In a peculiar twist of fate, Chen Mei found herself reborn into her own life, except this time, hovering ethereally inside her family’s enormous television set. The hulking 85-inch screen that her husband had insisted on buying—despite her protests that it would dominate their modest living room—had become her new residence.

“I always said that TV would be the death of you,” her mother’s voice echoed from the sofa, though the elderly woman couldn’t possibly know her daughter now inhabited the electronic device. Chen Mei watched her family gather for her funeral through the high-definition display, their faces crystal clear in 4K resolution.

“The doctors said it was stress,” her husband explained to the relatives, his voice trembling. “She worked too hard, slept too little.”

Chen Mei wanted to scoff. If only they knew that her “stress” came from discovering his affair with his secretary. The irony of her new existence wasn’t lost on her—she who had always criticized her husband’s obsession with television now found herself trapped within one.

Day after day, she observed her family’s life play out before her like a perpetual soap opera. Her teenage son would sit cross-legged on the floor, mindlessly playing video games. “Mom would’ve hated this,” he would sometimes murmur, unaware that she was right there, watching his character die for the hundredth time.

The secretary-turned-girlfriend started visiting more frequently, bringing homemade dishes that Chen Mei’s recipes had inspired. “Your wife had such excellent taste,” she would say, without a trace of shame. Chen Mei discovered that she could make the TV malfunction whenever the woman was around—static interference during romantic movies, volume fluctuations during intimate conversations.

One evening, as her husband and his new love interest cuddled on the sofa, Chen Mei managed to switch the channel to a documentary about parasitic wasps. The couple jumped apart, startled by the graphic imagery of larvae bursting from their hosts.

Moths began appearing inexplicably inside the TV screen, their wings beating against the glass like trapped thoughts. They multiplied daily, creating strange patterns across broadcast shows and streaming services. The repair technicians were baffled. “Never seen anything like this,” they’d say, scratching their heads.

On what would have been her birthday, Chen Mei discovered she could project herself onto the screen, appearing as a ghostly reflection during the dark scenes. Her son was the first to notice.

“Dad,” he called out one night, “I think Mom’s in the TV.”

Her husband laughed nervously. “You’ve been playing too many horror games.”

But the secretary wasn’t laughing. She’d seen it too—Chen Mei’s disapproving face superimposed over her own during a selfie taken in front of the TV.

The next day, they decided to replace the television. As the delivery men carried in a new, even larger model, Chen Mei felt herself fragmenting, spreading across the household’s growing collection of screens—the smartphones, tablets, laptops, even the smart refrigerator’s display.

Now she was everywhere, a digital phantom haunting their electronic lives. Her husband’s girlfriend eventually left, citing “creepy technical issues” that followed her everywhere. Her son started spending more time outdoors. And her husband? He developed an inexplicable fear of screens, switching to print newspapers and paperback books.

Chen Mei smiled her pixelated smile. Sometimes, she mused, it takes dying to finally get your family’s attention.