The screen didn't open a browser. Instead, the phone buzzed, hot against her palm. The camera app launched on its own. The front-facing lens turned black, then resolved into an image: a room she didn't recognize. Old floral wallpaper. A rotary phone on a nightstand. And in the corner, a woman sat with her back to the camera, rocking slowly in a wooden chair.

Mai approached slowly. The phone in her pocket buzzed again. She didn't look. She knew what it would say.

She sat in the dark, heart slamming. The well. There was no well at her apartment. No well at her mother's house. But her grandmother's old farm—the one sold ten years ago—had a stone well in the back, boarded over after a child fell in during the war. 1967.

The call ended.

At the edge, she peered down. Water shimmered far below—and in its reflection, not her own face, but the woman from the screen. Smiling now.

Except for a single, unexplained photo in her gallery. Taken at 2:19 a.m. From inside the well. Looking up at her.

Against every instinct, she tapped.

She grabbed her jacket.