The morning the shrine was removed, Korn was late.

  He woke to the sound of his phone vibrating itself off the desk and onto the floor, the screen lighting up the underside of the bed frame, and he lay there for a moment listening to it buzz until it stopped on its own.

  The room smelled faintly of incense from the night before, clinging to his clothes draped over the chair, and he sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm.

  He checked the time and swore under his breath, swinging his legs down and standing too quickly, the room tilting just enough to make him pause with one hand on the desk.

  In the kitchen he poured water over instant coffee, missing the mug slightly so a thin stream ran across the counter and onto the floor, and he wiped it up with a paper towel, pressing down harder than necessary.

  He did not eat.

  He shoved his notebook into his bag and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click that felt louder than usual.

  The street was already busy, delivery trucks double parked, vendors shouting prices over the hiss of frying oil, and Korn moved through it quickly, weaving around people who walked more slowly, his eyes fixed on the end of the lane.

  From a distance he could already tell something was wrong.

  The candles were gone.

  The small crowd that usually gathered in the early morning was absent, replaced instead by two men in reflective vests standing beside a pickup truck, one of them sipping from a plastic cup of iced coffee.

  The shrine itself was half dismantled, the wooden base tilted, offerings piled haphazardly into a large black bin.

  Korn stopped short, his bag sliding down his shoulder until the strap caught on his elbow.

  “What are you doing,” he asked, his voice coming out flatter than he expected.

  One of the men looked at him, then back at his companion. “Cleaning up,” he said. “Orders from the district.”

  Korn stepped closer, his eyes scanning the ground for the bowl, the cloth, the folded paper.

  “Who ordered it.”

  The man shrugged. “Developer,” he said. “Mall going up. This is not registered.”

  Korn crouched, reaching into the bin without thinking, his fingers brushing wilted flowers and damp paper.

  “Hey,” the other man said, setting his cup down. “Do not touch that.”

  Korn pulled his hand back slowly, dirt clinging to his fingertips, and stood.

  A small group had gathered at the mouth of the lane, people whispering to each other, phones already raised.

  A woman pushed forward, her face tight. “You cannot just take it,” she said. “People pray here.”

  The man with the cup sighed. “Then they can pray somewhere else.”

  Another voice joined in, sharper. “My husband comes every day.”

  Someone else laughed nervously. “It was just a trend anyway.”

  The first man lifted the wooden base with effort, grunting as he carried it toward the truck, and the sound of it scraping against the metal made Korn flinch.

  He noticed then that the woman was not there.

  He turned, scanning the lane, the corners where she sometimes stood, the patch of shade near the wall.

  Nothing.

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  “Stop,” Korn said suddenly, stepping in front of the truck.

  The men stared at him.

  “You cannot take it all,” he said. “At least let me clean it properly.”

  The man with the cup looked past him at the growing crowd, then back at Korn. “Five minutes,” he said. “Then we are done.”

  Korn nodded once and moved quickly, retrieving what he could from the bin, setting the bowl upright on the ground, straightening the cloth with careful hands.

  People watched in silence, the earlier arguments dying down as if this small ritual demanded it.

  Korn wiped the bowl, his movements familiar, grounding, and lit one last stick of incense, the flame trembling in the open air.

  He waited.

  Nothing happened.

  He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, his gaze fixed on the empty space beside him.

  The man cleared his throat. “Time.”

  Korn stood and stepped aside, his hands dropping to his sides.

  The shrine was lifted and loaded into the truck, the tailgate slammed shut, and the engine started.

  As it pulled away, a few people clapped sarcastically, others shook their heads, and most simply drifted off, their attention already moving on.

  The lane felt wider without the shrine, emptier.

  Korn stayed until the truck was gone, then bent to pick up the last stray flower, turning it over in his fingers before placing it gently against the wall.

  At campus no one mentioned the shrine directly, but Korn caught snippets of conversation as he passed.

  “Did you see the post,” someone said. “They took it down.”

  “Figures,” another replied. “Those things never last.”

  In studio Korn worked mechanically, drawing and erasing without really seeing the page, his pencil snapping once when he pressed too hard.

  He excused himself early and went home.

  That night he cleaned his apartment more thoroughly than usual, wiping down surfaces, washing clothes he had not worn, lining his shoes up neatly by the door.

  He cooked rice and vegetables and ate slowly, chewing each bite until there was nothing left to swallow.

  When he finished he washed his hands and sat on the floor by the window, his back against the wall, watching the city lights flicker on one by one.

  It was late when there was a knock.

  Korn stood and opened the door to find a man he did not recognize, older, wearing a loose shirt and sandals, his hair streaked with gray.

  “I was told you might be here,” the man said.

  Korn hesitated. “Who are you.”

  The man smiled faintly. “Some people call me Ajarn Phum,” he said. “Others call me something else.”

  Korn stepped aside to let him in.

  They sat at the small table, Korn pouring water into two glasses, his hands steady despite the way his chest felt tight.

  “They took it,” Korn said finally.

  The man nodded as if this was expected. “Yes.”

  “They did not understand,” Korn said. “They came to ask for things. They did not stay.”

  The man took a sip of water, setting the glass down carefully. “Faith without devotion is light,” he said. “It floats.”

  Korn frowned. “Is that bad.”

  “It is not enough,” the man replied.

  Korn looked down at his hands, noticing a small cut on his knuckle he did not remember getting.

  “She is still there,” Korn said, more question than statement.

  The man tilted his head. “Where would she go.”

  “But she did not come today,” Korn said.

  “Because there was nothing to stand on,” the man said. “Places matter.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of traffic filling the room.

  “What do I do now,” Korn asked.

  The man considered him. “You already did what you could,” he said. “You listened. You cleaned. You stayed.”

  “That was not enough,” Korn said.

  The man’s gaze was steady. “It was enough for you.”

  Korn swallowed. “And for her.”

  The man did not answer immediately. He reached into his pocket and placed a small folded paper on the table.

  Korn recognized it instantly.

  “Others will come,” the man said. “They always do. But not all places are meant to hold what people bring.”

  Korn picked up the paper but did not open it.

  “What about the mall,” he asked.

  The man stood. “Buildings rise. Shrines fall. Stories move,” he said. “That is how it works.”

  At the door he paused. “If she speaks again,” he added, “listen. That is all.”

  After he left, Korn stood for a long time without moving.

  He unfolded the paper slowly.

  It was blank.

  The next morning Korn walked past the lane on his way to campus.

  Construction fencing had gone up overnight, bright orange, blocking off the space entirely.

  Someone had taped a handwritten sign to it.

  BRING BACK THE SHRINE.

  Below it, someone else had written.

  IT WORKED FOR ME.

  Korn stood there for a moment, then turned and kept walking.