Mai stumbled back, phone slipping from her pocket. It clattered on the stones, screen still lit. One final message:
She should have deleted it. Swiped it away like spam. But "67" was the year her grandmother was born. And "dagatructiep"—she didn't know Vietnamese, but the rhythm of it felt familiar. Direct. Immediate. Live. dagatructiep 67
The rocking stopped.
Mai's breath caught. The woman's hair was silver, pinned up in the exact way her grandmother used to wear hers before she passed—three years ago last Tuesday. Mai stumbled back, phone slipping from her pocket