The next morning begins with the sound of sweeping, slow and steady, the straw bristles dragging across the tile in long strokes that gather dust into a small neat line near the baseboard, while Anya stands at the dining table folding the engagement announcement cards that Madam Lian insisted on printing despite already posting everything online, pressing each crease carefully with the side of her thumb until the paper lies flat and obedient under her hand.

  The house feels different after yesterday, though nothing has moved except the flower arrangement, which now sits slightly off center because someone brushed past it in a hurry and did not bother to adjust it back.

  In the kitchen, water runs into a metal pot, hitting the bottom with a hollow echo before rising high enough to soften the sound, and Madam Lian stands there measuring rice with a plastic cup, leveling the top with her finger and shaking the excess back into the container without looking down.

  “Not too much,” she says to the house in general, as if the air itself might overfill something.

  Preecha sits at the table across from Anya, scrolling through his phone with his head tilted forward and his shoulders slightly rounded, his elbow resting on the polished wood where the light catches the faint circular marks left by years of teacups.

  “It’s probably just a filter glitch,” he says quietly, more to himself than to her, though his eyes flick up briefly to check her reaction.

  Anya folds another card, aligns the edges, and slides it into a cream envelope, pressing the flap closed with deliberate care before stacking it neatly with the others.

  Outside, a motorbike passes, its engine rising sharply and then fading, followed by the distant bark of a dog that sounds tired rather than alarmed.

  The front door is open to let in air, and with it comes the faint smell of street food from the corner vendor who has already begun grilling skewers for the lunchtime crowd.

  Madam Lian rinses the rice, swirling her hand through the cloudy water before pouring it out into the sink, repeating the motion until the water runs clearer, her movements smooth and practiced.

  “People will talk,” she says without turning around. “So we will give them something better to talk about.”

  Preecha nods though she cannot see him.

  Anya notices the way his thumb pauses mid scroll, hovering over the screen as if deciding whether to open something or leave it alone.

  “Did you delete it,” Madam Lian asks, her voice calm but firm.

  Preecha hesitates.

  “No,” he says after a moment. “Not yet.”

  The rice cooker lid clicks shut.

  The sound is small but final.

  Anya reaches for another card, but her hand lingers over the stack instead, fingertips brushing the smooth surface as if counting without numbers.

  From the hallway comes a faint thud.

  All three of them look up at the same time.

  The sound does not repeat.

  Madam Lian wipes her hands on a cloth and steps out of the kitchen, walking toward the staircase with measured steps, her posture straight and unhurried.

  Anya listens to the soft tap of her heels against the tile, then the muted change in sound as she steps onto the wooden stairs.

  Preecha sets his phone face down on the table and exhales slowly, rubbing his palms together once before standing up.

  “I’ll check the back door,” he says, though no one asked him to.

  Anya remains seated.

  She picks up a card and folds it again along a crease that is already there, pressing harder this time until the paper almost bends too far.

  Upstairs, a door opens, then closes.

  A pause follows.

  Madam Lian’s voice drifts down, steady and controlled.

  “There’s nothing,” she says.

  Preecha opens the back door and looks out into the small courtyard where potted plants line the wall, their leaves still wet from early watering.

  The gate is closed.

  The latch is secure.

  He steps outside briefly, scanning the ground, then comes back in, wiping his sandals on the mat before closing the door carefully behind him.

  “Probably the wind,” he says, though there is no wind.

  Madam Lian returns to the kitchen without further comment, lifting the lid of the rice cooker to check it even though it has not finished.

  Steam rises gently.

  She replaces the lid.

  Anya stands and carries the stack of envelopes to the sideboard, arranging them into two neat piles as instructed the night before.

  She notices one envelope slightly thicker than the others and opens it to check, finding two cards inside instead of one.

  She removes one and places it into a new envelope, sealing it carefully.

  Her hands move steadily, though her jaw tightens each time she presses down on the adhesive strip.

  Preecha picks up his phone again.

  He turns it over.

  The screen lights up.

  He does not open the comments.

  He stares at the engagement photo instead.

  “Maybe we should take another one,” he says, his voice low. “Without the glass behind us.”

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  Madam Lian laughs softly, though the sound does not reach her eyes.

  “There was nothing behind you,” she says. “Only imagination.”

  Anya looks toward the hallway again.

  The air feels still.

  From somewhere near the staircase comes a faint scratching sound, light and irregular, like something brushing against wood.

  It stops when she shifts in her seat.

  “Did you hear that,” she asks, before she can stop herself.

  “Hear what,” Preecha replies immediately.

  She opens her mouth, then closes it.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  Madam Lian lifts a ladle and stirs a pot on the stove, the metal clinking gently against the side as she tastes the broth and adds a pinch of salt.

  “We will not entertain nonsense,” she says, her tone even.

  A shadow moves across the doorway.

  All three of them freeze again.

  This time, the movement is unmistakable.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  A cat steps into the room.

  It is thin but not starving, its fur a dull gray with darker patches along its back, one ear slightly torn at the tip, its tail held low but steady as it walks across the tile without hesitation.

  Anya’s breath catches in her throat though she does not make a sound.

  Preecha stands halfway between sitting and rising, unsure of which direction to commit to.

  Madam Lian does not turn around immediately.

  She finishes stirring the pot, sets the ladle down, wipes her hands on the cloth, then slowly faces the room.

  The cat stops near the base of the staircase and sits, curling its tail around its paws, its eyes lifting to meet theirs one by one.

  “How did it get in,” Preecha says, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The front door remains open.

  The back door was closed.

  No one saw it enter.

  Anya watches the cat’s chest rise and fall with slow even breaths.

  Its gaze does not waver.

  Madam Lian steps forward, her expression composed.

  “This is not a shelter,” she says firmly.

  She claps her hands once, sharp and loud.

  The cat does not move.

  She claps again.

  Nothing.

  Preecha takes a tentative step toward it, crouching slightly and extending his hand.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “Go on.”

  The cat’s ears twitch once.

  It remains seated.

  Anya notices a faint smudge on the tile near its paws, a small dark mark that was not there earlier, and she finds herself staring at it instead of at the animal.

  “Close the door,” Madam Lian says.

  Preecha stands and pushes the front door shut, the click of the latch sounding louder than usual in the quiet room.

  The cat turns its head slowly toward the sound, then back toward them.

  No one speaks for several seconds.

  The rice cooker clicks again, indicating it has finished.

  The ordinary sound feels misplaced.

  Madam Lian exhales through her nose and walks to the pantry, retrieving a small plastic container.

  She shakes it lightly.

  Dry kibble rattles inside.

  She pours a small amount into a bowl and sets it on the floor near the doorway.

  “There,” she says. “Eat and leave.”

  The cat glances at the bowl but does not approach.

  It continues to sit at the base of the stairs, eyes steady, body still.

  Anya feels Preecha’s hand brush against her arm.

  He does not look at her.

  “Maybe it belongs to someone nearby,” he says.

  “Then they should keep it,” Madam Lian replies.

  Minutes pass.

  No one returns to their tasks.

  The envelopes remain half stacked.

  The stove flame burns low under the pot.

  The cat finally stands.

  It does not move toward the food.

  Instead, it walks slowly up the first step of the staircase and stops, looking back over its shoulder.

  Anya’s throat tightens.

  “Don’t,” she says quietly, though she does not know who she is addressing.

  Madam Lian’s lips press into a thin line.

  “This is ridiculous,” she says, and moves toward the stairs with deliberate calm.

  Before she reaches it, the cat continues upward, each paw placed carefully, without hurry.

  The sound of its steps is soft but distinct.

  Upstairs, a door creaks slightly as if nudged by a draft.

  Preecha follows a few steps behind his mother.

  Anya remains where she is, her fingers gripping the edge of the table hard enough that her knuckles pale.

  The house feels smaller now.

  The air heavier.

  From above comes the faint sound of something shifting.

  A pause.

  Then Madam Lian’s voice, controlled but strained.

  “It went into the storage room.”

  Preecha says something too quiet to make out.

  A door opens.

  Silence stretches.

  Anya steps toward the staircase despite herself, each movement slow and measured.

  She places her foot on the first step.

  The wood is cool beneath her skin.

  Upstairs, another sound echoes.

  Not a hiss.

  Not a growl.

  Just the faint scrape of something being moved across the floor.

  Madam Lian speaks again, more sharply this time.

  “There is nothing here.”

  Anya reaches the top step.

  The storage room door stands open.

  Inside, boxes are stacked neatly against the walls, labeled in black marker.

  Wedding decorations.

  Old documents.

  Clothes no longer worn.

  On the floor in the center of the room sits the cat.

  Beside it lies a framed photograph, face up.

  The glass is cracked.

  Anya recognizes it immediately.

  It is a photo of the household staff taken years ago, lined up in the courtyard, smiling stiffly at the camera.

  One face in particular stands out now.

  Ying.

  Her hands folded in front of her apron.

  Her smile small and careful.

  The frame had been kept in a drawer.

  No one had displayed it in years.

  Preecha looks at his mother.

  Madam Lian looks at the photograph.

  Neither of them speaks.

  The cat lowers its head and places one paw gently on the cracked glass.

  No one moves.

  After a long moment, Madam Lian bends down slowly, picks up the frame, and holds it in both hands.

  Her fingers tremble slightly, though her voice remains steady when she says, “This should not be here.”

  The cat’s eyes remain fixed on her.

  Anya swallows.

  The house is quiet except for the faint hum of electricity in the walls.

  Then, from downstairs, a notification sound rings out clearly through the silence.

  Preecha’s phone.

  No one reaches for it.

  It rings again.

  And again.

  Finally, Anya turns and walks back down the stairs, each step deliberate, her hand sliding lightly along the banister.

  She picks up the phone from the table.

  The screen shows the engagement photo.

  The comments have multiplied.

  Among them, repeated again and again by different accounts, the same sentence appears.

  She reads it aloud without meaning to.

  “She worked in that house.”