A self-service laundromat at two in the morning. That kind of silence—everyone's there, but no one dares make a sound. Washing machines spinning, dryers spinning, drums going round and round, endless. I was there, at that hour, in that place. I saw things. Things inside the washing machines. The kind you'd rather not see.
It started three months ago.
My name is Song Zhe. Twenty-nine years old. I rent a one-bedroom in the old Cotton Mill workers' compound south of the city. Fourteen hundred a month, one month deposit, one month rent. The building's from the eighties. Water stains blooming across the walls. The kitchen exhaust fan screeches every time you turn it on. But it's cheap, and it's close to the ad agency where I work—fifteen minutes on a shared bike.
The landlord's an old woman in her seventies, surname Chen. She lives in the next unit over. The day I signed the lease, she told me, "Xiao Song, the place is old, but it's clean. Just one thing—don't use the washing machine."
I thought she meant it was broken.
"It's not broken." Granny Chen waved her hand. Her cloudy eyes peered at me over her reading glasses. "That washing machine—it can't wash things clean. Whatever you wash, it gives you something extra."
I didn't get it at the time. I smiled and said I'd hand-wash.
Granny Chen gave me a look. How do I describe it—the look you give someone who hasn't learned their lesson yet. She didn't say anything else. Handed me the keys and left.
The first month, everything was normal. I did hand-wash. Scrubbed shirts in a plastic basin in the bathroom, wrung them out, hung them on the balcony. Two days in the wind and they were dry. A hassle, sure, but how fancy does a guy living alone need to be?
The problem is, everyone gets lazy eventually.
The last week of September, the agency landed an FMCG account. The client revised the proposal seventeen times. I worked overtime five days straight, getting home close to midnight every night. By the end of it, I had a whole woven sack of dirty laundry. T-shirts, underwear, socks—all mixed together, giving off a sour smell that made you wince.
Saturday afternoon, I finally had time to do laundry. But this batch was rank. Hand-washing would take forever.
I glanced into the sack. At least twenty pairs of socks. Black, white, gray, striped—a pile of dead fish belly-up. I figured scrubbing through all those socks would peel the skin right off my hands.
That's when I remembered the self-service laundromat at the mouth of the alley.
The place sat on the route between the compound and the subway station. Blue sign, white lettering: "24-Hour Self-Service Laundry." A smaller line underneath: "Members get 30 free with 100 top-up." I passed it every day but never went in. The rolling shutter was always half-open, revealing yellowed tile floors and a row of dusty machines. Looked like it had been there forever. Or maybe no one had ever used it.
Something about that place felt off. Every time I walked past, I'd pick up my pace without thinking. Maybe it was the dim lighting. Maybe it was the washing machines—too old, their white shells stained with years of yellow, round glass doors filmed with scale so thick you couldn't see what was spinning inside.
But that day, I was too tired. I stood at the mouth of the alley with my sack of dirty laundry and did the math: hand-wash, an hour minimum, back aching; washing machine, forty minutes, a dozen yuan. Not a hard choice.
I changed my shoes at the door, grabbed the sack, and headed downstairs.
The laundromat was the second shop on the left, wedged between a shuttered baozi shop and an e-bike repair place. Half past five in the evening. The sky hadn't gone fully dark yet, but shadows were already pooling in the alley. I pushed open the glass door. The hinges let out a thin screech. The kind you get when you step on a cat's tail.
The inside was bigger than I expected. Two rows of six washing machines on each side. Eight dryers against the back wall. Two plastic benches down the middle. Old fluorescent tubes overhead—one of them half-broken, flickering every few seconds. The whole room pulsed with it. Light, dark, light, dark. Like a glitchy old film.
The air smelled of laundry detergent and disinfectant, with a trace of something metallic underneath. Rust, maybe.
No one was inside. At the far end, a small counter held a dust-covered cash register. A printed sheet taped beside it read: "For malfunctions, call 138XXXXXX." Behind the counter, a narrow passageway, half-hidden by a grimy curtain. Probably a storage space.
I scanned the QR code on the machine, paid, picked Washer No. 3 near the door. Dumped all my clothes in, poured in detergent, hit start. The drum began filling with water. Gurgling. Familiar. Reassuring.
Everything was perfectly normal.
I sat on the plastic bench scrolling through my phone for about forty minutes. The machine beeped three times and stopped. I stood up, pulled open the round glass door, and started transferring clothes into the dryer next to it, piece by piece.
When I reached the last item, I froze.
Pressed against the stainless steel wall at the very back of the drum was a sock.
Not mine.
Deep blue. A diamond pattern knitted around the ankle. The cuff slightly rolled, like it had been worn. Still fairly clean. The detail that confirmed it wasn't mine—had I seen this sock when I came in? No, the real question was—this sock was only the left one.
I turned it over. A worn patch on the heel, like someone had walked a lot in it. Definitely used.
I didn't think much of it at the time. Self-service laundromat. The last person left a sock behind. Normal. I fished it out, shook off the water, and hung it on the lost-and-found hook.
The hook was right above Washer No. 3. A plain white plastic hook. Someone had scrawled "Lost & Found" on the wall above it in marker. When I hung the sock up, I noticed a thin layer of dust on the hook. Looked like no one had used it in a long time.
The dryer ran for fifty minutes. I folded my clothes, packed them into the sack, and headed home.
The deep blue sock stayed on the hook. Alone. A little flag.
Back at the apartment, Granny Chen was picking vegetables by the building entrance. She saw me carrying the sack and asked, "Where'd you wash?"
"The laundromat at the alley mouth."
Her hands stopped. She looked up at me. Her lips moved like she wanted to say something. In the end, she just sighed. "Don't go there much."
"Why?"
"That place isn't clean." She lowered her head and went back to her vegetables. "When I was young, that place was a bathhouse."
I didn't respond. Old ladies always had spooky stories. Which house someone died in. Which tree someone hanged themselves from. Habit. I smiled, said thanks Granny Chen, and went upstairs.
The next day was Sunday. I slept in till almost ten. When I woke up, I remembered I hadn't put away yesterday's laundry. I dumped the dried clothes out of the sack and started folding, one by one.
T-shirt, folded. Jeans, folded. Socks, paired.
I always roll my socks into balls, two together. Black with black, white with white, gray with gray.
At the end, there was one left over.
I picked it up and looked at it. White. A small yellowish stain near the toes. Cheap poly-cotton blend, the kind you get three pairs for ten yuan at the supermarket. And the key detail—left foot.
Not mine. I never wear pure white socks. They show dirt too easily.
But this sock had definitely come out of my laundry pile. Still warm from the dryer.
I turned it over and over in my hands. Then I threw it in the trash.
Two days later, Monday night, I went back to the laundromat. Just two shirts and a few pairs of underwear this time. Not much for a whole week, but I figured I was passing by anyway. Might as well check out what was going on with that place.
I checked the time before going in. Eight-forty.
No one inside. Same broken fluorescent tube, still flickering. The hook above Washer No. 3 was empty. The deep blue sock was gone.
I stared at it a moment longer. Clean. Not even a thread left.
Maybe the owner came back for it. Maybe the cleaning lady took it.
I used Washer No. 5 this time. Switched machines on purpose. Inserted coins, poured detergent, shut the door, hit start. Smooth. I sat on the bench scrolling through short videos for forty minutes. The moment I opened the door, goosebumps prickled up the back of my neck. I didn't even know why. Maybe the air had suddenly gone cold. Maybe my subconscious had already sensed what was coming.
At the bottom of the drum, lying perfectly still, was a sock.
Light gray. A little pilling near the toes. The brand tag had been cut off, just a white edge left. Left foot.
I stood in front of the washing machine, staring at that sock. Stared for a long time.
In the end, I hung it on the hook too. This time I looked closely at the wall around the hook. Nothing. Just plain white wall, a little yellowed, a few fine cracks.
Back home, it started to sink in that something was wrong.
Twice. Both times, a sock appeared in my washing machine. Both times, left foot. And the second time, I'd used Machine No. 5, not No. 3. If it was just something the last user left behind, that was way too much of a coincidence. And I remembered clearly—before loading my clothes the second time, I'd checked the drum. Empty.
I rolled over in bed. Granny Chen's words came back to me. "That washing machine—it can't wash things clean."
I'd thought she meant the one in the apartment.
But the knot was already forming in my gut.
The third time I went to the laundromat, I went on purpose.
Friday night. I deliberately picked a white dress shirt and put it in Washer No. 3. This time I didn't bring a single sock. Not one. Not even my own, just so there'd be no confusion. I even took off my shoes and checked my feet—both socks there, both mine.
The machine started spinning. I sat on the bench. Didn't touch my phone. Just watched.
The fluorescent tube flickered.
I'd counted. That broken tube flickered every seven seconds. Like a countdown. Water sloshed inside the drum. My white shirt tumbled over and over. A fish struggling.
Forty minutes later, the machine beeped three times.
I stood up. Took a deep breath. Pulled open the door.
The first thing I saw was my white shirt, plastered wet against the drum wall. I fished it out. Reached deeper. My fingertips brushed against the stainless steel—
And touched something soft.
I pulled it out.
A sock. Ginger-yellow. A dark brown stain on the sole, like something liquid had soaked in and dried. The material was old, edges frayed. Looked like someone had worn it for years. Left foot.
I stood there holding that ginger-yellow sock in front of Washer No. 3. A chill crawled down my spine, wave after wave.
I was sure. One hundred percent, absolutely sure. The drum was empty when I put my shirt in. I'd checked. I'd run my hand along the inside. I still remembered the cold touch of the metal.
So where the hell did this sock come from?
I turned slowly and looked at the hook on the wall. The first two socks were gone. The gray one, the white one—all vanished. The hook was bare. Like nothing had ever hung there.
I hung the ginger-yellow sock on the hook and turned to leave.
At the door, I looked back. The fluorescent tube flickered. The ginger-yellow sock hung from the white plastic hook. A breeze from the door made it sway.
It swayed the wrong way.
The wind was blowing in from where I stood. The sock should have swayed inward. But it swayed outward. Toward the wall.
Like something behind the wall had tugged it.
I picked up my pace. Practically jogged home.
I barely slept that night. Lying in bed, my mind kept replaying that moment—the sock swaying. Wind. Angle. Optical illusion. But it didn't add up. Wind blowing into the laundromat. How could the sock sway in the opposite direction?
I tossed and turned half the night. Finally drifted off near dawn.
When I woke up the next morning, I made a decision.
I had to get to the bottom of this.
It wasn't about courage. In this crappy neighborhood, this was the only laundromat within two kilometers. The next closest one was four subway stops away. Hauling a sack of laundry two hours round trip every time—not happening. Either I figured this out and kept using the place, or I went back to hand-washing, scrubbing till my hands got frostbite in the winter.
I chose to figure it out.
I went to ask the e-bike repair guy. His surname was Zhou, in his forties, had been fixing bikes in this alley for seven or eight years. I offered him a cigarette, chatted a bit, then circled around to the laundromat.
"That place?" Master Zhou flicked his ash. "I'd stay away if I were you."
"Why does everyone tell me to stay away?"
"It's cursed." He stuck the cigarette in his mouth and bent over to tighten a screw. "Used to be a bathhouse. Decades ago. After it shut down, they tried everything. Opened a restaurant—went under. Opened a supermarket—lost money. Finally opened this laundromat. That one stuck."
"Who owns it?"
"Never seen 'em. Word is it's a woman. Never shows up. Just hires someone to clean now and then." Master Zhou straightened up and looked at me. "Why you asking so much?"
"My laundry keeps coming out with extra socks."
Master Zhou laughed, but it wasn't a comfortable laugh. "Then you're lucky. Just socks."
He bent back down to his bike. Clearly done talking.
I chewed on that sentence all the way home. What did he mean, "just socks"?
Friday night. I decided to stake the place out. All night.
I'd already asked for Monday off. Told my supervisor I was going back to my hometown for the weekend. After work Friday, I hit the supermarket—bread, bottled water, a can of Red Bull. Went home, changed into dark clothes. Headed out at ten.
Walking toward the laundromat, the whole compound was unnaturally quiet. Normally at this hour you'd still hear TVs from upstairs, people chatting downstairs. That night, not a sound. Two streetlights were out. Shadows stretched long across the ground. Wind moaned through the narrow gaps between the old buildings.
The laundromat's light glowed at the mouth of the alley. Pale. Sickly white.
I pushed open the door. Same broken fluorescent tube. Seven-second flicker. The hook on the wall was empty—the ginger-yellow sock was gone too, vanished just like the first two.
I scanned the room and picked the deepest corner. Sat down against the wall. From there I could see all the washing machines, plus the passageway behind the counter.
The curtain over the passageway hung still. Half a sheet of grimy fabric. Hiding whatever was back there.
I set my phone to silent. Bread on my lap. Back against the cold tile wall. And waited.
The first two hours were fine. I scrolled my phone, ate bread, drank water, glanced up now and then. I was alone in the laundromat. The fluorescent tube buzzed. Like a fly behind my ear. Can't swat it away. No one came to do laundry. That made sense—past ten at night, what normal person does laundry at this hour?
After eleven, I started getting drowsy. My phone was almost dead. I stopped scrolling and shoved it in my pocket. My legs had gone numb from sitting. I shifted position, leaned against the wall, and stared at the row of washing machines.
One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six. Twelve round glass doors like twelve eyes, watching me from behind their yellowed film of scale.
I started counting the flickers to pass the time.
Seven seconds per flicker. One. Two. Three.
By the hundredth flicker, I realized something was wrong.
A sound came from outside the alley. Very soft, but in that dead-quiet night, impossibly clear. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Slippers on concrete.
I snapped upright. Every trace of drowsiness gone. The hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. The sound was unhurried. Getting closer. Someone out for a walk? Looking for something? I couldn't tell. I shrank deeper into the corner, held my breath, eyes locked on the glass door.
The footsteps stopped right outside the laundromat.
I stared through the glass door. The alley's streetlight cast a dim yellow glow over a small patch of ground. No one there. Just my own reflection in the glass—a pale face, eyes wide.
The footsteps had stopped.
I swallowed. My throat was bone-dry. Just someone passing by. Went home. Turned down another alley.
But my heart was pounding like a war drum.
Silence for about ten minutes. Then I heard a sharp beep. Short. Clear. Coming from the deepest part of the room.
Washer No. 3 had started itself.
I whipped my head around so fast I nearly pulled a muscle. The control panel on Washer No. 3 glowed a faint blue. The drum was filling with water. The sloshing sound was deafening in that dead silence.
The display showed the wash time: 40 minutes.
No one had touched it. No one had gone near it. No warning. It started on its own.
My palms were soaked. My back pressed hard against the wall. My legs felt like they'd been filled with lead. Every rational thought told me to stand up, push open the door, and run. But my body wouldn't listen. My eyes were nailed to that washing machine. I couldn't look away for a single second.
The water stopped. The drum began to turn.
A low hum filled the room. The fluorescent tube flickered. Flickered again. I stared at the glass door of Washer No. 3. Through the cloudy film of scale, I could see the drum rotating. Slowly.
Once. Twice. Like a heartbeat.
Forty minutes. I sat in that corner for forty full minutes. Didn't dare move a muscle. Every minute longer than a lifetime. The laundromat had gone freezing cold. The kind of cold that seeps out from inside your bones. I hugged my arms. My lips wouldn't stop trembling.
Washer No. 3 finally beeped three times. Stopped.
The laundromat sank back into dead silence.
I didn't dare move. Didn't dare open that door. I just stared at it. Stared at the drum behind the round glass door, frozen at some angle.
About five minutes passed. Maybe only three.
The fluorescent tube flickered.
In that split second between light and dark, I saw it.
On the inside of Washer No. 3's glass door—a handprint.
Palm. Five fingers. Clear as day. Like someone had pressed their hand against the inside of the glass, hard, leaving a wet imprint. Water droplets traced the outline of the fingers, glinting faintly under the fluorescent light.
The handprint was on the inside of the glass.
Inside the drum. The washing machine drum. Where water still flowed.
My brain went blank. Completely blank. My breath caught in my throat. Couldn't go up. Couldn't go down.
The fluorescent tube flickered again.
The handprint was gone.
The glass door was clean. Nothing but years of accumulated scale, a gray film. Nothing else.
When I stood up, my legs gave out. Almost dropped to my knees. I steadied myself against the wall and shuffled toward Washer No. 3, one step at a time. With every step, I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I reached the machine. Touched the glass door. Ice cold.
I put my hand on the round door handle.
The cold metal snapped me back a little. I took a deep breath. Twisted hard. Pulled the door open.
Inside the drum lay a sock.
Rose-red. A ring of white lace around the ankle. Looked old. A section of the lace had come unstitched, a red thread dangling. Left foot.
And water.
A thin layer of water pooled at the bottom of the drum, glinting under the light. The rose-red sock lay half-submerged. A beached fish.
Most importantly—I reached into the drum and touched the water. The temperature? And the handprint. That handprint had been real. Someone had pressed their hand against the inside of this drum.
I stood in front of Washer No. 3 holding the sock when I noticed a very specific detail—the sock was warm. Not cold. It had just come out of a forty-minute wash cycle, but it carried an unnatural warmth.
I don't know how I got out of the laundromat. When I came back to myself, I was already standing in the alley, still clutching that rose-red sock. The cold alley wind hit me, and I realized my back was soaked through. The streetlight stretched my shadow long and thin. A needle stabbed into the ground.
I looked down at the sock in my hand. The rose-red was shockingly bright in the dim light. That loose red thread on the lace fluttered in the breeze.
I shoved it into my pocket and walked fast back to the apartment.
That night, I turned on every light in the place. Wrapped myself in the blanket. Sat on the bed. Stayed like that till dawn.
The next morning, I did something a lot of people would probably call insane—I went back to the laundromat.
I brought the rose-red sock with me.
I can't really explain why. Just this emotion I couldn't name, pressing down harder than the fear. The whole thing was too strange. Strange enough that I needed an answer. Any answer. Even a normal one I could accept. Someone playing a prank. A hidden compartment in the machine. My brain breaking down.
I hung the rose-red sock back on the hook.
Then I took out my phone and snapped a picture of it.
For the next five days, I went to the laundromat every day after work.
Monday. The sock on the hook was gone. I used Washer No. 2 to wash a duvet cover. Opened the door—a black sock. Left foot. The sole worn so thin it was almost see-through.
Tuesday. Didn't do laundry. Just went to look. Hook empty. I opened Washer No. 2 to check. Nothing inside.
Wednesday. Washed a bath towel. Washer No. 4. When it finished, an extra sock. Blue stripes. Left foot. The cuff was loose, elastic band poking out.
Thursday. Washed a hoodie. Washer No. 2. An extra sock. Khaki. Left foot. A few white cat hairs stuck to it.
Friday. I didn't use my own clothes. I fished an old T-shirt out of the trash downstairs. Faded white. Tossed it into Washer No. 2. Forty minutes later, opened the door—no sock.
That threw me off.
I'd been building a theory in my head. Maybe the machine had some kind of hidden compartment. Maybe someone was messing with me. But a stranger's discarded T-shirt produced nothing. My clothes, every single time, produced a sock.
I sat on the plastic bench, staring at the empty drum of Washer No. 2. The fluorescent tube flickered. Seven seconds. Flickered again.
Then it hit me.
It wasn't the machine.
It was me.
The socks weren't appearing because of which machine I used. They were appearing because I was the one using it.
I stood up and walked over to the hook. Empty. Five socks, all vanished. I'd taken photos of every single one. The photos were still on my phone. But the socks themselves—gone. Like they'd never existed.
I looked at the hook. Then at the passageway behind the counter. The grimy curtain hung still.
I walked toward it.
Every step, the air got heavier. The smell of rust grew stronger. The fluorescent tube buzzed overhead. By the time I reached the counter, my shirt was sticking to my back.
I reached out and pulled the curtain aside.
The passageway was narrow. Less than a meter wide. Peeling walls on both sides, gray concrete showing through. At the end, a rusted iron door. Not quite closed. I pushed it. It groaned open.
A small storage room. Three or four square meters. Boxes of laundry detergent and disinfectant on the floor. A mop with its head broken off leaning in the corner.
In the center of the floor, embedded in the concrete, was a rusted iron drain cover. About the size of a rice bowl. Round. The gaps were clogged with dark brown rust and some kind of debris I couldn't identify.
Wedged in the grate was a sock.
Very small. Blue and white stripes. Covered in dust. So old you could barely tell the original color.
Left foot.
I crouched down. Pinched the corner of the sock and pulled. It was stuck tight. Like something underneath was holding onto it. I pulled harder. The sock came free with a soft pop, bringing up a small cloud of dust.
The gaps in the drain cover were pitch black. Couldn't see a thing.
But I heard something.
A child's voice. Muffled. Like its mouth was full of water. Rising up from deep inside the drain, twisted by the rusted iron pipes until it was barely recognizable. But I understood it—it was laughing.
A giggling sound. The thick-tongued laugh of a four- or five-year-old. Like a game of hide-and-seek. Hiding at the other end of the pipe. Waiting for me to come find it.
I crumpled the blue-and-white striped sock into my palm. Backed out of the storage room. One step at a time.
The curtain swayed behind me.
The fluorescent tube stopped flickering. It blazed bright for one second. Then went out.
Just the two of us left in the laundromat. And the faint glow of the streetlight through the window. The air thick with laundry detergent and rust. I stood in front of the counter and realized the sock in my palm was gone.
I looked down at my hand. Nothing.
"Did you hear something?" the young man asked me.
I couldn't answer. Just as I opened my mouth, a sound came from behind me. Extremely familiar. An electronic beep.
"Beep."
I spun around.
Washer No. 3 had started itself again. The display read: 40 minutes.
The young man stood up from behind the counter. He was tall and thin, wearing black-rimmed glasses. Looked about twenty-five or twenty-six. His face was pale. The kind of pale you get from not seeing sunlight for a long time.
"You're the one who's been coming here every day," he said.
"Who are you?"
"The owner's younger brother." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "My sister ran off. Left this place to me. I've been here three days. Haven't slept."
"Why did she run?"
He didn't answer right away. He walked over to Washer No. 3, stared at the display for a moment, then pressed the cancel button. The machine beeped and stopped.
"Come here," he said. "I'll show you something."
He led me behind the counter. Under the dusty cash register was a laptop. The screen showed a surveillance feed. Split into four panels. The angles covered the entire laundromat.
"This place has cameras," he said. "My sister installed them. Said she wanted to see who was stealing the socks."
"Stealing socks?"
"She put out a lost-and-found hook. Hung up all the socks customers left behind. But every few days, the socks would disappear. She thought someone was taking them. So she put up cameras."
He clicked the mouse. The footage jumped back.
"Watch."
The timestamp in the corner read three months ago. The footage was black-and-white. Grainy. The laundromat was empty. The fluorescent tube flickered. Seven seconds. Flickered again.
Then I saw it.
The curtain behind the counter moved. Just a little. Like a breeze had passed through. But there were no windows in the passageway. No wind.
A figure stepped out from behind the curtain.
Very small. Reaching about waist-high on an adult. It moved slowly. One step at a time. Slippers on the tile floor. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was a child.
A little boy. Four or five years old. Wearing a tank top and shorts. His hair was wet. Plastered to his scalp. Water dripped from his body as he walked, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the tile floor.
He walked up to Washer No. 3. Stood on his tiptoes. Reached up with one small hand. Pulled open the round glass door.
Then he climbed in.
The whole process took less than ten seconds. A child that small. Curled up inside the washing machine drum. The glass door swung shut behind him.
The machine didn't start. The boy just stayed inside. Curled up. Not moving.
The timestamp kept ticking. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.
Then the glass door opened from the inside. The boy climbed out. In his hand was a sock. White. Small. A ring of lace around the cuff.
He hung the sock on the hook. Turned around. Walked back behind the curtain. Disappeared.
The young man paused the footage.
"That's the first one," he said. "The first sock that appeared on the hook."
I stared at the frozen frame. The white sock on the hook. The empty laundromat. The timestamp in the corner.
"Where did he come from?"
"Keep watching."
He clicked through more footage. Different dates. Different times. Always late at night. Always the same child. Sometimes he climbed into the washing machine. Sometimes he just stood in front of it. Staring at the glass door. His reflection in the round window. A small, blurry face.
And every time, a sock.
Different colors. Different materials. But always the left foot.
"There's more," the young man said. His voice had gone hoarse. "The footage from three days ago."
He clicked to another file. The timestamp read three days ago. Two in the morning.
The laundromat was empty. The fluorescent tube flickered.
Then a woman pushed open the door. Young. Maybe early thirties. Carrying a laundry basket. She walked to Washer No. 3. Loaded her clothes. Started the machine. Sat on the bench. Pulled out her phone.
Behind her, the curtain moved.
The little boy stepped out.
He walked past the woman. She didn't look up. Didn't react. Like she couldn't see him at all. The boy stopped in front of Washer No. 3. Watched the drum spin for a while. Then he reached up. Pulled open the door.
The machine was still running. Water sloshed out onto the floor. The woman jumped up. Rushed over. Slammed the door shut. Pressed the cancel button. The machine stopped.
She stood there. Staring at the machine. Her chest heaving.
The boy stood right next to her. Looking up at her face.
She didn't see him.
She restarted the machine. Sat back down. The boy watched her for a moment. Then turned around. Walked back behind the curtain.
The young man paused the footage again.
"My sister saw this," he said. "She saw all of it. That's why she ran."
"What is he?"
"I don't know." The young man took off his glasses. His hands were shaking. "But I found something."
He pulled out his phone. Showed me a photo. An old newspaper clipping. Yellowed. The print faded.
The headline read: "Tragedy at South City Bathhouse—Four-Year-Old Boy Drowns in Main Pool."
The article was short. A family had brought their child to the bathhouse. The boy wandered off while the parents were washing. Fell into the main pool. His left foot got sucked into the drain at the bottom. By the time anyone noticed, it was too late. They couldn't pull him out. The paramedics couldn't either. They had to dismantle the drain to free the body.
The bathhouse closed down not long after.
"This laundromat," the young man said. "It's built right on top of the old bathhouse. The drain in the storage room—that's the same one."
I looked at the photo. Then at the surveillance screen. The frozen frame. The empty laundromat. The white sock on the hook.
"Why socks?" I asked.
The young man shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe it's the only thing he can still hold onto. Maybe he's looking for something. Maybe he just wants someone to notice."
He clicked the mouse. The footage kept playing.
More nights. More socks. The same little boy. Always alone. Always wet. Always leaving something behind.
And then I saw myself.
The footage from my first visit. Me walking in with my sack of laundry. Loading Washer No. 3. Sitting on the bench. Scrolling my phone.
Behind me, the curtain moved.
The little boy stepped out.
He walked past me. I didn't look up. He stopped in front of Washer No. 3. Watched the drum spin. Then he reached into the machine—his small hand passing right through the glass door—and placed something inside.
A deep blue sock.
He turned around. Walked past me again. This time, he stopped. Looked at me. His face was blurry in the footage. But I could see his eyes. Two dark holes in a pale face.
He stood there. Watching me. For a long time.
Then he walked back behind the curtain.
The footage kept playing. Me standing up. Opening the machine. Finding the sock. Hanging it on the hook. Leaving.
The young man clicked through more footage. Every time I came. Every time I used a machine. The same thing. The boy would come out. Put a sock in the drum. Watch me. Leave.
"Why me?" I asked.
"Maybe because you noticed." The young man looked at me. "Most people don't. They find a sock. They throw it away. They forget. You came back. You kept coming back."
I stared at the screen. At the frozen image of that small figure. Wet hair. Bare feet. A trail of water behind him.
"What happens now?"
The young man didn't answer. He clicked to the most recent footage. The timestamp read last night. Ten PM to three AM.
The footage showed me. Sitting in the corner. Waiting. The fluorescent tube flickering. Washer No. 3 starting itself.
And behind me. The whole time. Standing less than two meters away.
The little boy.
Watching me watch the machine.
I hadn't seen him. I hadn't heard him. I hadn't felt a thing. But he was there. The entire forty minutes. Standing in the dark. Dripping water onto the tile floor. Staring at the back of my head.
The young man closed the laptop.
"I'm leaving too," he said. "Tomorrow. I can't stay here."
"What about the laundromat?"
"It'll close. Like everything else that's been here." He stood up. "You should go too. Don't come back."
I looked at the hook on the wall. Empty.
"What about the socks?"
"What about them?"
"Where do they go? The ones that disappear from the hook."
The young man was quiet for a moment. Then he pointed at the passageway behind the counter.
"I checked the storage room this morning," he said. "The drain cover. All the socks were there. Stuffed inside. Every single one."
I walked back to the storage room. Pushed open the rusted iron door. Crouched down by the drain cover.
The gaps were packed with fabric. Different colors. Different materials. Deep blue. White. Gray. Ginger-yellow. Rose-red. Black. Blue stripes. Khaki. All of them. All left feet. Crammed into that small iron grate. Like someone had been collecting them. Saving them.
I reached down. Touched the fabric. Cold. Wet.
And from deep inside the drain, I heard it again.
That giggling.
Closer this time. Right below the grate. Like the child was pressed against the other side. Mouth against the iron. Laughing into the pipe.
I pulled my hand back.
The giggling stopped.
I stood up. Walked out of the storage room. Past the counter. Past the rows of washing machines. Past the hook on the wall.
At the door, I looked back one last time.
The fluorescent tube flickered. Seven seconds. Flickered again.
In that split second of darkness between the flickers, I saw him.
Standing in front of Washer No. 3. Small. Wet. Bare feet on the cold tile. Looking at me.
The light came back on.
He was gone.
I pushed open the door. Stepped into the alley. The morning sun was just starting to come up. Pale light filtering through the gaps between buildings. The e-bike repair shop was opening its shutters. Master Zhou was setting out his tools.
I walked home. Packed my things. Called the moving company.
I moved out that same weekend.
Granny Chen didn't ask why. She just looked at me the same way she'd looked at me the day I signed the lease. The look you give someone who's finally learned their lesson.
I found a new place. North side of the city. More expensive. No laundromat nearby. I bought my own washing machine. Brand new. Still has the plastic film on the control panel.
It works fine.
But sometimes. Late at night. When the spin cycle kicks in and the whole machine starts to shake. I think I hear something mixed in with the sloshing water.
A giggling sound.
And every time I open the door to take out my laundry, I count my socks.
I always count my socks.
So far, they've all been mine.
So far.