Korn woke to the sound of his alarm and did not move.

  The phone vibrated against the wooden table beside the mattress, the thin buzzing sound traveling through the leg of the table and into the floor, and he lay there with his eyes open, staring at the pale patch of ceiling above him where the paint always looked a little thinner.

  The alarm stopped on its own after a minute and the room fell quiet except for the hum of the fan.

  He stayed where he was, listening to the fan click slightly as it rotated, counting the seconds without meaning to.

  Usually this was the part where he reached for the phone, scrolled through messages he had not answered, checked the time twice as if it might change, and then sat up.

  This time he did not.

  His body felt heavy in a way that was not painful, more like he had been holding something all night and finally set it down, and when he tested his fingers they moved easily enough, tapping once against the sheet.

  He could get up.

  He just did not.

  Outside, someone dragged a cart down the street, the wheels rattling over a crack in the pavement, and Korn followed the sound until it faded.

  He thought briefly about the studio class he was supposed to attend, about the unfinished model still sitting on his desk, but the thoughts passed without sticking.

  The fan blew warm air across his face and he closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the light in the room had shifted, the square of sun on the wall longer now, reaching the edge of the door.

  His phone buzzed.

  This time it did not stop.

  He turned his head slowly and looked at the screen lighting up with his sister’s name.

  He watched it until the call ended.

  A message followed.

  Are you up.

  Another message appeared almost immediately.

  You forgot mom’s appointment.

  He blinked once and rolled onto his side, pulling the sheet up to his chin.

  In the kitchen of the apartment next door, someone dropped a spoon, metal ringing sharply against tile, followed by a muttered apology and the sound of water running.

  Korn listened until the sink shut off.

  He drifted without sleeping, aware of time passing only by the sounds around him, the building settling, footsteps in the hall, a door slamming two floors down.

  When hunger finally registered, it came as a dull awareness rather than a sharp pull, and he sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.

  His feet found the floor and he stood, steadying himself with one hand on the wall.

  In the kitchen he poured water into a glass and drank it in small sips, pausing between each swallow.

  He opened the cupboard and looked at the packets of noodles, the cans stacked neatly, the rice in its container.

  He closed the cupboard again.

  Instead he leaned against the counter, his palms flat on the surface, feeling the coolness through his skin.

  He thought of the shrine then, not as it had been at the end, surrounded by phones and voices, but as it was at the beginning, quiet, overlooked, the woman standing just to the side as if waiting for someone who might not come.

  He washed his hands even though they were not dirty, rubbing soap between his fingers carefully, rinsing until there were no bubbles left.

  Back in the room he sat on the floor, his back against the bed, and opened his notebook.

  The pages were filled with sketches of the shrine, measurements, notes in the margins written late at night.

  He flipped through them without reading.

  At the last page there was a blank sheet.

  He stared at it for a long time.

  The knock came in the afternoon.

  Korn did not answer at first, assuming it was someone at the wrong door, but the knock came again, slower this time.

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  He stood and opened the door to find his sister, her hair pulled back hastily, her bag slung over one shoulder.

  She looked past him into the room. “You are still in your pajamas,” she said.

  He stepped aside to let her in.

  She set her bag down and moved through the room, picking up a cup from the table and setting it in the sink, straightening the chair with her foot.

  “Why did you not answer,” she asked, her voice even.

  “I was here,” Korn said.

  She turned to look at him. “That is not an answer.”

  She opened the window slightly, letting in a strip of noise from the street, and sat on the bed.

  “You missed class,” she said. “Your professor called me.”

  Korn sat on the floor again. “I know.”

  She watched him for a moment, then said, “Did you eat.”

  He shook his head.

  She sighed and stood, moving back into the kitchen, pulling out a pan and setting it on the stove.

  The sound of oil heating filled the space and she cracked two eggs into the pan, the shells tapping against the edge before she dropped them into the trash.

  They ate in silence, sitting across from each other at the small table, the eggs cooling quickly.

  “You look tired,” she said finally.

  “I slept,” Korn said.

  She did not respond to that.

  After she left, promising to check in later, Korn washed the dishes slowly, lining them up to dry.

  He returned to the bed and lay down again.

  This time he slept.

  He dreamed of the lane, empty, the fencing gone, the ground smooth as if nothing had ever been there.

  When he woke, the room was dark.

  His phone showed several missed calls and messages he did not open.

  He lay there listening to the city until morning came again.

  The pattern repeated.

  He woke to alarms and ignored them, ate when someone brought food or not at all, showered once when he noticed the smell of his own skin had changed.

  He stopped going to campus.

  The unfinished model gathered dust.

  His sister came by every few days, sometimes bringing their mother, who sat quietly on the bed and held his hand without speaking.

  Once, while his mother was there, Korn noticed her glance toward the corner of the room, her gaze lingering as if something had caught her attention.

  “What,” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, but her eyes stayed there a moment longer.

  One evening there was another knock.

  This time Korn opened the door to find a man he had seen before but could not place, his face familiar in the way of someone remembered from a dream.

  “Ajarn Phum,” the man said, nodding.

  Korn stepped aside.

  They sat on the floor, the light off, the room lit only by the streetlight outside.

  “You are fading,” the man said.

  Korn shrugged. “I am here.”

  The man watched him closely. “Your body is. The rest of you is somewhere else.”

  Korn picked at a loose thread on the sheet. “Is that bad.”

  The man did not answer immediately. “Why did you stop,” he asked instead.

  Korn’s fingers stilled. “Stop what.”

  “Waking,” the man said.

  Korn thought for a long moment. “There is nothing to do,” he said.

  The man nodded slowly. “That is true for many people.”

  Silence settled between them.

  “I did what you said,” Korn added. “I listened. I stayed.”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “And it did not matter.”

  The man leaned back against the wall. “It mattered to you,” he said. “It mattered to her.”

  Korn looked up. “Where is she.”

  The man met his gaze. “She is not gone,” he said. “But she is weak.”

  Korn swallowed. “Because of me.”

  The man shook his head. “Because of many people,” he said. “Including you.”

  Korn closed his eyes briefly.

  “What do you regret,” the man asked.

  Korn’s breath caught and he had to pause before answering. “I liked being needed,” he said finally. “I liked that she waited for me.”

  The man nodded. “Say it again.”

  “I liked that she depended on me,” Korn said, his voice quieter.

  “And the cause,” the man prompted.

  Korn opened his eyes. “I let people turn her into a service,” he said. “I did not stop it.”

  The man waited.

  “I should have told them no,” Korn said. “I should have protected the place.”

  The man stood. “That is the truth,” he said.

  Korn looked at him. “Is it enough.”

  The man paused at the door. “It allows things to move,” he said.

  After he left, Korn lay back down.

  He did not dream.

  In the morning his sister found him still in bed, his breathing slow and even.

  She shook him gently.

  “Korn,” she said.

  He did not respond.

  She pressed her ear to his chest and listened, then reached for her phone with shaking hands.

  At the hospital they said his body was fine.

  They used words like exhaustion and withdrawal and stress, speaking softly as if volume mattered.

  He was admitted for observation.

  Days passed.

  Nurses turned him, checked his vitals, spoke to him even when he did not answer.

  Sometimes his fingers twitched.

  Once, when a nurse adjusted his blanket, she paused and glanced toward the corner of the room.

  Later that week, a post appeared online.

  A photo of a small shrine set up in a dorm room, candles flickering beside a makeshift offering bowl.

  The caption read.

  She came back.

  The comments flooded in.

  By the end of the day, the photo had been shared thousands of times.

  Korn did not wake up.

  Not that day.

  Not the next.

  And when the doctor finally said the words out loud, his sister nodded once and signed the form with a steady hand.

  Korn’s body continued breathing.

  Korn himself did not return.