The next morning begins with foundation.

  Anya sits on a straight backed chair in front of the large living room window while the makeup artist opens a metal case filled with brushes that clink softly against one another, and small glass bottles that catch the light as she arranges them in a careful row on the coffee table that has been pushed aside to make space.

  “Chin up a little,” the artist says gently, holding Anya’s jaw between two fingers and tilting her face toward the light.

  Outside, a truck idles at the curb, its engine humming low and steady, and two workers unload white folding chairs one at a time, stacking them in neat columns near the gate while speaking in short practical sentences that drift through the open door.

  Anya keeps her eyes open as the first layer is brushed onto her skin, the bristles soft but firm, moving in small circles along her cheeks and across her forehead, and she watches the reflection of the room behind her in the window glass rather than her own face.

  Mrs. Orn moves quietly in the background carrying a tray of iced tea to the dining table where Madam Lian sits reviewing a printed seating chart with a pen in her hand, tapping the end of it against the paper each time she shifts a name.

  “No, not there,” Madam Lian says, crossing something out and writing again. “They cannot sit next to the Chens. It will become awkward.”

  Preecha stands near the doorway with his phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a low controlled voice.

  “Yes, we saw it,” he says. “No, it was edited. Obviously. People like to create stories. That is all.”

  The makeup artist dabs a sponge beneath Anya’s eyes, pressing lightly and then stepping back to examine her work.

  “You slept?” she asks casually.

  “Enough,” Anya replies.

  From upstairs comes the sound of a door closing, then footsteps moving across the hallway.

  Anya’s fingers curl slightly against the fabric of the white robe draped over her shoulders, and she notices a loose thread near the cuff which she begins twisting around her fingertip without looking down.

  “Please do not touch your face,” the artist says with a small laugh.

  Anya lowers her hand.

  The florist enters carrying a long box of pale roses, and he kneels near the staircase to measure the height of the banister with a small metal tape that snaps back into place when released.

  Madam Lian glances up briefly.

  “Keep them tight,” she instructs. “No gaps.”

  The doorbell rings.

  Mrs. Orn sets down the tray and walks to answer it, wiping her hands on her apron before opening the door to reveal two women from the event team carrying garment bags and a clipboard.

  They step inside carefully, removing their shoes without being asked.

  “Good morning,” one of them says brightly, though her eyes move quickly around the room as if checking for something out of place.

  Anya shifts in her seat.

  In the reflection behind her, she sees the staircase.

  Empty.

  The makeup artist lifts a thin brush and begins tracing along Anya’s eyelids with steady hands.

  “Look down,” she says softly.

  Anya lowers her gaze.

  From the dining table, Madam Lian’s voice carries across the room.

  “Has the live stream test been scheduled?”

  “Yes, this afternoon,” one of the event women replies, flipping through her clipboard. “Just a short run to check the signal strength.”

  “Make sure there are no interruptions,” Madam Lian says firmly. “Not like last time.”

  Preecha ends his call and rubs his forehead with his thumb and forefinger before walking toward the kitchen where he pours himself a glass of water, drinking it in small quick swallows as if he has forgotten how thirsty he is.

  The makeup artist steps back again.

  “Beautiful,” she murmurs, though her tone is professional rather than admiring.

  Anya forces a small smile.

  Across the room, one of the event women opens a garment bag to reveal the wedding dress, lifting it carefully by the shoulders and holding it up for Madam Lian to inspect.

  The fabric catches the light.

  “Try it,” Madam Lian says without looking at Anya directly.

  The makeup artist begins packing her brushes back into the case while Anya stands slowly, smoothing the robe down her sides before walking toward the dress.

  Mrs. Orn steps forward to help, her hands gentle as she lifts the fabric over Anya’s head and guides her arms through the sleeves.

  The zipper moves upward with a soft steady sound.

  “Not too tight,” Anya says quietly.

  “It fits,” Madam Lian replies immediately.

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  From outside, a sharp metallic clatter interrupts them.

  One of the workers has dropped a stack of chairs.

  The sound echoes through the open doorway and then fades into hurried apologies.

  Everyone in the room pauses for a second before resuming their tasks.

  Anya turns toward the mirror that has been wheeled into place near the wall.

  She studies the dress in silence, adjusting the neckline slightly with her fingers.

  Behind her reflection, near the base of the stairs, something shifts.

  Her eyes flicker there.

  The gray cat sits on the bottom step, its body still and its torn ear clearly visible.

  No one else seems to notice.

  “Is it comfortable?” Mrs. Orn asks softly.

  Anya nods without turning around.

  The event woman approaches with a small tablet in her hands.

  “We should do a quick lighting test,” she says, already tapping the screen. “Just stand here and look toward the camera.”

  Anya moves to the marked spot on the floor.

  The tablet’s camera lens points directly at her.

  A small red light appears.

  “Smile,” the woman instructs.

  Anya lifts her lips.

  The screen reflects her image back.

  Behind her, in the hallway, the cat stands and begins walking slowly toward the dining room.

  On the tablet, it is visible for a moment before the screen flickers.

  The image blurs.

  “What was that?” the event woman mutters, tapping the side of the device.

  The screen clears again.

  The hallway is empty.

  “It’s the signal,” Preecha says quickly, stepping closer. “The router is old.”

  Madam Lian’s pen stops moving.

  “Replace it,” she says without looking up.

  Anya keeps her smile fixed until the woman lowers the tablet.

  “You can relax,” she says.

  Anya exhales quietly.

  As she steps away from the marked spot, her heel catches slightly on the rug.

  Mrs. Orn steadies her by the elbow.

  “Careful,” she whispers.

  Upstairs, a door creaks open slowly.

  Every head in the room turns toward the staircase.

  No one stands there.

  The air feels thick.

  “It’s the draft,” one of the event women says quickly, though the windows are closed now.

  Madam Lian rises from her chair and walks toward the stairs with measured steps, her back straight and her expression controlled.

  She places one hand on the banister.

  “Orn,” she says. “Check.”

  Mrs. Orn hesitates only briefly before moving past her and climbing the stairs.

  The sound of her slippers against the wood is steady and unhurried.

  Anya watches the top of the staircase.

  The gray cat is no longer visible.

  From upstairs comes the faint sound of a door being pushed fully open.

  Then silence.

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Orn calls down after a moment.

  Madam Lian nods once and returns to her seat.

  The room resumes its movement.

  The florist trims stems.

  The event team adjusts cables.

  Preecha answers another call.

  Anya remains standing near the mirror.

  She studies her reflection again, focusing on a small crease near the waist of the dress and smoothing it with both hands.

  Her fingers tremble slightly.

  The live stream test begins an hour later.

  A camera on a tripod is positioned near the entrance, angled toward the staircase where Anya will descend during the ceremony.

  The technician crouches beside it, adjusting wires and checking levels on a small monitor.

  “Just walk down once,” he instructs. “Slowly.”

  Anya positions herself at the top of the stairs.

  Mrs. Orn stands behind her, holding the train of the dress.

  “Ready,” the technician says.

  Anya places her hand on the banister and begins stepping down carefully, one foot at a time, the fabric whispering against the wood.

  Halfway down, she hears it.

  A soft low sound.

  Not loud.

  Not sharp.

  More like a breath pushed through teeth.

  She does not stop walking.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she turns as instructed and faces the camera.

  “Good,” the technician says. “Now look toward the door.”

  She does.

  Behind the lens, the technician’s expression shifts slightly.

  “What?” Preecha asks from the side.

  “Nothing,” the technician replies quickly. “Signal interference again.”

  He adjusts a cable.

  The monitor flickers.

  For a split second, the image shows Anya standing at the base of the stairs.

  Behind her, clearly visible in the frame, stands another figure.

  A woman in a simple pale uniform.

  Hands folded.

  Head slightly bowed.

  Then the image cuts to static.

  The room falls silent.

  “Did you see that?” one of the event women whispers.

  “See what?” Madam Lian snaps.

  The technician shakes his head and forces a small laugh.

  “Just a reflection,” he says. “These old houses, too many mirrors.”

  Anya’s hands remain at her sides.

  She does not turn around.

  “Run it again,” Madam Lian says firmly.

  They do.

  This time, the image remains steady.

  Only Anya appears on the screen.

  No one speaks about it again.

  As the afternoon light begins to fade and the workers pack up their equipment, the house returns slowly to its usual shape.

  Chairs are stacked neatly.

  Flowers line the staircase.

  The dress is removed and hung carefully back in its garment bag.

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Orn chops vegetables for dinner while Anya stands beside her washing rice, the water turning cloudy between her fingers.

  “You heard it too,” Anya says quietly.

  Mrs. Orn does not look up.

  “Some sounds stay,” she replies.

  “Even after…” Anya begins.

  Mrs. Orn stops chopping.

  “Names matter,” she says, her voice low and steady. “If no one says them, they find other ways.”

  Anya closes the rice cooker lid.

  The click echoes slightly.

  From the hallway comes the soft padding of paws.

  The gray cat walks into the kitchen and sits near the doorway, watching them.

  Neither woman moves to chase it away.

  Upstairs, a floorboard creaks.

  Then, in a clear and steady voice that carries down the stairwell without strain, someone speaks.

  “She did not steal.”