The lobby of the Silver Orchid Hotel was never truly silent, even at three in the morning. The air conditioning hummed its mechanical lullaby, the fish tank bubbled in the corner, and somewhere on the fifth floor, a toilet was running. Junjao had learned to identify each sound during her six months working the night shift…a skill her archaeology degree hadn't prepared her for, but one that kept her awake when the hours dragged.
She sat behind the reception desk, her too-bright floral shirt, part of the hotel uniform that somehow made her look washed out despite her tanned skin illuminated by the glow of her computer screen. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail that did nothing for her face. She knew she was pretty, technically. Her mom reminded her every Sunday phone call. But pretty didn't matter much when you paired it with a uniform that looked like a grandmother's curtains and the posture of someone trying to make themselves smaller.
"Still here, Nong Junjao?" Uncle Somchai, the night security guard, walked past with his thermos of coffee. He was maybe sixty, with the weathered face of someone who'd seen things or claimed he had.
"Where else would I be, Uncle?" Junjao smiled politely, hoping he'd keep walking.
He didn't.
"You know," he leaned against her desk, settling in, "I was thinking about room 304 again."
Junjao's fingers tightened on her mouse. She should stop him. She should change the subject. She should do literally anything except what she was about to do.
"What about it?" The words escaped before she could stop them.
Uncle Somchai's eyes gleamed. He loved an audience, especially one too polite to walk away. "The German businessman. Three months ago. Checked in Friday, found on Monday. Heart attack, they said."
"That's very sad," Junjao said, her voice slightly higher than normal. "But these things happen…"
"The maid said his suitcase was still open. Clothes laid out on the bed like he was about to change for dinner. TV was on, showing the hotel information channel. On a loop."
"The TV probably just…"
"But here's the strange part." Uncle Somchai lowered his voice, leaning closer. Junjao resisted the urge to lean back. "Last week, a guest in 304 complained about the air conditioning. Said it kept turning off in the middle of the night, even though maintenance checked it twice. Nothing wrong with it. But the guest, he said he kept waking up because the room got so cold, and he could hear..." Uncle Somchai paused dramatically, "...someone opening and closing drawers. Like they were looking for something."
Junjao's throat felt dry. "Maybe the guest in the next room…"
"304 is a corner room."
A small sound escaped Junjao's throat, something between a squeak and a whimper.
Uncle Somchai chuckled, not unkindly. "You really should stop watching those ghost videos if they scare you so much, Nong."
"I don't, I'm not scared," Junjao lied automatically. "And it's called exposure therapy."
"Is it working?"
"No."
Uncle Somchai laughed properly then, patting her desk. "Maybe the German man just went to the wrong office when he checked out. You know how confusing bureaucracy can be, even in death!" He wandered off, still chuckling at his own joke.
Junjao stared at her computer screen, trying to focus on the spreadsheet of room bookings. Her mind, unhelpfully, was now fully occupied with images of a confused German ghost opening drawers in room 304, forever looking for his dinner clothes.
She pulled out her phone.
She shouldn't. It was 3:17 AM. She had three and a half hours left of her shift. Opening YouTube now was a terrible idea.
She opened YouTube.
Her subscriptions loaded, and there it was: "Pee Mai Mee Jing" had posted a new video forty minutes ago. The thumbnail showed a dark temple with red text: "The Spirit House That Was NEVER EMPTY - Real Story from Ayutthaya."
Junjao's finger hovered over the video. The rational part of her brain, the part that had earned a degree in archaeology, that understood historical context and scientific method screamed at her to close the app.
She tapped the video.
The host's familiar voice filled her earbuds, enthusiastic and dramatic: "Hello everyone! Today I'm bringing you a story sent in by a listener, and let me tell you, this one kept me up at night..."
Junjao turned up the brightness on her phone screen. Then she checked over both shoulders at the empty lobby. Then she pulled up the hotel's camera feed on her computer, just to make sure all the hallways were empty.
They were.
Of course they were.
They were always empty at 3 AM, except when they weren't, and that was exactly the problem…
Focus. She forced herself to look back at her phone, where the host was describing an abandoned spirit house in Ayutthaya, offerings left by invisible hands, incense that lit itself…
A door slammed somewhere above her.
Junjao's phone clattered onto the desk. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She pulled up the camera feeds, cycling through them frantically. Fourth floor, fifth floor, sixth floor, all empty hallways. Nothing moving.
Old building, she told herself. Doors slam in old buildings. Air pressure. Completely normal.
Her phone screen had gone dark. She could see her reflection in it, wide eyes, tense shoulders. She looked terrified, which was accurate.
This was her life. This was what she'd chosen, or rather, what she'd settled for. A nice, safe job in a nice, safe hotel where the scariest thing should have been difficult customers, not the creeping certainty that she was absolutely, definitely not alone even when she was completely alone.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Suay, her day-shift counterpart: Another late night watching ghost videos? 😏
How did you know? Junjao typed back.
Because you always look like you haven't slept when I come in. Come out with me this Friday! There's a new rooftop bar in Thonglor.
Can't. Working.
You're always working. Or sleeping. You need a life, Jun!
Junjao looked around the empty lobby, at the humming fish tank and the too-bright lights and her unfortunate floral uniform shirt. I have a life.
Do you though???
Before Junjao could formulate a defense, another text came through, this one from Palm: Hey! Field opportunity in Kanchanaburi. Two-week survey of a newly discovered site. Needs someone with your skills. Want me to send you the contact?
Junjao stared at the message. Kanchanaburi. Ancient sites. Actual archaeology, the thing she'd studied for four years, the thing she'd loved enough to write a thesis on ancient burial practices in the Ayutthaya period.
Ancient burial practices.
Burial.
Sites where people had died, possibly hundreds of years ago, their spirits potentially still…
Thanks but I'm good! she typed quickly. Happy at the hotel!
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally: If you say so. Offer stands if you change your mind.
She wouldn't change her mind.
Junjao locked her phone and tried to focus on work. A couple would be checking in at six AM, early flight arrival. She should prepare their keys, maybe print out a welcome packet, be productive…
Her phone buzzed again.
Mom: Have you thought about what I said? Your cousin's friend works in museum administration. Very safe. No fieldwork. Good benefits.
Museum administration. Where she'd spend her days cataloging other people's discoveries, filing paperwork about artifacts found by braver people, archaeologists who didn't let irrational fears dictate their entire lives.
I'll think about it, she typed, the same response she'd given for the past three months.
The hours crawled by. Junjao answered one phone call (wrong number), checked in zero guests (not unusual for the dead of night), and watched approximately twenty-three more minutes of ghost stories before guilt and terror made her close the app.
By 6:45 AM, the sky outside was lightening to gray. Suay would arrive soon, bouncing in with her full face of makeup and stories about whatever social event Junjao had missed. The morning shift receptionist lived a life that seemed to happen in full color, while Junjao's was perpetually stuck in the muted tones of fluorescent lighting and 3 AM anxiety.
"Sawadee ka!" Suay burst through the employee entrance at 6:52 AM, eight minutes early as always, looking impossibly fresh in the same unfortunate uniform that somehow looked better on her. "You look terrible."
"Good morning to you too."
"Ghost videos again?" Suay dropped her bag behind the desk and peered at Junjao's face. "You have got to stop doing this to yourself. Why do you watch them if they scare you so much?"
"I don't know," Junjao said honestly, gathering her things. "I just... can't seem to stop."
"That's literally the definition of a problem, babe." Suay was already settling in, checking the morning's arrivals. "Oh, the couple from Singapore is here already. They're having breakfast. Very cute, very in love, very annoying." She looked up at Junjao with suddenly serious eyes. "You know what you need? A boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Or just a friend-friend. Someone who isn't a ghost on YouTube."
"I have friends."
"Name three."
"You. Uncle Somchai. Palm."
"I'm your coworker, Uncle Somchai is everyone's grandpa, and you actively avoid Palm's messages." Suay crossed her arms. "I'm serious, Jun. You're twenty-one. You should be out living, not hiding behind a hotel desk watching ghost stories."
"I'm not hiding…"
"You studied archaeology. You loved it. And now you're here because you're too scared to do what you actually want to do." Suay's voice softened. "That's hiding, babe."
Junjao's chest tightened. She knew Suay was right. Of course she was right. But knowing something and being able to change it were two very different things.
"I should go," Junjao mumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Long commute."
"Motorcycle taxi again?"
"Same one. Uncle Charan is probably already waiting."
"Be safe!" Suay called after her, already turning her attention to a guest approaching the desk.
The morning air hit Junjao like a wall of humid warmth. Bangkok was waking up, vendors setting up food carts, the distant rumble of traffic building, birds calling from the trees that lined the street. Uncle Charan was indeed waiting at the corner, as he had been every morning for six months, his orange vest bright in the growing light.
"Morning, Nong Junjao!" He held out the spare helmet.
"Morning, Uncle." She climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, settling into the familiar routine. Helmet on, bag secured, hands gripping the handles on either side of the seat.
They pulled into traffic, weaving between cars on Sukhumvit Road. Junjao's eyes felt heavy. She'd been awake for over twenty-four hours, her shift, plus the time before it when she'd been watching more ghost videos instead of sleeping like a normal person.
The city blurred past. Morning vendors, tuk-tuks, early risers on their way to work or maybe just ending their night. Junjao's eyes drooped. Just for a second. Just to rest them.
Uncle Charan was saying something about traffic, about a faster route…
The world jerked.
Tires screeching.
Someone shouting.
Junjao's eyes snapped open to see a car…black, expensive, moving too fast, running the red light at the intersection ahead. Uncle Charan swerved, but there wasn't enough time, wasn't enough space…
Everything slowed down and sped up simultaneously.
The impact. The flight through air. The ground rushing up.
And then the strange, detached thought as darkness closed in: I never got to be brave enough.
The morning sounds of Bangkok faded.
Everything went dark.
And somewhere, in an office disguised as a tailor shop on Silom Road, a notification pinged on a very special computer system.