“I leaned against the railing as my mother lit a stack of paper money below in the yard. The flames licked at them, like they were licking the bones of memories. Smoke climbed upward, and one strand found its way into my nose, carrying the scent of ink and ash. I said nothing, just slipped my hand into my pocket, touching my phone, cold like freshly dug earth. That night I dreamed of my grandfather. He sat there, eyelids unraised, cigarette wedged between his fingers, motionless. Light leaked through the window cracks, landing on his shoulders like patches sewn onto his shadow. In the dream, there was no sound, only that lingering scent of smoke that never dissipated. ‘Burning joss paper is sending things,’ my mother said, crouching on the ground, watching quietly, her voice as quiet as if the paper itself had spoken. She lit a neatly folded stack of paper ingots. The fire traced the creases, swallowing them layer by layer. The wind was strong, so she shielded the flame with her hand, as if afraid the letter would be taken away before it was finished. ‘Otherwise they won’t receive it.’ I watched the ashes float into the sky, like data disconnected from its line, uncertain of its destination. Just like deleting a picture with one finger. No ash, no scent. Just disappearance, as if it had never been there at all.”