The kettle clicked off with a small plastic snap, and Korn’s sister stood in the kitchen holding the handle without lifting it yet, watching steam slide slowly across the cabinet doors while the morning light came in through the window and made the dust in the air visible if you looked at it long enough.

  She poured the hot water into a cup with a tea bag already inside, then set the kettle back onto its base carefully, adjusting it twice until it sat perfectly flat even though it already was.

  Behind her, the rice cooker hummed on warm mode, the red light steady, the smell of leftover jasmine rice faint but still there if you stood close enough.

  Her phone sat face down on the table.

  It vibrated once.

  Then stopped.

  She opened the refrigerator and stared inside for longer than she needed to, then took out a container of cut fruit, closed the door, opened it again, then finally walked to the table and sat down.

  The phone vibrated again.

  She turned it over.

  Hospital notification.

  Vitals stable.

  No change.

  She set the phone down again and peeled the lid off the fruit container, then used a fork to move the pieces around without eating any of them.

  In the hospital room, a nurse adjusted Korn’s IV line, pressing tape down gently along his skin with two fingers, smoothing it flat like she was wrapping a fragile gift.

  Another nurse stood at the foot of the bed writing numbers on a clipboard.

  “Family here today,” she said quietly.

  “Yeah,” the first nurse said.

  “Every day.”

  They worked in practiced silence, the machines filling the room with soft, repetitive beeping that blended into the air like background noise people stopped noticing after a while.

  Outside in the hallway, a cleaning cart squeaked as it rolled past, the smell of disinfectant following it like a trail.

  Korn’s sister arrived fifteen minutes later, carrying a small thermos and a plastic bag with neatly folded napkins inside.

  She nodded to the nurses and walked to the chair by his bed, setting everything down in the same order she always did.

  Thermos first.

  Bag second.

  Phone last.

  She unscrewed the thermos lid and poured tea into the small cup that doubled as the cap, holding it steady with both hands even though the liquid barely moved.

  “Good morning,” she said quietly.

  She reached out and adjusted the corner of his blanket, smoothing it flat across his shoulder.

  She sat.

  She waited.

  Across the city, the warehouse lights flickered on automatically as the morning shift began, illuminating rows of stored decorations, mannequins, unused signs, and the shrine sitting in the corner where the workers had left it.

  A forklift beeped as it reversed nearby, the driver not looking toward the corner at all.

  Two warehouse staff unloaded boxes from a truck, stacking them onto a pallet while talking about weekend plans and grocery prices.

  “Eggs went up again,” one said.

  “Everything went up,” the other replied.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Neither looked at the shrine.

  Around noon, Korn’s sister peeled an orange in the hospital room, placing each strip of peel carefully into a plastic bag like she did every day, then separating the slices and lining them up on a napkin even though no one ate them.

  Her phone buzzed.

  A news alert.

  Redevelopment project ahead of schedule.

  She opened it.

  Scrolled.

  Closed it.

  She wiped her fingers on a tissue and reached for Korn’s hand, adjusting his fingers slightly so they rested more naturally against the blanket.

  “Your professor emailed,” she said quietly. “He said… you can finish the semester later.”

  She paused.

  “He said not to worry.”

  She looked at the monitor.

  The numbers moved slightly.

  Then stayed steady.

  In a small apartment across town, a university classmate of Korn sat at a desk surrounded by open textbooks, refreshing a group chat without typing anything, watching other messages appear and disappear as people started conversations and then abandoned them halfway.

  Someone posted a photo of the empty shrine space at the mall.

  Someone else typed: feels weird.

  Someone else typed: it’s just a building.

  No one responded to either.

  In the warehouse, dust settled slowly across the shrine surface, the thin layer softening the shine of the lacquered wood.

  One of the afternoon staff walked past and slowed for a second, glancing toward it, then kept walking.

  He rubbed the back of his neck and checked his watch.

  At the hospital, Korn’s sister stood to stretch, her chair legs scraping lightly against the floor.

  She walked to the window and watched traffic move below, buses stopping and starting, people crossing the street while looking at their phones, someone arguing loudly on a sidewalk before walking off in opposite directions.

  She pressed her palm lightly against the glass.

  Then pulled it away.

  The nurse came in and checked the monitor again, writing numbers down, then adjusting a dial slightly.

  “How long,” Korn’s sister started.

  The nurse paused.

  “Everyone is different,” she said gently.

  Korn’s sister nodded once.

  “Right.”

  She sat again.

  She picked up one orange slice and held it, then set it back down.

  The TV in the corner showed a muted lifestyle segment about home decoration trends, the captions lagging behind the host’s smile.

  In the late afternoon, the warehouse manager walked through with a clipboard, counting pallets, checking labels, pausing only long enough near the shrine to glance at the tag tied loosely around its base.

  He read the number.

  Checked his sheet.

  Marked a box.

  Moved on.

  Evening came quietly, the hospital hallway lights dimming slightly as shift changes happened, footsteps changing rhythm as new staff replaced old ones.

  Korn’s sister poured the last of the tea from her thermos, the liquid barely warm now.

  She drank it anyway.

  “Your plants are still alive,” she said quietly. “I water them every Tuesday.”

  She adjusted the blanket again.

  She checked his fingernails like she had done since he was small, pressing lightly against each one.

  “Your friend dropped off notes,” she said.

  She stopped.

  Then continued.

  “He said to tell you…”

  She did not finish.

  She reached for his hand and held it between both of hers, her thumbs moving slowly across his knuckles like she was smoothing invisible wrinkles.

  Across the city, lights turned on in apartment windows one by one, televisions flickering, people cooking dinner, water running in sinks, knives tapping rhythmically against cutting boards.

  In the warehouse, the night shift clocked in, their voices louder, their footsteps heavier, the forklift running more often.

  One worker walked over to the shrine and leaned on it briefly while tying his shoe, not looking at it at all.

  He stood and walked away.

  Near midnight, the hospital room was quieter, the hallway almost empty, the machines sounding louder because there was less noise to cover them.

  Korn’s sister sat with her head tilted slightly, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

  Her phone buzzed.

  She did not look at it.

  It buzzed again.

  She picked it up.

  Group chat.

  Someone typed: anyone heard from Korn.

  Someone else typed: not yet.

  Someone else typed: I dreamed about the shrine last night.

  No one replied to that.

  She locked the phone and set it down.

  She leaned forward and rested her forehead lightly against the side of the bed rail.

  The machine beeped.

  Steady.

  She closed her eyes.

  Time passed without marking itself.

  And sometime before morning, while the hallway lights were still dim and the city outside had not fully started moving yet, the nurse checked the monitor and adjusted a setting and wrote a number down and left the room again.

  And Korn did not wake up.