By late afternoon the house smelled faintly of blown out candles and cut fruit that had been left too long in warm air, and no one had bothered to clear the dining table even though the wires had been rolled up and stacked in a plastic crate near the door.

  The ring light leaned against the wall with its cord wrapped loosely around its stand, and a strip of tape still clung to the marble floor where someone had forgotten to peel it away.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper stood at the sink rinsing the same glass for longer than necessary, her hands moving in small circles while the tap ran at a steady stream, and every few seconds she wiped her nose with the back of her wrist before reaching for a clean towel.

  Madam Lian sat at the dining table with her phone placed screen down in front of her, her back straight, her fingers resting lightly on either side of the device as if it might try to move on its own.

  She had changed out of her blouse into a plain cream sweater, and her hair was tied back more tightly than before, the skin around her temples pulled smooth.

  Preecha was upstairs in the bedroom he had grown up in, sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees, looking at the dark screen of his own phone without touching it.

  Anya stood in the doorway of the room, watching him from a distance that felt polite, her hand wrapped around the strap of her handbag which she had not put down since the livestream ended.

  “You should eat something,” she said quietly, though she did not step closer.

  “I am not hungry,” he replied, his voice flat, his eyes still on the screen.

  From downstairs came the faint sound of a notification tone, then another, then a short burst of vibration that rattled against wood.

  Neither of them moved.

  Outside, a motorbike passed the gate with a low growl, then another followed, and the air shifted with the smell of exhaust drifting in through a slightly open window.

  Anya adjusted her grip on the handbag strap and glanced toward the hallway.

  “Your mother is downstairs,” she said, as if that needed to be confirmed.

  “I know,” Preecha answered.

  There was a pause that stretched long enough for the refrigerator downstairs to click on with a soft hum.

  Anya took a step into the room and placed her handbag carefully on the dresser, aligning it with the edge so that it sat straight.

  “The comments are everywhere,” she said, her fingers smoothing the strap twice before letting go.

  He finally looked up at her, and his expression did not change.

  “I know,” he repeated.

  Downstairs, Madam Lian picked up her phone and turned it over.

  The screen lit up immediately with a flood of notifications that filled the display in stacked lines.

  She did not scroll at first.

  She only watched the number at the top climb higher, her thumb hovering over the glass.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper turned off the tap and dried her hands, then leaned against the counter for a moment with her head bowed, her shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

  A sudden sharp sound came from outside, a metallic rattle against the iron gate.

  Madam Lian’s head lifted slightly.

  Another rattle followed, softer this time, like something brushing against metal.

  She stood slowly and walked toward the front door, her steps measured, her sweater sleeves pulled down over her wrists.

  The housekeeper moved to follow but stopped at the edge of the hallway.

  When Madam Lian opened the wooden door and looked through the metal bars of the gate, she did not speak.

  Two cats sat just outside, one black and one gray, their bodies close to the ground, their tails wrapped around their paws.

  They were still.

  She stood there for several seconds, her hand resting on the cool metal handle.

  “Shoo,” she said finally, not raising her voice.

  The cats did not move.

  Behind her, the housekeeper shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  “There are more,” she whispered.

  Madam Lian looked up and saw them.

  Across the street, near the neighbor’s hedge, another pair crouched side by side.

  One licked its paw slowly while keeping its eyes fixed on the house.

  Upstairs, Anya heard the faint sound of the gate and stepped toward the window.

  She pulled the curtain aside with two fingers and looked down into the driveway.

  “Preecha,” she called softly, “Come here.”

  He rose from the bed without asking why and joined her at the window, his shoulder brushing against hers as he leaned forward.

  They both saw the cats.

  There were five now, scattered along the pavement and near the gate, each sitting in a way that seemed deliberate.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “That is strange,” Anya said, her voice barely above a breath.

  Preecha did not answer.

  Downstairs, Madam Lian closed the wooden door but did not lock it.

  She remained standing in the hallway, listening to the faint scratching sound that continued against the gate.

  Her phone buzzed again in her hand.

  She glanced at the screen and saw her own face frozen in a still frame from the livestream, her mouth slightly open.

  The caption below it read in bold letters that she had accused a servant who later fell.

  She pressed the side button and the screen went dark.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper picked up a small bowl of leftover rice and walked toward the back door.

  “Do not feed them,” Madam Lian said sharply, without turning around.

  “I was only going to throw this away,” the housekeeper replied, holding the bowl midair.

  “Throw it in the bin,” Madam Lian said.

  The housekeeper nodded and turned back toward the trash can, her steps slow.

  Upstairs, Anya stepped away from the window and sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Her hands rested in her lap, fingers interlaced so tightly that the knuckles turned pale.

  “They are recording outside,” she said after a moment, as if the thought had just arrived.

  “Who,” Preecha asked.

  “Neighbors,” she answered, tilting her head toward the street.

  He returned to the window and looked again.

  Across the road, a young man stood near a parked car, his phone held up at chest height, angled toward the gate.

  Another person stood beside him, whispering something while glancing back at the screen.

  Preecha lowered the curtain slowly.

  “It will pass,” he said, though his tone suggested he was not certain.

  Downstairs, Madam Lian walked into the living room and began picking up the fruit platter piece by piece, placing the pear slices into a container with careful fingers.

  Each slice left a faint sticky mark on the glass plate.

  She wiped the plate with a cloth, then wiped it again, pressing harder than necessary.

  The scratching at the gate stopped.

  For a brief moment, the house felt quiet.

  Then came a soft thud, as if something had landed lightly on the roof of a car.

  The housekeeper flinched and looked toward the ceiling.

  Madam Lian set the plate down and walked back to the front door.

  When she opened it again, the number of cats had doubled.

  They lined the pavement in a loose semicircle facing the gate.

  Some sat.

  Some lay with their heads lifted.

  None made a sound.

  Across the street, more neighbors had gathered, their phones raised, their voices hushed but urgent.

  “This is ridiculous,” Madam Lian muttered, though her voice was thin.

  One of the cats, a small white one with a torn ear, stood up and approached the gate slowly.

  It stopped just short of the metal bars and looked up.

  Upstairs, Anya felt her throat tighten and swallowed hard.

  “They are not leaving,” she said.

  Preecha leaned his forehead against the glass for a moment, then stepped back.

  He reached for his phone at last and unlocked it.

  Messages filled the screen, some from friends, some from numbers he did not recognize.

  He scrolled without responding.

  Downstairs, the housekeeper edged closer to Madam Lian.

  “Madam,” she began, then stopped.

  “What,” Madam Lian asked without looking at her.

  “She did not have family,” the housekeeper said softly, her eyes on the floor.

  Madam Lian’s hand tightened on the doorframe.

  “Enough,” she replied.

  The white cat let out a single low sound that seemed to vibrate against the metal gate.

  Another cat answered from behind it.

  The neighbors across the street murmured louder now, pointing at the gathering.

  Upstairs, Anya walked toward the door.

  “I am going down,” she said.

  Preecha followed without arguing.

  When they reached the hallway, they saw Madam Lian still standing at the open door, her posture rigid.

  The housekeeper stood a few steps behind her, wringing the edge of her apron between her fingers.

  “They will go away,” Madam Lian said, though she did not sound convinced.

  Anya stepped beside her and looked out through the bars.

  There were at least a dozen cats now, their bodies forming a quiet wall of fur and unblinking eyes.

  No one spoke for several seconds.

  The air outside felt heavy.

  One of the neighbors called out, “Are you all right,” though it sounded more like a question for the camera than for the people inside.

  Preecha reached for the latch of the gate.

  “Do not,” Madam Lian said quickly, her hand catching his wrist.

  He paused, his fingers still wrapped around the metal.

  The cats did not move.

  Anya looked at him, then at Madam Lian.

  “She begged,” Anya said quietly, repeating the words from earlier, not as an accusation but as a fact placed on a table.

  Madam Lian’s shoulders sagged slightly.

  The housekeeper took a small step forward.

  “She cried in the kitchen,” the housekeeper added, her voice trembling.

  Preecha lowered his hand from the latch.

  Outside, the white cat sat down again, its tail curling neatly around its feet.

  Cars slowed as they passed, drivers turning their heads to look.

  Madam Lian inhaled deeply and exhaled through her nose.

  “I accused her,” she said, the words measured and clear.

  “I told everyone she stole from me.”

  Her gaze did not leave the cats.

  “She did not.”

  The statement hung in the air like any other sentence.

  The housekeeper began to sob quietly behind her.

  Preecha closed his eyes briefly.

  Anya stood very still, her hands at her sides.

  For a long moment, nothing changed.

  Then, one by one, the cats began to rise.

  The white cat turned first, walking away from the gate without hurry.

  The others followed, dispersing in different directions, slipping between parked cars and into narrow gaps along the street.

  Within minutes, the pavement was empty except for a few scattered leaves.

  Across the road, the neighbors lowered their phones.

  Madam Lian released a breath she had been holding.

  She stepped back from the gate and closed the wooden door gently, her hand lingering on the handle before letting go.

  Inside, the house felt larger again, though nothing had moved.

  From the hallway, a man stood near the dining table, his presence so ordinary that he might have been mistaken for a guest who had arrived early.

  Some would later say he wore a light gray shirt.

  Others would insist it was beige.

  He did not introduce himself.

  He only nodded once, as if acknowledging something that had already been said.

  When Anya blinked, he was no longer there.

  No one mentioned him.

  In the quiet that followed, the refrigerator hummed, the housekeeper wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron, and Madam Lian walked slowly back to the dining table, where her phone still lay face down, waiting.