2025 Margarita Donnelly Prize for Prose Writing
Second Runner-Up
A Modern Ghost Story
by yating
This’d be the last. She swore it. Last, she’d feed that dying amber, light so feeble, it flickered in and out of shadow, its warmth barely there. The kind of fire you pinched with two fingers. Poof.
Min-Ming dipped her head as she crossed the temple threshold. Sandalwood and cloves, the comforting scent of incense sticks, permeated the courtyard and open-air corridors. To her left, crimson candles circled a lotus flower stand, their flames swayed, but stillness was all she detected in the air. It was sakura season, the spring that whispered promises and hopes, but in Taipei, only bare branches greeted temple visitors. Not that there were many. It was a Tuesday morning—too early for backpacking tourists, too late for local grandparents practicing Tai Chi.
Squeak-squawk.
A man, the temple master she guessed, emerged from his office. His slippers dragged, rubber soles flapping against the stone tiles.
“You here to see Teacher?”
Min-Ming nodded, pulled a folded paper from her coat pocket, and held it out to him.
He frowned, overgrown brows shadowing the light in his irises.
“You’re early.”
“I can wait.”
He didn’t respond, only lifted his gaze to study Min-Ming’s face.
Self-conscious, she let her hair fall forward. It’d been over a year since she last wore makeup—always washed off anyway. The dark circles must’ve been obvious, though she couldn’t remember when she last checked a mirror. Her look was the least of her concerns, at least until now, under the man’s gaze: scrutinizing, evaluating, as though she were an unsprouted orchid, unfit for temple offering.
“This way,” he said.
Squeak-squawk. Squeak-squawk.
She waited before following, trailing behind at an unintrusive distance. Through the narrow corridor, they crossed the courtyard to a yellow-tiled stairway, its wobbly handrail reminding her of the rundown faculty building. On the second level, they passed a prayer hall filled with floral baskets, where Buddha statues sat beside Mazu—the gold-painted sea goddess, adorned with a phoenix crown, its front seam lined with bead tassels. Behind them, Mazu’s half-lidded smile was unmistakable: a pouted-lip curve that revealed nothing but… maybe, in another life, the goddess had already heard her story.
At the end of the hall, the man signalled for her to stop before a wooden door.
“Wait here.”
He knocked and stepped in.
Left alone, Min-Ming unfolded the note and read the name again: Yin-Yun Chun. A unisex name. The last spirit medium had passed it across the table with a simple explanation: “Try Teacher Chun. The master of all masters.” He hadn’t mentioned the gender. Now, standing at the door, Min-Ming felt a flicker of panic. She didn’t mind male seers—most recommendations were men—but talking to them about matters like this made her pick at her cuticles, already raw and bleeding.
She unzipped her backpack and thumbed through the documents: lunar birth dates, astrological charts, places of birth. Tucked beside them was an extra-large ziplock; inside, a white plankton-print T-shirt, Akira’s favourite, worn so often the armpits had yellowed. She wasn’t sure if the bag preserved his scent, but if it kept food fresh, maybe, just maybe, she could nurse something out of what remained: a nutrient, a bud, a flash of warmth long presumed dead.
The man poked his head out.
“Teacher Chun’s ready.”
He left the door ajar and vanished down the stairs.
Squeezing her shoulder straps, Min-Ming took a breath and tiptoed inside.
The layout was no different from other seers’ studios, albeit more minimalistic. On the white wall, two calligraphy scrolls and a Bagua mirror hung. In the corners, crystal geodes tall as her thigh sat like bodyguards facing the antique chairs and a stretch of polished desk. A woman around her mother’s age gazed quietly, her arms folded on the desk, a burgundy shawl draped across her back.
“Take a seat,” she said, her smile reassuring. “I know Teacher Peng volunteered my contact.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I know you rarely see new clients, but—you’re my last hope,” Min-Ming’s voice cracked. “In the past year, I’ve talked to all kinds of seers, fortune tellers, spirit mediums. Most said my boyfriend wasn’t ready to speak. One said he felt nothing, like there was no spirit at all. It’s making me crazy. I know I can’t continue like this, I know. I tell myself… this is the last—seeing you, the master of all masters.”
Chun listened, her leaned-in torso encouraging.
“I prepared everything you may need.” Min-Ming pulled out the documents and clothes. “I’m happy to pay as much as it costs. I swore—this is the last I’m making this request—uh—did Teacher Peng tell you about, about my situation?”
“He did. On the phone. But I prefer to hear it in your own words. Interpretations are rarely the full picture.”
Min-Ming tried to swallow but her dry mouth felt impossible.
She’d hoped she wouldn’t have to tell the story again. After a year of seeking answers, surely she’d be numb, immune to the emotional swings of opening to yet another stranger. But she never managed to hold her composure, always reaching for the handkerchief, the ocean-blue cotton square Akira had pressed to her face. Sweat, tears, or as a ceasefire flag amid their arguments.
Extracting the handkerchief from her backpack, Min-Ming braced herself for what came next.
“Akira, my boyfriend, he—”
This part was the hardest, like her first night wrenching the door to a silent home. She’d refused to speak of it, as if the denial created static noise, filling their hollowed-out apartment with television’s chatter and the hum of a microwave, noise to create the illusion that he was still there. Now, words were her lifeline. She overshared, hoping someone might pull him back, flesh or phantom.
“Akira was lost in an accident. At sea. He was a marine biologist—the type who wouldn’t shut up when he got going, passionate about things that didn’t make sense to average people. Plankton, those tiny ocean creatures, going on for hours about their role in the food chain, biodiversity. I used to hold up my hand, like this, to shush him. God. Now I buy research journals and read about plankton every waking—sorry, I’m veering off topic. A year ago, the research ship never came back. There was no sign of a typhoon. I mean, typhoons only happen in the summer or late fall, right? Never—there was no warning, no wreckage, not even a death certificate. Just—gone.”
Words hung. She sank into the chair, energy depleted. These days, she never knew how much of her was memory, how much regret.
“That must be really hard,” said Chun, offering her bottled water.
Nodding, Min-Ming peered up at Chun. Seers weren’t normally this empathetic. Most rushed her straight into the ritual, eyes flickering to the clock, reminding her they charged by the minute.
“Um—I brought all the stuff you may need. Teacher Peng said to just bring a clothing item, but I also prepared his astrological chart and mine. I mean—this is your expertise but I got these from fortune tellers I’ve seen over the year. They may be helpful, or not. Anyway,” said Min-Ming, laying down the documents and Akira’s T-shirt on the desk.
Chun thanked her, lifted the jewelled glasses hanging around her neck, and studied the papers.
While Chun read, Min-Ming took a closer look at the spirit medium. Temple-based mediums were often men, the typical gender for a temple master. They guarded donation boxes, cleared gratitude flowers, lit wisdom lanterns. But if they had the “eye” to see into the past and future, and were trained in a monastery, they might also offer spiritual consultations. Teacher Chun, a female seer and rare species in the field, supposedly had a year-long waitlist.
Lowering her glasses, Chun looked up. “Ms. Fang—”
“Call me Min-Ming. I mean, Min-Ming is fine.”
“Min-Ming, I’m prepared to perform this ritual. To help you find closure and voice any remaining questions. But before we proceed, I need to ask: are you prepared, both mentally and physically?”
Her jaw tensed. “Yes,” Min-Ming said, tone as heavy as the backpack she lugged here. “Last month, Teacher Peng performed the ritual, and Akira didn’t seem to want to talk. We tried recalling him twice. By the third time, I couldn’t take another no, so I asked Teacher Peng to stop there. It was—” She took a moment. “Painful. I even called the hotline. That’s when I realized I needed someone… not my family or friends. They think I should be over it already, starting a new life, as if he never existed. Like I could just wipe him clean from my memory, from this earth. No, not them. I need someone who listens, without telling me what to do or how to feel… I got a list of—anyway, I will be fine.”
Digging her nails into her jeans, Min-Ming pinched her thigh. Hard.
“It’s been a year. Maybe he wants to be left alone, maybe he thought not connecting, not tethering would give me closure, forcing me to move on. I don’t know, but—I think I’m ready. Even if it’s silence again, I’ll take it. I’m done chasing him, his ghost.”
Sure, she’d said that before, had promised the same finale with Teacher Peng, but as she poured her thoughts out to Chun, like Taipei’s typhoon rain, she felt it: the irrevocable resolve of slackening her grip.
Weary fingers on a cliff branch.
Gravity’s pull.
Slipped.
She let her thigh go.
“That’s courage, Min-Ming. You’re incredibly brave.”
Teacher Chun’s words, few but striking, hit like an earthquake, shattering the disguised calm she’d kept in the apartment that was no longer theirs. Her voice pierced through the static she’d grown used to, jolting her from the walking-dead routine. Not quite here, not quite anywhere. A weight dropped her back into her body, grief cracked the ground beneath her. Aftershocks came in waves, swallowing the last shred of composure she’d maintained.
Lips trembling, she pressed the handkerchief to her face.
Across the desk, Chun nudged over the tissue box, plucked one for herself, and dabbed at her eyes. She remained silent throughout Min-Ming’s chokes and sobs. Not a comforting word, not a raised hand to hush her pain. Like a deity statue, she sat with laced fingers, bearing witness to Min-Ming’s struggle.
“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice hoarse. “This is embarrassing. I thought I’d run out of tears the first three months. I cry in the office washrooms, cafes, and going about my morning jog. I’ve tried to keep a routine. That seems to stop the tears, but the problem is my head, my thoughts—they don’t stop. They hunt me in my sleep, my dreams, in those moments I thought I’d get a break from thinking about him.”
She chuckled. “It’s perhaps slightly creepy to you, but I think about his touch all the time. At night, in the dark, that seems to come up the most. Not just… the desire type of touch—I mean, that too, but it’s the less hungry, more curious type. Like him with the plankton, exploring, wondering, trusting his instinct beyond the cold data on his screen. Almost—childlike with his pure intention. I don’t know, is this making any sense?”
Chun nodded, pursing her lips as if she too were holding back emotions.
“Yes, I believe—I understand that, that connection you two shared, linking not mere bodies, but spirits, souls. You’re seeking a reprieve from the endless rumination, endless recalling of what you had with him. But you haven’t acknowledged that loss. Your loss. When you received that horrendous news, it wasn’t just him you lost. It was a part of you, your vision of a life together, growing old side by side. That’s tremendous.”
Chun paused, tugging at her shawl.
“Have you heard the legend? When Mazu’s spirit left her body to guide her family’s boat to safety, she lost grip on her brother. You see—even goddesses have limits.”
Min-Ming sat silent. Before Akira’s disappearance, science was her sole religion.
“I guess… I need help.”
“Then, we begin,” Chun said.
Min-Ming returned a watery smile. Is it the seer who’s different or her?
Earlier, crossing the temple threshold, she’d felt uncertain—treating this ritual as her final attempt. Last night, lying awake until four, she questioned her resolve, wondering if persistence might be the key to reaching an unresponsive Akira, whose silence not even the mediums could decipher. At Teacher Peng’s, the ritual had failed. He eventually referred her to his own mentor, Teacher Chun. “She’s… let’s just say, persuasive,” he said with humility and resignation.
Min-Ming remained skeptical, doubting Akira would ever yield. But now, she understood the kind of persuasiveness Teacher Chun possessed.
“Do you need anything else? Should I help?” Min-Ming asked, rising to her feet, though she suspected seers, regardless of lineage, had their peculiarities and preferred to handle every aspect of the rituals themselves.
So it surprised her when Teacher Chun, halfway through drawing the curtains, said, “Yes, your help would be appreciated. Take Akira’s clothes to the prayer hall, to Mazu and the Buddha. Remove it from the plastic, hold it in your palms, and bow three times.”
“Oh—sure, but what should I say? A prayer? An incantation?”
Chun shook her head. “I’ll handle the incantations here. You, meanwhile, are responsible for informing the deities we’re about to begin. Offer them respectful notice, so they can carry the message to your boyfriend’s spirit. That way, he’ll have time to prepare and our attempt won’t feel so intrusive.”
Min-Ming nodded, picked up Akira’s T-shirt, and left Chun’s office.
Give him time to prepare. She hadn’t considered how her attempts might have landed, like a phone call interrupting his lab work. They used to argue about that, ending with her accusing him of not caring. It wasn’t until they moved in together she saw how single-minded he was. Multitasking, once a skill she swore by, had been a barrier. A distraction from the depth he needed for his research.
Before the statues, she brought the T-shirt to her nose and inhaled—barely any scent. Had it all faded? She buried her nose into the fabric and sniffed frantically. That sharp trace of salt, his citrus detergent, the echo of his madman-like devotion to the sea—where? Maybe the yellowed fabric under the armpit? She drew in, desperate. Instead, the dizzying smell of incense sticks.
The storm, the quake, had struck again: the realization he would never walk through their apartment door, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion yet glinting with the thrill of some new discovery in plankton behaviour.
No more.
Min-Ming collapsed before the Mazu statue, among the vases of orchids and chrysanthemums. She didn’t cry. Just cradled the T-shirt to her chest, rocking an absence.
In the first month after he disappeared, she slept with it, its crisp, biting sea salt tinged with sweat so vivid she woke thinking she lay curled against him. Even that comfort was gone. Ziplocks might preserve fragments of memory, but over time, aromas and texture fade, like the offering flowers now surrounding her: symbolic in purpose yet none fragrant enough to cut through the still air.
The tactile memory she clung to slipped through the crevasses not even plastic could contain. Another loss. Another unannounced goodbye. Everything they’d ever shared dissolved. Splash. Gone for good.
A chill—not the wind—seeped in from her left, where her heart should have been. Where organs felt unnecessary, because she no longer wanted to live. The pain was immediate, indescribable, reverberating through a body drained of will. It had been a year since she let herself feel, muting the dread of waking up alone, stretching her hand across the endless cold, numbing any survival instincts, food, water, sleep. She was ready to give in, to drop to the depth. Like plankton, to simply let go.
Zoom. The whale’s engulfing mouth, swift, painless—
“Dear child.”
A feminine voice called. Min-Ming didn’t look up. She’d buried herself.
“Child.”
Again. Someone. Somewhere above her head. Slowly, she raised her eyes to the sea goddess statue. Mazu watched, her eyes open to a slit.
“You can survive the day. Just today.”
Mazu’s carved wooden lips remained sealed, but she was certain someone spoke. Psychosis, hallucination. All the clinical terms sprang to mind. She glanced over her shoulder, surveying the empty floor.
“Plankton also wander, do they not?”
That voice.
How does it know about plankton?
“Min-Ming, you ready?”
Teacher Chun’s voice. Her head poked from behind the office door.
“Uh—ye—yes.”
Min-Ming tried to stand, but her legs felt as unsteady as her breath. She stumbled, collapsing back onto the floor. The icy tiles welcomed her like a seductive embrace, steep, bottomless. She let herself sink.
“Here,” Chun said, wrapping her shawl around Min-Ming. “You must be cold sitting on the floor. Don’t try to rise—your head will spin. Perhaps you haven’t eaten or had water today? Rest here for a moment.”
Min-Ming nodded, pulling the shawl tighter.
“Just today.”
Again. That feminine voice. She looked up, her eyes rounding as they met Chun’s.
“Just today,” Chun echoed. The two voices overlapped, clearly coming from different sources, but—
“I—don’t understand,” Min-Ming said, breathless, her whole being reeling, as if tossed by waves: up, left, down, right. “Please… I don’t…”
Chun smiled knowingly, though her soft eyes carried a frown. “It worked then.”
Still confused, Min-Ming frowned.
“The ritual,” Chun said.
“The ritual?”
“I performed the ritual in my office, while you were praying.”
“What?”
“Did you hear voices?”
“Yes, I thought—I was going mad.”
Chun shook her head, glasses swinging with the motion. “You weren’t. That was Mazu delivering Akira’s message.”
“Akira’s message?”
“Yes, I wasn’t able to catch the full message inside my office. Multiple voices converged, the Budda, Zhu-Sheng, the fertility goddess. I had to isolate Mazu’s, which took time. As you know, we honour many gods and goddesses in this temple. Messages flow constantly for me, like incense smoke when visitors cram their sticks too close, impossible to separate. But in your case, you should have only heard a single voice.”
“Yes, you can survive the day, just today. The voice said. And something about wandering plankton, that must be Akira. Teacher Chun, that must be him!”
Min-Ming looked up at Chun, her eyes expectant, but the seer stood solemn, her tone troubled. “Le—let me prepare some tea. We can discuss this in my office.”
In the room, the lingering scent of burned candles and melted wax prickled Min-Ming’s nose. She eased into the chair as Chun cupped tea leaves into a clay pot and pressed the hot water dispenser. Steam unfurled, steeping the room in fragrance. Min-Ming couldn’t identify the tea. The type she brewed came from complimentary sachets she collected from business hotel stays.
Akira—Akira also made tea with a clay pot. Said the material absorbed aroma, deepening the flavour over time. And the lid? It trapped heat and steam, building a stable environment for the leaf to unfurl. “Like studying plankton,” he’d said. “In the lab, we control variables. Light, temperature, and salt concentration. But their subtle changes of behaviour with the season, the tide shifts. Invisible to the naked eye. But if you remove all other distractions, watch, listen, and feel—you’ll notice.” She rolled her eyes before saying, “You could just use the analogy of soy sauce in a barrel. At least they are both food.”
Now, that memory warmed her, as if he were in the room. An inside joke only they knew. She grinned, her cheeks stinging from the salt.
“You’re smiling,” Chun said, passing Min-Ming a matching clay cup.
“Yeah, but it has nothing to do with the message.” She didn’t elaborate, wanting this anecdote to remain hers.
Chun let the silence stretch before saying, “Something’s shifted. Your energy.”
Min-Ming chewed her lips, unsure how to put her current state of mind into words. She studied the dainty teacup, small enough she could close her fingers and hide it in her palm. She did it again, opening her palm and closing it like a lotus blossom.
Chun watched, her own tea left undrunk. Finally, Min-Ming spoke.
“I think—this is probably what letting go feels like.”
“Feels like?”
“Like this.”
Min-Ming placed the cup on the desk and unfurled both her palms, repeating the blossoming motion.
“Like offering flowers?” Chun said. “Their impermanence—the strength to blossom despite knowing how temporary the moment is.”
“Is it? I’ve never thought about flowers that way, giving their all even knowing they’ll fade. Maybe, I haven’t let myself grieve—properly grieve. It’s been a year I’ve lived in this limbo. Waking up wishing I were dead. Eating, but never tasting. Everything feels bland, stale, like rice left out to dry. I’ve lost ten kilos, and my period stopped. These days, I walk a fine line between zombies and the dead. Never alive.” She peered at the closed curtains. “Is it okay if I open them?”
Chun nodded.
Min-Ming walked to pull back the curtains. Enough to allow a sliver of overcast light, and a faint chill from the glass. She leaned against the windowsill, cherishing the faint touch of the curtain’s thick, velvety fabric.
“When Mazu, or Akira said to survive the day, to wander, it’s as if everything I’ve been through, every tear I’d shed, was validated. One of those ‘Good Job’ stamps teachers press into students’ workbooks. I know it sounds absurd, even pathetic, but—they saw me, Mazu and Akira. They know how hard—how unbearable—like drowning, except you’re not given the mercy of death. You’re allowed to choke, to panic—but not to pass out. Every minute, you’re just waiting for the next breath, so you don’t suffocate. Over there, before the deities, they witnessed my pain. Not telling me it’d be ok, it’d get better—all the bullshit how it’s a lesson for me to learn something. Sorry—”
Chun waved her on.
“Anyway.” Min-Ming scratched her chin, fidgeted with her hair. “This is—maybe not the answer I was looking for, but the answer I need. The witnessing, like walking beside somebody who matches your pace, not one step too fast so you feel pressured to keep up, not too slow either. Without words, they follow, even when neither knew the destination—um—do you know what I mean?”
“Yes and no. I think one never understands the other fully, but I’m following,” Chun said and poured Min-Ming another cup of tea.
“Actually, I think—I’m okay with the tea. I’m gonna get going.”
“You have other appointments?”
“No, not that. I don’t know where, but I want to walk, run even. There’s this energy in me, this feeling of something new just at the corner. It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time, something I didn’t know I could feel again. Unfamiliar. A little frightening. But I’ve stood at the crossroads far too long, waiting for a green light that should’ve come from my internal compass. Now—more than ever—I need to run. Not away, but into.”
Min-Ming’s lips still formed the O, but her hands were already zipping up her backpack.
“Here’s the payment. Thank you.” She laid the prepared envelope on Chun’s desk, stood, and walked to the door, ready to wrench it open.
“Min-Ming,” Chun called from her chair.
She turned.
“No—nothing.” Chun smiled, grinning so wide that it almost turned into a giggle. “Run,” she said as their parting word.
Min-Ming nodded and marched through the doorway.
Chun didn’t bother to close it. She sat, sipping her tea, lukewarm. At this temperature, the oolong-tasting notes jumped out. Like pickled plums, it always tasted better sitting out for a while. Propping her elbow on the desk, she marvelled at the play of lights across her purple crystal geodes. To keep their colours, she normally kept the curtains closed, but the sunbeam, absorbed, reflected, and bounced off the stone, was a sight she could watch for hours. There were things, even at her age of sixty-four, that still surprised her. Today’s client, for example.
Squeak-squawk.
A knock came, snapping Chun out of her contemplation.
“Teacher?”
“Yes, Ah-Yuan. Come in,” Chun said.
Ah-Yuan closed the door behind him before continuing, “That girl—your shawl. She just left.”
“Yes, I know. She was in a hurry.”
“But your shawl—”
“I want her to have it.”
“But—”
“It’s alright, Ah-Yuan,” Chun interrupted. “You know why she came?”
“For the ritual? I know you don’t take on new clients, so she must be a special case. Teacher Peng’s referral?”
“Yes. When I heard her story from Peng, I thought I had to see this girl.”
Ah-Yuan froze. Even his slippers fell silent.
“She said the research ship never returned, nor did her boyfriend. And that was exactly a year ago.”
“What? But—that’s—”
“I know. When my son—” Chun choked on the word.
“So that girl… she your son’s girlfriend?”
Chun shook her head. “No, my son didn’t do research. He was more drawn to fishing. I think what happened was—this is my speculation—she read the news about my son’s disappearance out in the sea. Every detail she gave coincides with my boy’s story, but the boyfriend, Akira Shimizu, is still alive.”
“Alive?”
“After I’d lit the candles, chanted, and tried going into a trance—the usual, calling the spirit to possess my body. But nothing. As if knocking on a brick wall, not a wooden door. Normally, if the spirits didn’t want to respond, you’d still get a message, a feeling of their unwillingness to engage. You know when you light an incense stick that just doesn’t budge? That’s when I knew. The boyfriend is not in that world, but in this.”
“Was that why? Teacher Peng also couldn’t reach him.”
“He told me his suspicion but wanted me to confirm. Actually, when he phoned, his first question was whether my son had a girlfriend named Min-Ming. I suppose—taking on this client was more a selfish act.”
Ah-Yuan parted his lips as though wanting to say something, but instead, chewed his dentures.
“It’s possible they broke up a year ago, and when the news came up about my son, similar in age… sometimes, death is easier to accept than abandonment. You’d rather believe the person you love is dead. They leave without an explanation, a parting word. When they’re dead, out of reach forever. But when they’re alive and just won’t answer—that’s harder.”
Still by the door, Ah-Yuan listened, his face stunned, one palm gripping the doorknob for support. He’d seen the grieving arrive at the temple, faces veiled in ash-grey shadow, deep trenches under their eyes, a diminishing spirit in their pupils. But a nut job?
“Teacher, do you need—”
“No, I’m fine. To be honest, I thought I’d be in pieces meeting that girl—my son, the memories resurfacing. I even took my blood pressure pills with breakfast just to be safe. But the whole experience, meeting her, listening to her, made me hopeful. It’s strange. Not about Mazu’s words, those are always full of wisdom, but the comfort—knowing someone could potentially love my boy so much. That he could be loved so deeply, without reservation, by someone other than me—and how this person, this girl could share my grief. That… it’s that.”
Instinctively, Chun reached for her shawl, only to feel its absence. She realized—this, too, she could learn to live without.
“Teacher, is that yours?”
Chun followed Ah-Yuan’s finger. On the floor, an ocean-blue handkerchief.