The morning began with steam.

  It came up from the pot in thin white threads that bent toward the ceiling and disappeared near the light fixture, and Anya stood over it with a wooden spoon in her hand, stirring the rice porridge in slow circles while the kitchen window fogged over and the sound of traffic from the main road drifted in through the crack she had left open.

  She liked coming downstairs before everyone else, because the house felt different then, less like a showroom and more like a place where people might actually live, and she could hear the refrigerator hum and the soft ticking of the clock above the pantry door without anyone correcting how she held the ladle or reminding her that the wedding was only three days away.

  Her left hand rested lightly against her stomach as she leaned forward to check the texture, not because she felt unwell but because she needed somewhere to put it, and when she lifted the spoon and let the porridge fall back into the pot she watched the way it folded into itself and disappeared.

  Behind her, the back door opened.

  It did not creak, because the hinges had been oiled recently, and she heard the soft shuffle of rubber slippers on tile before she turned her head.

  Mrs. Orn, who had worked in the house for years and whose hair was always tied in the same low knot at the nape of her neck, stepped inside carrying a plastic bag filled with morning glory and two small bundles of cilantro, and she paused when she saw Anya already cooking.

  “You don’t have to,” Mrs. Orn said, her voice still thick with sleep.

  “It’s okay,” Anya replied, lowering the heat. “I woke up early.”

  Mrs. Orn set the vegetables down on the counter and began rinsing them in the sink, the water running steady and clear over her hands, and for a while the only sound in the room was the splash of water and the quiet movement of the spoon against the side of the pot.

  “Madam will want something light,” Mrs. Orn said after a moment, not looking up. “Her stomach has been acting up.”

  Anya nodded and reached for the salt, adding a small pinch and then tasting again, her lips pressing together as she considered it.

  “Not too much,” Mrs. Orn added.

  “I know,” Anya said gently.

  There was a pause, and then Mrs. Orn turned off the tap and shook the water from her hands before wiping them on a thin towel.

  “They’re moving Ying’s things today,” she said, as if mentioning the weather.

  Anya’s spoon stopped midair.

  “Moving?” she repeated.

  “To storage,” Mrs. Orn said, already reaching for a knife. “Madam doesn’t want the room used before the wedding.”

  Anya placed the spoon back into the pot and wiped her hands on a cloth, though they were not wet.

  “I thought it was already empty.”

  Mrs. Orn’s knife came down on the cutting board in steady, even motions, chopping the morning glory into short segments.

  “Not everything,” she said.

  The kitchen door swung open again, this time with more force, and Preecha walked in wearing a white T shirt and loose cotton pants, his hair still flattened on one side from sleep, and he moved straight to the coffee machine without greeting either of them.

  “Morning,” Anya said, because she felt she should.

  He pressed a button and waited for the machine to whir to life.

  “Morning,” he answered, eyes on his phone.

  Mrs. Orn stepped aside to give him space at the counter, and Anya turned off the stove and ladled the porridge into three bowls, placing them carefully on a tray.

  “Is your mother awake?” she asked.

  Preecha shook his head slightly.

  “She was on the phone late,” he said. “With the event planner.”

  He took his coffee cup and leaned back against the counter, scrolling with his thumb.

  Anya hesitated, then spoke again.

  “They’re moving Ying’s things today?”

  The sound of the coffee machine finishing its cycle filled the room, and Preecha did not answer immediately.

  “Who told you that?” he asked finally.

  “Mrs. Orn,” Anya said.

  Preecha glanced toward Mrs. Orn, who kept her eyes on the cutting board.

  “It’s better,” he said, after a moment. “People will be coming in and out. We don’t need extra reminders.”

  He lifted his cup and took a sip.

  Anya nodded, though she did not speak.

  Upstairs, a door opened and closed, and footsteps moved along the hallway.

  Madam Lian’s voice carried down the stairwell.

  “Orn,” she called. “Where is my tea?”

  Mrs. Orn wiped her hands again and reached for the kettle.

  “I’ll bring it,” Anya said quickly, lifting the tray with the bowls.

  She balanced it carefully as she walked toward the stairs, feeling the warmth of the porcelain through the thin fabric of the napkin beneath her fingers.

  Halfway up, she heard something else.

  A soft sound, like fabric dragging lightly across the floor.

  She stopped and listened.

  It came again, faint and brief, then nothing.

  “Anya,” Madam Lian called sharply.

  “I’m coming,” Anya answered, and continued up.

  The bedroom door was open.

  Madam Lian sat upright in bed, already dressed in a silk robe, her hair brushed smooth and her back straight against the headboard, and she looked at the tray before looking at Anya.

  “Rice again?” she asked.

  “It’s light,” Anya said. “You said your stomach.”

  Madam Lian reached for the bowl and took a small spoonful, chewing slowly, her eyes fixed on Anya’s face as if measuring something there.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Down the hallway, another door stood slightly ajar.

  Ying’s room.

  Anya had only been inside once, months ago, when she had been looking for an extra set of bedsheets, and she remembered the narrow bed and the small desk with a mirror propped against the wall, and a plastic comb with several missing teeth.

  She set the tray down on the side table and stepped back.

  “After breakfast,” Madam Lian said, not looking at her, “help Orn pack the rest.”

  “Yes,” Anya replied.

  When she returned downstairs, the house had begun to fill with small, purposeful sounds.

  The florist had arrived and was speaking in low tones near the front entrance, and two men in matching black shirts carried in a long box that brushed against the wall as they turned the corner, leaving a faint mark near the light switch.

  In the back hallway, Mrs. Orn stood outside Ying’s room holding an empty cardboard box.

  She pushed the door open with her foot.

  Anya followed.

  The room smelled faintly of detergent and something older, like closed windows.

  The bed was neatly made, the blanket pulled tight, and a small suitcase lay open on the floor.

  Mrs. Orn began with the closet.

  She removed two simple dresses and folded them carefully, placing them into the box without speaking.

  Anya stood near the desk.

  On it sat a framed photo of a gray cat with one torn ear, its eyes half closed in the sunlight.

  She picked it up.

  “She loved that cat,” Mrs. Orn said quietly.

  “Where is it now?” Anya asked.

  Mrs. Orn’s hands paused for a second before continuing.

  “It comes,” she said. “Sometimes.”

  Anya looked toward the window.

  The curtain moved slightly, though she did not feel a breeze.

  She placed the photo into the box.

  In the drawer of the desk, she found a stack of folded papers tied with a thin elastic band.

  Receipts, she thought at first, but when she lifted the top one she saw handwriting instead, small and careful.

  She did not read it.

  She placed the stack back and closed the drawer.

  From downstairs, voices rose.

  Madam Lian’s tone was sharp.

  “I said ivory, not cream,” she was saying. “Do you understand the difference?”

  Another voice murmured an apology.

  Anya bent to pick up a pair of slippers from under the bed, brushing dust from the soles with her palm, and as she straightened she felt the sense of someone standing behind her.

  She turned.

  No one.

  Mrs. Orn cleared her throat.

  “Check the bathroom,” she said.

  The bathroom light flickered once when Anya turned it on.

  A toothbrush lay in a cup beside the sink, and a bar of soap rested on a small dish with a thin crack running through it.

  Anya picked up the toothbrush.

  The bristles were worn flat.

  She hesitated, then placed it into the box.

  There was a sound in the hallway.

  A soft thud, like something falling.

  Mrs. Orn stepped out first.

  At the far end of the corridor, near the stairs, the gray cat sat on the polished floor, its tail wrapped neatly around its paws, looking toward them.

  No one spoke.

  The cat blinked slowly.

  “How did it get in?” Anya whispered.

  Mrs. Orn did not answer.

  From below, Madam Lian called again.

  “Orn.”

  The cat stood and walked toward Ying’s room, its steps silent, and disappeared inside.

  Anya felt her throat tighten, though she did not say anything.

  They finished packing in silence.

  When they carried the box downstairs, the men in black shirts had left, and the florist was arranging white flowers along the banister, adjusting each stem with careful fingers.

  Madam Lian stood near the dining table, giving instructions.

  She glanced at the box.

  “Put it in the garage,” she said.

  As Mrs. Orn moved past her, Madam Lian added, almost as an afterthought, “Make sure nothing unnecessary remains.”

  Anya followed to the garage.

  The air there was warmer, heavy with the smell of rubber and cleaning solution.

  They set the box down beside a stack of old decorations.

  Mrs. Orn rested her hand briefly on the lid.

  “She was quiet,” she said.

  Anya nodded.

  “She never argued,” Mrs. Orn continued, her voice steady. “Even when…”

  She stopped.

  From the house, laughter erupted suddenly, loud and forced.

  Anya looked toward the door leading back inside.

  “When what?” she asked softly.

  Mrs. Orn shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” she said, and lifted the box to place it higher on the shelf.

  That afternoon, guests began arriving for a rehearsal meeting.

  Anya stood in the living room while a stylist adjusted the neckline of her dress, tugging gently at the fabric and stepping back to assess it.

  “Stand straight,” the stylist said.

  “I am,” Anya replied, though she rolled her shoulders back slightly.

  Across the room, Preecha spoke with his cousin about seating arrangements, their voices overlapping.

  “We can move Uncle to the second table.”

  “No, he’ll complain.”

  “Then switch with—”

  Madam Lian entered, and the conversation shifted immediately.

  “Smile,” she said to Anya.

  Anya lifted the corners of her mouth.

  In the reflection of the large mirror behind the sofa, she saw movement near the hallway.

  For a second, she thought it was Mrs. Orn.

  Then she saw the gray cat sitting near the base of the stairs, its eyes fixed on the room.

  “Is that yours?” the stylist asked suddenly, pointing.

  Everyone turned.

  The cat was gone.

  “There’s no cat,” Madam Lian said firmly.

  Anya looked back at the mirror.

  Her own reflection stared at her.

  Behind her, the hallway stretched empty and still.

  That evening, when the house had quieted and the last of the planners had left, Anya went upstairs alone.

  She paused outside Ying’s room.

  The door was closed now.

  She reached for the handle.

  It did not turn.

  She stood there for a moment, her hand resting against the wood.

  From inside, she heard it.

  A single knock.

  Soft.

  Clear.

  She did not move.

  A second knock followed, slower.

  “Who’s there?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  There was no answer.

  Behind her, a floorboard creaked.

  She turned.

  At the end of the hallway, near the window, a man stood in the dim light.

  He wore a simple shirt and dark trousers, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, his face calm and unreadable.

  She had seen him once before, at the engagement party, though no one had introduced him.

  “Do you need help?” he asked gently.

  “With what?” she replied.

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “Packing is only half of it,” he said.

  She swallowed.

  “I don’t understand.”

  He looked toward the closed door.

  “Has anyone said her name today?” he asked.

  Anya opened her mouth, then closed it.

  Downstairs, a glass shattered.

  Madam Lian’s voice rose in irritation.

  The man’s gaze returned to Anya.

  “Truth must be spoken,” he said quietly. “Cause must be acknowledged. Regret must be accepted.”

  She stared at him.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  A small smile touched his lips.

  “Someone who answers,” he said.

  From inside the locked room, something fell heavily against the door.

  This time, everyone in the house heard it.

  Footsteps rushed up the stairs.

  Voices overlapped.

  “What was that?”

  “Did something break?”

  Preecha reached the top first.

  He looked at Anya, then at the door.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  She did not look away from the man at the end of the hallway.

  But he was no longer there.

  The handle of Ying’s door began to turn slowly on its own.

  And from inside, in a voice that was clear and steady and unmistakably human, someone said her name.

  “Ying.”