Well, now you know my story.
So there I was, stepping out of Ambang Motif Building, watching the living make their roadside offerings. You know the kind—those little altars for wandering ghosts like me. The kind who died in accidents and never moved on.
Back when I was alive, my grandma told me burnt offerings would reach the dead. But let me tell you, I watched them light up stacks of hell money and paper Mercedes, and nothing came through. Maybe 'cause they didn't write my name? Whatever. Not worth dwelling on.
After the flames died down, the food they left behind began to glow—soft and faint, like moonlight caught in steam.
I drifted to the corner, just outside the convenience store next to the building. Someone had left a simple offering there: pink steamed sponge cakes, apples, and those pastel-colored iced gem biscuits.
I crouched beside it, leaned forward, and inhaled gently.
A soft light lifted from the iced gem biscuits, streamed into my mouth—boom—suddenly I could taste it. Sweet, crumbly, like it was really there. Except my tongue was empty. Weird, right? You'll understand when you're dead.
I took the apple next. Same thing: a breath, a glow, a taste.
I stood again.
I didn't feel full. I wasn't hungry to begin with. That's not how it works for us. You don't eat because you need to. You eat because you miss it.
Maybe you're wondering—if ghosts don't get hungry, what about hungry ghosts?
Yeah, I've heard the stories too. All I can say is, I've never met one. I've been around a long time. Met a lot of others like me. None of us ever felt hunger. So either hungry ghosts are something else entirely… or they're just stories.
I had just stood up when I saw her—a girl in her early twenties, glasses slipping down her nose, crossing the street in a hurry. She looked unsettled, almost panicked, her lips moving constantly, like she was whispering something to herself.
As she got closer, I caught the words: "Namo Amitabha... Namo Amitabha..." over and over, soft and hurried.
She stepped up onto the arcade, heading straight for the convenience store beside the Ambang Motif Building. I was standing directly in her path, just a few steps away. I didn't move. By now, I was used to people walking right through me.
But then—
Something was different.
I could feel her—her fear, her unease—like heat radiating off her skin. I could even hear her heart pounding, loud and frantic.
The moment she was about to touch me, instinct kicked in. I shifted to the side—too late.
Her shoulder brushed mine.
Actual contact.
It wasn't the usual ghost-through-flesh nothingness. This time, it was contact. Faint. Real.
I froze.
For the first time since I died, I felt solid.
Then she screamed—a raw, shattered sound—and bolted into the convenience store.
Why could she touch me?
I racked my ghostly brain, digging up fragments of conversations with older spirits. They'd mentioned two possibilities:
1. Low Luck – When a living person's energy dips low enough, they don't just see ghosts—they can touch them. Something about "tuning into our frequency," whatever that means.
2. Fate Twins – If a person's birth chart aligns just right with a ghost's—same date, same hour—it creates a kind of connection. Like being on the same wavelength.
So what was it with her? Bad luck? Or some freak coincidence of birth?
Curiosity propelled me through the convenience store doors.
The store was empty except for her. She stood at the register, hands still shaking as she paid for her things. As soon as she got her change, she fumbled for her phone and made a call.
"Mom? Can you come here? No, I bought everything. Just... can you come be with me? I—I think I just ran into something outside. Something... unclean."
Unclean?
Excuse me?
I glanced down at my spotless white clothes and rolled my eyes.
Minutes later, a middle-aged woman rushed in. The girl latched onto her arm like a lifeline. I followed them outside, watching the mother press her palms together and bow in all four directions:
'My daughter meant no offense, honorable ones. She was just here to buy things for me—please forgive her.'"
Then she turned to the girl, soothing her: "We'll go home, wash with pomelo leaves—you'll be fine."
They scurried across the street to their car, tires screeching as they fled.