Smartphones, games consoles, sports cars — a papercraft master reveals the modern ways his young clients are honoring dead friends and family.
By White Night Workshop
For generations, Chinese families have gathered at the graves of their ancestors to burn paper offerings, such as “ghost money,” originally in the belief that these would transcend the veil between worlds and ensure that their loved ones enjoyed a comfortable afterlife.
Over time, the ritual shifted from its supernatural foundations to become a deeply personal kind of remembrance, with people gradually incorporating modern offerings, such as paper televisions, laptops, smartphones, and games consoles.
In early 2024, Ah Yue opened a studio in Guangzhou, capital of southern Guangdong province, specializing in crafting paper tech products and other modern items for memorials. The 30-year-old serves mostly Gen Z clients, with bespoke requests ranging from replicas of luxury cars to a box of China’s classic Want Want milk-flavored drink.
Ah Yue says the experience has helped him gain a deeper understanding of the bond between the living and departed. This is his story.
Artistry for the afterlife
When I began creating paper replicas of digital products, one of my earliest orders was a pink iPhone 15, commissioned by a student for her younger sister, who had passed away. Most people opt for the Pro Max model, but she insisted on the standard version because her sister loved pink, a color that the iPhone 15 Pro Max wasn’t available in. She also asked me to perform the burning ceremony for her, likely to keep it private from her family or due to restrictions on her school’s campus.
Another request was for 10 replicas of the iPhone 16. I double-checked the quantity, and the client explained it was for a friend — a mobile gaming streamer whose health had declined from too many late nights. The streamer’s friends had once joked that if she recovered, they’d buy her not one but 10 iPhone 16s (this was before the model had even been released). Tragically, her condition worsened suddenly, and she passed away before they could say goodbye. After I finished burning the phones, the client asked me to add a charging station as well.
I rent a warehouse in one of Guangzhou’s urban villages, a modest space with basic furniture, a computer, a printer, and stacks of materials. My workshop stocks more than 100 products, giving it a “supermarket feel.” Customers can browse the options, imagining what their loved ones might want or need in the afterlife.
Ah Yue’s workshop in Guangzhou. Courtesy of Ah Yue
Ah Yue’s design for a paper game pad. From Ah Yue’s Bilibili account
The biggest challenge of papercraft lies in the construction. I start by creating 3D models, then break them down into components, design templates using artificial intelligence, and assemble them. Regular paper is too flimsy and lacks color saturation. After numerous tests with a photo printer, I found that glossy paper between 230 and 260 grams strikes the right balance — it’s visually appealing, structurally solid, and flammable enough for the ritual.
I receive about 1.5 orders a day and work long hours — from 7 a.m. to 3 a.m. — mainly serving clients between 18 and 30 years old. The iPhone remains my bestseller. With people frequently upgrading their phones nowadays, many feel their departed loved ones shouldn’t be left behind with outdated models. Around 80% of customers also order accessories like charging cables to complete the sense of ritual.
While the paper iPhone is my standard product, many people also ask for other brands and models, like Xiaomi, Huawei, and foldable phones. Just days after Xiaomi released its latest foldable handset, a customer came in to request one for her late best friend, who had been a Xiaomi fan.
A paper iPhone 15 (left) and a paper version of a Huawei foldable mobile phone. Courtesy of Ah Yue
In July, I introduced a pre-order service for memorial items, as many young people worry that their families won’t burn what they truly cherish after they’re gone. I’ve received around 10 such orders, mostly for smartphones and digital products. If a requested brand doesn’t release a new model in time, I substitute it with the top-selling equivalent. Some requests are deeply personal — one client asked only for a box of Want Want milk.
Before starting my own business, I used to burn the latest paper phones for my late father and grandmother, hoping to share new trends with them. I visited countless funeral stores, many of which only offered generic phone boxes labeled “Samsung Galaxy,” “Huawei,” or “iPhone.”
My father used to carry a Motorola flip phone with a color screen, which back then was considered very stylish. My grandmother used a silver feature phone, not a well-known brand, as big as a brick, with a ringtone loud enough to be heard from two blocks away. Living alone, she mainly used it to talk to my mom, who always asked the same questions: “Do you have enough money? Is there enough coal to stay warm?” Despite having three sons, my grandmother believed her daughter was the most attentive.
Some customers ask for vintage models. I sell replicas of phones from four or five years ago, including older Nokia, Samsung, and Motorola models. One woman wanted to recreate a Philips phone for her grandmother. She sent me detailed photos of the actual handset — red, with worn buttons and dust embedded in the textured back cover. She insisted on an exact replica, explaining that the family had forgotten to include the real phone in the cremation casket.
A GIF shows paper Nokia mobile phones being burned. From Ah Yue’s Bilibili account
Life struggles
My first order came from a mother who commissioned a paper Nintendo Switch games console with red and blue controllers, alongside a Louis Vuitton cap and dumbbells, for her deceased son. These items painted a vivid picture of a trendy young man who likely enjoyed keeping fit.
As a Switch enthusiast myself, I decided to give it a try. I created 18 versions of the paper console and posted pictures of them online, which quickly garnered millions of views. Reactions were mixed — some netizens called it a “scam,” while Nintendo fans found it cool, imagining that they could be “reborn in a Nintendo world after death.” The Switch became my second-best-selling item, and I expanded my offerings to include paper models of 10 popular game cards, including those for the Zelda and Mario series.
Growing up in the ’90s, gaming was an essential way for me to unwind. However, after turning 25, with marriage and children, gaming became a luxury. When I first suggested buying a Switch, my wife was against it, thinking it was a waste of money. I persisted, assuring her that she’d come to love it once she tried. Her coworkers teased her, “Watch out, the Switch is just a gateway to a PlayStation 5.” After two months of gentle persuasion, she finally agreed.
A paper PS5, Switch, and game cartridges. From Ah Yue’s Bilibili account
While traditional relationships often revolve around daily necessities, our generation has also formed friendships and romantic relationships through gaming. In August, a young woman ordered a Switch for her husband’s seventh-day memorial, a tradition in which the deceased’s soul is believed to return home one last time. She later shared that they had been together for seven years, enduring a long-distance relationship and the pandemic before finally marrying. Tragically, within six months, he was suddenly gone.
“He loved gaming. We bought a Switch together and played Mario Kart 8, Odyssey, It Takes Two, and Overcooked. We built houses and raised dinosaurs in Ark, commanded fleets in Eve, and farmed together in Stardew Valley. We dreamed of building a real home together, anticipating a happy life after marriage. But all of that vanished with his departure,” she wrote in her review for my business on the e-commerce platform Taobao. She was incredibly strong.
Some parents who visited my store were unsure what games their children had liked, so they asked for recommendations. One wrote in a review, “I got this game, hoping my boy can play more happily in that world.”
Often, friends understand the deceased’s preferences better than family. One client, knowing how much his late college classmate loved building PCs and gaming, specifically ordered him a replica high-performance GeForce RTX 4090 graphics card. The classmate, who had excellent grades but came from a modest background, was unable to pursue graduate studies, likely due to financial constraints. He had fallen into depression and took his own life.
A paper computer with a GeForce RTX 4090 graphics card. From Ah Yue’s Bilibili account
Some clients also ask me to burn letters to their deceased loved ones. Some letters are filled with hope, sharing news of milestones like the first paycheck, marriage, or the birth of a child. Others express the author’s struggles in life.
One woman, whose boyfriend died unexpectedly, later battled a series of life hardships, including cancer and divorce. She burned a Switch and a few game cards for her boyfriend, and wrote in her letter, “Sometimes I envy you, forever 27, while I must keep moving forward, unsure of what lies ahead…”
A wife who was grieving her husband customized a paper model of a Lynk & Co 03 car, even including his license plate. She’d always known how much he loved the car, and sought solace through this custom order.
Over time, I’ve noticed that many clients are lonely and feel unable to share their feelings with others. They choose to confide in the deceased while assuring them not to worry.
I try to comfort them sometimes. In September, a Gen Z woman who worked 10 hours a day at her family’s restaurant for little pay told me she felt like she wasn’t living for herself. She was seriously considering ordering eight handsome, 1.8-meter-tall male models, a mansion, and servants for her afterlife. Over the following months, I offered her support as she shared her daily struggles — exhaustion, work stress, weight concerns, and hunger pangs after late shifts. She showed signs of depression but gradually improved through our conversations.
A student made an order for an Avicii CD, even specifying the month she planned to leave this world. I shared my experiences to console her, suggesting she try simple acts like taking a bath to recharge. I felt relieved when I later saw her social media posts about savoring bubble tea and shopping with friends, confirming she had found some form of peace.
Ah Yue’s paper Switch samples. Courtesy of Ah Yue
Last requests
I haven’t received much feedback about people burning these items at funerals, but I do often hear personal stories. In the beginning, custom orders made up 70% of my business, now it’s around 40 to 50%. I sense that memorial offerings are shifting from large amounts of paper money to more personal, meaningful items.
My mom used to burn paper money for my grandmother and father, but now I’m in charge. I plan to burn a newly designed senior-friendly phone for my grandmother and an automatic mahjong table for my father. He was obsessed with gambling — when I was 4 or 5 years old, I watched him bet my school fees at the mahjong table. He lost, and my mom had to pawn her rings and necklace to pay for my tuition. My classmates gave me strange looks when they learned about it. Now that he’s in another world, I want him to find peace and joy, even if it means playing to his heart’s content.
As I got older, our communication through his Motorola became minimal — just two or three calls a year, each lasting 30 to 40 seconds, mostly asking if work was going well. Initially, without an income, I could only wish him a happy birthday. Later, when I was earning a salary, I would buy him gifts like razors and clothes. He died of liver cancer, and in his final call from his hospital bed, he told me not to come back for his funeral, which was in the central Hunan province. But I did anyway.
One customer asked me to make paper potato bread for his grandfather. He said that during his second semester of college, he picked some up on a whim, thinking his grandfather might like it. But his grandfather passed before he could taste it. When he went back to the store, the bread had been discontinued.
A woman even requested paper sanitary pads for her mother, specifically a premium type rather than a cheaper brand with a cooling effect, believing the coldness would cause discomfort. In a letter, she wrote, “You always refused to buy these for yourself, saying they were too expensive. Now your daughter can afford them.”
Recently, someone ordered heated gloves for their grandmother, who was afraid of the cold. When I suggested a paper heater instead — since we had some ready-made pieces in the store — he insisted on gloves because that’s what his grandmother had used. When these items are enshrined in memory alongside the person, they carry special meaning. I also receive many orders to make offerings for deceased pets, such as a woman who requested a specific brand of cat food.
Paper cat food customized by a pet owner. From Ah Yue’s Bilibili account
What customers carry most are feelings of regret and guilt. Through their offerings, the living find comfort. In particular, meeting with younger customers has opened my eyes to a new world. A 16-year-old boy struggling with illness asked me to make a custom pool cue for him, fearing he wouldn’t survive. When his transplant later succeeded, he remembered me as someone to share his excitement with.
The lives I glimpse through these orders are often weighed down by immense pressure. Yet, many of them fill their days with little joys — cosplay, gaming, and delicious food. Even after death, they want to keep playing.
If the offerings I make can help ease their burden, then perhaps the pressure was just a paper tiger all along.
As told to reporter Xu Dazhi.
A version of this article originally appeared in White Night Workshop. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.
Translator: Chen Yue; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.
(Header image: Visuals from Ah Yue’s Bilibili account, reedited by Sixth Tone)