By the time the second course was carried out, the ballroom had warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the air conditioning, and the waiters moved more slowly between tables because the floor had become crowded with chairs pushed back and handbags placed carelessly under silk hems and polished shoes, and everyone kept standing up to greet someone they had not seen in years, pressing palms together and smiling too widely before sitting down again to check their phones.

  Anya sat at the head table with her hands folded in her lap, her fingers still faintly sticky from the syrup brushed over the roast duck skin that she had tried to eat without staining the front of her dress, and she kept smoothing the fabric down her thighs as if she could iron out the creases by touch alone, while beside her Preecha nodded at something his uncle was saying and laughed a little too late, as though the sound had to travel through him before it could come out.

  Madam Lian did not eat much, and instead used her chopsticks to rearrange the garnish on her plate, lifting a sprig of coriander and placing it precisely to the left of the carved carrot flower, and every so often she would glance toward the stage where a large screen projected a soft slideshow of engagement photos, the images fading into one another with gentle music that had been selected by a planner who now stood near the back wall whispering urgently into a headset.

  At table nine, two women in matching pale blue dresses leaned close together, their heads almost touching as they compared the live stream on their phones to what they were seeing in front of them, and one of them tapped her screen several times with a manicured nail, frowning when the image froze on Anya mid blink.

  Is your connection bad, she asked, without looking up.

  It was fine a second ago, the other woman said, tilting her phone toward the ceiling as if the signal might drop down from the chandeliers.

  A waiter paused beside them holding a tray of small porcelain bowls filled with soup, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other while they finished adjusting their settings, then lowered the tray carefully so that the liquid inside each bowl barely trembled.

  On the stage, the emcee cleared his throat and adjusted the microphone, which made a sharp squeal that caused several guests to wince and cover one ear, and he apologized with a practiced smile before launching into a story about how Anya and Preecha had met, though his voice dipped in and out as though someone were gently turning a dial behind the curtain.

  At the back of the room, near the open doors that led to the garden, a catering assistant crouched down with a cloth and wiped at a dark streak on the marble floor, pressing her palm flat against the stone to see if it had dried, and when she stood up she noticed a cat sitting just outside the threshold, its body low and still, its tail wrapped neatly around its paws.

  Shoo, she whispered, making a small motion with her hand.

  The cat did not move.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one important had seen, then nudged the door slightly with her foot until it was almost closed, leaving only a narrow gap through which the evening air slipped inside.

  At table three, an older man adjusted his hearing aid and leaned toward his wife.

  Did he just say something about a hospital, he asked.

  No, she said, I think he said hostel, maybe they met while traveling.

  That does not sound right.

  They both looked toward the screen as a new image appeared, showing Anya and Preecha smiling at the camera with their heads tilted toward one another, but the photograph flickered and then shifted slightly so that for a brief second there seemed to be a shadow behind them that did not belong to either of their bodies.

  Did you see that, the wife said.

  See what.

  Nothing, she said quickly, reaching for her teacup and lifting it with both hands even though it was no longer hot.

  Near the center of the room, a young cousin had set up a second phone on a small tripod so she could capture reactions for social media, and she kept turning the device toward different tables, asking people to wave or say something sweet for the bride and groom, but when she checked the recording she noticed that the audio had not saved, and instead there was a low humming sound that seemed to pulse beneath the clatter of dishes.

  She frowned and tapped the screen again.

  Her brother leaned over her shoulder.

  Maybe your storage is full, he said.

  It is not full.

  Then maybe you forgot to press record.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I pressed it.

  He shrugged and reached for a spring roll from a passing tray.

  On the stage, the slideshow changed again, but instead of the preselected engagement images, the screen displayed a still frame of the ballroom itself, taken from an angle near the ceiling as though from a security camera, and several guests laughed lightly, assuming it was part of the program, until they noticed that the angle did not match any of the cameras visible in the room.

  Is that from the hotel, someone asked.

  Probably, another person said, they like to show off their facilities.

  But the image did not move, and in the corner of the screen there was a timestamp that flickered between numbers too quickly to read.

  Madam Lian set down her chopsticks with a quiet click.

  She turned her head toward the planner at the back and lifted her chin slightly, not enough to cause a scene but enough to signal that something was not acceptable.

  The planner spoke into her headset again and gestured toward the technician seated behind a small table of equipment near the stage, and he began pressing buttons in quick succession, his shoulders rising toward his ears as he leaned closer to the monitor.

  The emcee laughed into the microphone.

  A little surprise from our tech team, he said, and a few guests chuckled in response though their eyes remained fixed on the screen.

  Anya kept her gaze on the table in front of her, watching as a drop of soup slid down the outside of her bowl and pooled near the base, and she reached for a napkin and dabbed at it carefully, pressing the paper into the thin line of liquid until it disappeared.

  Preecha leaned toward her.

  It is nothing, he said quietly.

  She nodded without looking up.

  At table seven, a woman who had worked in the household for many years sat stiffly in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, and she did not touch the food placed in front of her, instead staring at the screen as if she were trying to read something written very small.

  The image shifted again, and this time the ballroom appeared empty, the tables bare and the lights dimmed, though the guests were clearly still seated in their places, and a murmur moved through the room like a ripple.

  That is not live, someone said.

  It cannot be live.

  The technician wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and unplugged one cable before plugging it back in, but the screen continued to display the empty hall.

  At the doorway, the catering assistant returned with a tray of clean glasses, and when she nudged the door open with her hip she felt something brush against her ankle, and she looked down quickly but saw only the hem of her own black trousers moving against her skin.

  She stepped inside and let the door close behind her.

  Near the stage, an elderly aunt stood up and walked slowly toward the screen, peering up at it as though proximity might clarify the image, and she reached out a hand as if to touch the projection, though her fingers met only air.

  Is this part of the show, she asked no one in particular.

  The emcee cleared his throat again, but the microphone did not respond this time, and he tapped it lightly before glancing toward the technician.

  In the silence that followed, a glass clinked against a plate somewhere in the back of the room, and someone coughed.

  Anya lifted her head at last and looked at the screen, her shoulders rising slightly as she inhaled, and for a moment she seemed to be counting something silently, her lips moving without sound.

  Preecha followed her gaze.

  The image on the screen flickered once more, and then the empty ballroom was replaced by a close up of a corridor, narrow and poorly lit, with a single door at the end.

  That is not here, someone said.

  It looks like the service hallway, another person replied, though they did not sound certain.

  Madam Lian stood up.

  Her chair scraped softly against the floor.

  Turn it off, she said, her voice calm but firm.

  The technician pressed a button and the screen went black.

  For a second there was relief, visible in the way shoulders dropped and conversations resumed in tentative fragments, but then the screen lit up again without prompting, and this time the image was steady.

  It showed the inside of a small room with a single bed pushed against the wall and a metal wardrobe standing beside it, and the paint near the ceiling was peeling in thin strips.

  At table seven, the woman who had not touched her food covered her mouth with her hand.

  That room, she whispered, though no one near her heard.

  Anya’s fingers tightened around the edge of the tablecloth.

  Preecha reached for her hand but stopped halfway, letting his palm hover in the space between them.

  The emcee stepped back from the microphone entirely, as if distance might separate him from whatever was happening.

  The technician looked down at his equipment, his hands now resting flat on the table, no longer pressing anything.

  The room on the screen remained still.

  Then the door within that image opened slowly.

  No music played.

  No one spoke.

  A figure stepped into view.

  It was a young woman in a plain uniform, her hair tied back neatly, her face turned slightly away from the camera so that only her profile could be seen.

  Several guests inhaled sharply.

  The woman at table seven began to cry without sound, her shoulders shaking while she kept her hand pressed against her mouth.

  Madam Lian did not move.

  Anya stood up.

  Her chair fell backward with a dull thud that seemed louder than it should have been.

  The figure on the screen turned her head fully toward the camera.

  It was Ying.

  No one touched the equipment.

  No one claimed it was a mistake.

  The image did not flicker.

  It remained.