The house smells like steamed jasmine rice and furniture polish at the same time, because someone cooked early and someone else wiped every surface twice, and the two smells sit on top of each other without blending, which makes Anya notice her breathing more than usual as she steps out of her shoes at the door and lines them up with the others, toes pointing forward, even though no one is watching her do it.

  A pair of unfamiliar heels already sit there, glossy and narrow, angled slightly inward like they were kicked off in a hurry, and Anya adjusts them without thinking, straightening them so they match the rest, then pulls her hands back to her sides quickly, fingers curling in toward her palms.

  Inside, voices move through the house before bodies do.

  Someone laughs in the living room, sharp and quick, then stops too suddenly.

  A spoon taps against a ceramic bowl in the kitchen, once, twice, then rests.

  Anya smooths the front of her blouse with both hands, tugging it down a little, then up again, then letting it go as it is, because she knows if she keeps touching it she will not stop.

  She steps forward.

  The living room is bright in a way that feels planned, curtains pulled back to the exact width that lets light in without glare, the sofa cushions plumped and arranged so no one has to adjust them when they sit down, framed photos wiped clean of fingerprints.

  Madam Lian stands near the center of the room with her phone held chest high, not taking photos yet, just checking angles, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she looks at the space like she is already seeing it through a screen.

  “Wait,” she says to no one in particular, lifting one finger. “Not yet.”

  Anya stops walking.

  Preecha stands near the window, hands clasped loosely in front of him, eyes on the street outside where a delivery motorbike idles with a low uneven hum before pulling away.

  He turns when he senses her there, not because she says anything, but because the room shifts slightly when another person enters.

  “You’re here,” he says, smiling, voice soft.

  Anya nods.

  She opens her mouth, then closes it again when Madam Lian lowers her phone and looks at her directly, gaze moving from Anya’s hair to her shoes and back up again, slow enough that Anya feels each second pass.

  “You came early,” Madam Lian says.

  “Yes,” Anya says. “I thought it would be easier.”

  Madam Lian hums in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, and gestures toward the kitchen with a small flick of her wrist.

  “Your mother is helping,” she says. “Go wash your hands.”

  In the kitchen, Anya’s mother stands at the counter slicing cucumbers into thin even rounds, her movements steady and practiced, blade lifting and falling with a quiet rhythm that does not change when Anya steps in.

  The sink runs gently, water hitting metal with a soft hollow sound.

  “You’re here,” her mother says, not looking up.

  “Yes,” Anya says again.

  She moves to the sink, turns the water colder, wets her hands, then pumps soap once, rubbing her palms together slowly, fingers sliding against each other as she watches the foam gather along her knuckles.

  Her mother shifts the sliced cucumbers into a bowl, adds a pinch of salt with two fingers, then tosses them lightly, shaking the bowl once, twice, before setting it aside.

  “They want everything ready before noon,” her mother says. “Your aunt is already on the way.”

  Anya rinses her hands longer than necessary.

  She dries them on a towel that smells faintly like sun and detergent, folding it carefully before placing it back on the hook.

  In the living room, chairs scrape softly against the floor as someone rearranges them, the sound brief and controlled, like an apology made through furniture.

  Madam Lian speaks again, her voice carrying easily into the kitchen.

  “Make sure the tea is hot,” she says. “Not boiling.”

  “Yes,” Anya’s mother says.

  Anya picks up the kettle, checks the water level, then sets it back down because it is already full.

  She reaches for the tea cups instead, lifting each one slightly to check for dust, then placing them on the tray in a neat row.

  Her mother watches her for a moment, then looks away.

  “You don’t have to be perfect,” she says quietly, arranging the cucumbers again even though they have not moved.

  Anya does not answer.

  Outside, a car door closes, then another.

  Footsteps approach.

  The doorbell rings once, then twice, because someone presses it again without waiting.

  Madam Lian’s posture shifts immediately, shoulders back, chin lifting slightly, phone already in her hand again as she moves toward the door.

  Anya stays in the kitchen.

  She pours water into the kettle, then realizes it is already full, then pours some out into the sink, watching it disappear down the drain.

  Voices fill the entryway.

  “Oh,” someone says. “It’s lovely.”

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  “Yes,” Madam Lian says. “Thank you for coming.”

  Laughter follows, overlapping, not quite meeting.

  Anya lifts the tray of tea cups, holding it with both hands, arms steady, and walks into the living room.

  Her aunt sits already, handbag placed neatly at her feet, eyes moving around the room with interest, landing on Anya only briefly before sliding away again.

  “Careful,” Madam Lian says, not reaching out, just watching.

  Anya sets the tray down on the table, adjusting its position by a fraction of an inch so it aligns with the edge.

  She pours tea.

  Steam rises gently.

  Someone takes a cup, then another.

  Conversation starts and stops in small bursts.

  “How long did it take to renovate.”

  “The light is good here.”

  “You must be very busy.”

  Preecha sits beside Anya, close enough that their sleeves touch when he shifts, though neither of them acknowledges it.

  His knee bounces once, then stills when his mother glances over.

  Madam Lian clears her throat lightly.

  She stands.

  Everyone follows her movement without being told, cups set down, bodies turning toward her.

  She holds her phone out now, screen facing the group, checking framing again.

  “Just a moment,” she says. “I want to capture this.”

  Anya looks at the floor.

  The tiles are clean, grout lines pale and even.

  She notices a small chip near the corner of the rug and wonders if it has always been there.

  Madam Lian lifts the phone.

  “We are very happy to announce,” she says, smiling in a way that does not change her eyes, “that Preecha and Anya are officially engaged.”

  A pause follows.

  Applause fills the room, polite and brief.

  Someone says congratulations.

  Someone else says it was about time.

  Preecha reaches for Anya’s hand.

  She feels his fingers curl around hers, warm and slightly damp, grip gentle but uncertain, like he is checking if she is still there.

  Madam Lian takes the photo.

  The shutter sound is crisp.

  She checks the screen, nods once, then lowers the phone.

  “Again,” she says. “One more.”

  They reposition slightly.

  Anya straightens her shoulders.

  She lifts her chin.

  She keeps her mouth closed because when she tries to smile her face feels stiff.

  The second photo is taken.

  Immediately, Madam Lian begins typing, thumbs moving quickly, her attention already shifting away from the room.

  Across the city, phones vibrate almost at the same time.

  A post appears.

  A carefully chosen photo.

  A caption with heart emojis and formal phrasing.

  Comments begin to appear within seconds.

  Congratulations

  Beautiful couple

  Perfect match

  In a small apartment several blocks away, a woman scrolling on her phone pauses when she sees the post, thumb hovering over the screen, then scrolls past it without reacting, placing her phone face down on the table and returning to folding laundry with precise movements.

  In another house, a cat sits on a windowsill, tail flicking once, ears twitching as distant sounds drift through the open window.

  Back in the living room, conversation resumes, overlapping and uneven.

  “When is the wedding.”

  “We are thinking soon.”

  “The venue is already booked.”

  Anya listens without speaking.

  Her mother stands near the doorway, hands clasped loosely in front of her, nodding at the right moments.

  Preecha leans closer.

  “Are you okay,” he murmurs, so softly that only she can hear.

  Anya nods once.

  She feels his grip tighten slightly, then loosen again.

  Madam Lian glances at them, eyes narrowing just a fraction, then looks back at her phone.

  She types, deletes, types again.

  The kettle in the kitchen clicks softly as it cools.

  Someone asks for more tea.

  Anya stands, lifts the kettle, pours water carefully, watching the level rise in the cup, stopping just before it reaches the rim.

  Her hand does not shake.

  She sets the cup down.

  The conversation drifts to logistics, to guest lists, to seating arrangements.

  Names are mentioned.

  Some are corrected.

  Others are ignored.

  At one point, someone asks, “Who will help during the ceremony,” and Madam Lian answers immediately, without looking up.

  “We have staff,” she says. “Everything is handled.”

  The word staff lands heavily in the room, then is absorbed by the next sentence.

  Anya’s gaze moves to the corner near the staircase.

  For a moment, she thinks she sees something there, a shadow where there should not be one, but when she looks again it is just the way the light falls across the banister.

  She blinks.

  The visit winds down.

  Handshakes.

  Hugs that do not quite connect.

  Shoes are slipped back on at the door.

  Compliments are repeated.

  Promises to meet again soon are exchanged.

  When the door finally closes, the house exhales.

  Madam Lian sets her phone down on the table and looks at Anya.

  “You did well,” she says. “Very appropriate.”

  Anya nods.

  Preecha opens his mouth like he might say something, then closes it again when his mother turns toward him.

  “Come,” Madam Lian says. “Sit.”

  They sit.

  Silence stretches.

  The house feels larger now.

  Outside, the sound of traffic rises and falls.

  Madam Lian picks up her phone again, scrolling.

  Her brow furrows slightly.

  She taps the screen, then tilts it closer to her face.

  “That’s strange,” she says.

  Preecha leans forward.

  “What,” he says.

  She does not answer immediately.

  She scrolls again, slower this time.

  Anya watches her fingers.

  They stop.

  Madam Lian turns the screen toward them.

  The engagement photo is there.

  So is something else.

  In the reflection of the glass behind them, faint but unmistakable, a shape sits low near the floor, dark and still, eyes catching the light.

  Anya looks at the screen.

  Then she looks at the corner of the room again.

  There is nothing there.

  She looks back at the phone.

  The shape remains.

  No one speaks.

  Madam Lian lowers the phone slowly.

  Her mouth opens.

  She does not finish the sentence she starts.

  From somewhere deeper in the house, a soft sound carries through the rooms, like a chair leg shifting, or a body settling into a place it has been waiting for.

  No one moves.

  Then, very plainly, a notification chimes.

  Another comment appears beneath the photo.

  It reads, simply, The cat was already there.