone facedown beside his shoulder, alarm screen lighting up every few minutes and going dark again without being touched.

  Back at the convenience store, the cashier realizes she has stopped blinking because her eyes sting slightly, and she forces herself to look away for a second to scan a customer’s energy drink at the register, then looks back down immediately once the receipt prints.

  The livestream viewer count jumps.

  The hands in the video place a small bowl of water beside the incense.

  Then a plate with two boiled eggs, shells still slightly damp like they were cooled under running tap water.

  Then a folded piece of paper.

  The camera tilts up slightly.

  For a moment, there is a reflection in the statue’s polished surface.

  Someone standing behind the phone.

  Tall.

  Wearing a plain shirt.

  Face not fully visible.

  The comments explode faster now.

  Turn camera

  Show your face

  This is fake

  If real then say something

  The delivery driver shifts his weight.

  “You going to buy anything,” he says to the customer still standing there staring at the cashier’s phone screen.

  The customer blinks like waking up.

  “Oh,” she says, grabbing a pack of gum she does not want and placing it on the counter.

  Across the city, in a small office above a gold shop, a social media manager rewatches the livestream on two different monitors while chewing the inside of her cheek, already drafting three different posts in three different tones, because if this is real then it is viral and if it is fake then it is still viral and the difference barely matters anymore.

  Her coworker leans over her shoulder.

  “Who started the account,” he says.

  She scrolls.

  “No history,” she says. “Created today.”

  “Monetized.”

  “Not yet.”

  The camera in the livestream finally stabilizes.

  It sits on the table now, angled slightly upward.

  The statue is centered.

  The incense smoke curls upward in thin uneven lines.

  The breathing sound is still there.

  Then someone speaks, but not loudly, not like addressing an audience.

  More like someone reading instructions out loud to themselves while cooking or fixing something.

  “The offerings were not wrong,” the voice says, quiet and flat. “Just late.”

  The cashier’s hand tightens around the phone again.

  The delivery driver stops mid sentence while complaining about traffic and does not finish.

  In Korn’s apartment, the roommate lowers himself slowly back to the floor without looking away from the laptop.

  The voice continues.

  “Late does not mean useless.”

  A pause.

  Fabric moves.

  Someone shifts their weight.

  In the convenience store, the rice cooker clicks into warm mode.

  The cashier does not move to open it.

  The voice says, “Someone still remembered.”

  The camera shifts slightly like someone nudged the table by accident.

  For one second, the screen catches a reflection again.

  Not just one person.

  Two shapes.

  One standing.

  One sitting.

  Still.

  The comments become unreadable from speed.

  Then the voice says, very simply, like stating something already decided, “He is sleeping.”

  Across the city, Korn’s roommate stands up so fast the laptop almost slides off the books, catching it with both hands and swearing under his breath, heart beating loud enough he can feel it in his throat.

  He drops the laptop back onto the stack and walks to the bedroom door, pressing his palm flat against it.

  “Korn,” he says, louder now.

  Inside, Korn does not move.

  Back in the livestream, the voice says one more thing.

  “Until someone tells the truth.”

  Then the screen goes black.