It said: "Sai, if you are reading this, I never left. My account was hacked. I am coming home for Thingyan. Wait for me by the well."

"Sai, today I saw a train for the first time. It was loud and beautiful." "Sai, the city smells of rain and diesel. I miss the tea fields." "Sai, I learned how to stitch a wound. I almost fainted."

His feed was a time capsule. The last messages from Thiri, still there. A photo of his mother's tea harvest from three years ago. An event invitation for a festival that had already passed. It was all there, frozen in amber.

The wheel spun. He waited. One minute. Two. Then, a red banner appeared at the top of the screen, written in tiny Japanese text he couldn't read. But he recognised the shape of one word: エラー (Error).