I stared at the door all night, watching the sky outside shift from pitch black to deep gray, then to ash white. When the first rays of sunlight crept in, the nerves I'd held taut for an entire night finally gave out. I collapsed onto the bed like a puppet with its strings cut.
Daylight came. Nothing happened.
I splashed water on my face, changed clothes, and sat on the edge of the bed waiting for Grandma's call. At seven-thirty, she called to say she'd gotten on the bus and would arrive around eleven. I asked if I should pick her up at the station. She said no, she'd come straight to the restaurant and told me to wait at the door.
I went downstairs at seven-forty. Walking through the corridor, I deliberately avoided the kitchen door, taking the other passage to the front hall. The hall hadn't opened yet, tables and chairs stacked in corners, the cash register computer screen dark. I stood behind the glass door watching the street, waiting for Grandma.
Around nine, the boss arrived. He saw me standing at the door and froze. "Xiao Song, aren't you supposed to be off today?"
"I... I took the day off."
"Another one asking for leave." The boss sighed but didn't say more, pulling out his keys to unlock the hall door. As he pushed it open, I heard him mutter to himself: "Old Lu still hasn't answered, no news from him either."
My heart tightened. I pulled out my phone and sent another message asking about Brother Lu's condition. The message went out and, like yesterday, vanished without a trace. After hesitating, I called Brother Lu's wife. No one picked up.
At ten past eleven, a long-distance bus stopped at the curb across the street. I watched a small, thin old lady step off the bus. She wore a navy blue cotton jacket and carried a cloth bag. It was Grandma. She stood on the platform squinting at the building across the street, found me, nodded, then crossed the road with quick, small steps.
"Grandma." I moved toward her, reaching out to help.
She waved me off. Her eyes never left the Hongbin Lou restaurant, scanning the old sign, the first-floor windows, finally settling on the back—the kitchen direction.
"This is the place?" she asked.
I nodded.
Grandma studied the building for a long moment, then said something that made my scalp crawl: "The kitchen in this shop... it's ice cold."
"How can you tell just by looking?"
"No need to look." She turned her gaze back to me, studying my face carefully. She pressed her hand to my forehead, then lifted my eyelids to check. Her fingers were dry and rough, like sandpaper.
"Did you sleep last night?"
"Hardly at all."
"Did you dream?"
"No. I just kept watching the door, too scared to close my eyes." I said.
Grandma nodded. Her expression relaxed slightly. "Good. No visitations. Means it hasn't marked you yet." She switched the cloth bag to her other hand and walked toward the Hongbin Lou entrance. "Take me to the kitchen."
"But you told me not to go into the kitchen—"
"I told you not to go in alone. I didn't say I wouldn't go." Grandma didn't look back. "You wait outside. Just point me to the door."
I led Grandma through the front hall. The restaurant had started serving. Sister Wang was carrying cold dishes from the kitchen when she spotted me. "Aren't you on leave? Who's this old lady?"
"My grandma. Passing through, came to see me." I made up an excuse.
Sister Wang glanced at Grandma, then at me, and said nothing more, carrying her dishes away.
I walked Grandma to the kitchen door. The sliding door was closed. Through it, I could hear the stove's whooshing flames and the clatter of wok ladles. Grandma didn't push the door open. Instead, she stood at the entrance, placed one palm flat against the door, closed her eyes, and stood motionless for about a minute.
The sounds from inside the kitchen shifted. The stove fire still roared, but the clatter of wok ladles stopped. The chef from the branch location swore inside—"Why did the fire shrink by itself?"—then *thud*, probably re-adjusting the knob.
Grandma opened her eyes and pulled her hand from the door. Her expression was grim.
"What is it?" I asked.
She didn't answer. Instead, she turned and walked back along the corridor to the back alley. She stopped where I'd crouched smoking yesterday, looked up at the strip of sky between the two buildings, then down at the cardboard boxes and dead vines stacked in the corner.
"Your head chef—how did he explain the rules to you?" Grandma asked.
"He said if a knife falls, don't pick it up yourself. Make someone else pick it up, and before they do, they have to say 'excuse me.' And the cutting board can't be tapped three times on an empty surface." I recited.
Grandma nodded. "He's right, but not completely right."
"What do you mean, not completely right?"
"Saying 'excuse me' when picking up a knife—it passes the thing to someone else. That rule itself is a life-saving trick. When a knife hits the ground, it acknowledges the earth. It's like sending a signal to something underneath saying 'I see you.' When you say 'excuse me,' you're telling it it got the wrong person, that it's the person next to you you're referring to, so you can escape." Grandma spoke slowly, her voice echoing in the narrow alley. "But this rule has one前提— whoever picks up the knife must know what they're doing, must say 'excuse me' willingly, or it doesn't count. If they don't know the rule, or they're reluctant, then 'excuse me' is just two empty words. Useless."
I went still.
When Brother Lu picked up the knife, he'd muttered "excuse me." He knew the rule. He did it willingly. So I'd knocked the knife loose, but Brother Lu picked it up for me, said the words for me. He'd passed the bad luck onto himself.
"Then you tapped the board three times." Grandma looked at me. There was no blame in her eyes, only a kind of world-weary calm. "Tapping three times summons it. Something that's been hungry for years shows up— it always takes something with it. Normally it should come to you, since you called. But your head chef said 'excuse me' for you, which means he took your name in front of it. So the first thing it tasted was your head chef's."
My brain went *boom*, like something had exploded inside. Brother Lu's three red marks on his neck, the purple-black bruises, the three-finger marks— I'd caused this. I'd knocked the knife loose. Brother Lu picked it up for me. I'd tapped the board three times. But he was the one who suffered.
"But..." I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. "But didn't Brother Lu know the rules? If he knew what saying 'excuse me' would do, why did he pick it up for me?"
Grandma glanced at me. Her expression was indecipherable— something between pity and the look you'd give a naive child.
"You think he picked it up for you?" she said. "Maybe he picked it up for this kitchen. He's been guarding this place for fifteen years. He knows better than anyone what's supposed to be done and what shouldn't."
I didn't understand what she meant, but Grandma didn't elaborate. She turned to face the back alley wall, reached into her cloth bag, and pulled out several items— incense, a stack of spirit money, and a small bottle filled with transparent liquid. She lit the incense and stuck it in a crack between the bricks, then squatted down to burn the spirit money.
"What are you doing?"
"Giving it something sweet," Grandma said without looking back. "So it won't be in a rush to taste the second thing."
The spirit money caught fire. The flames were orange-yellow, the smoke thin, almost invisible. But that smoke smelled different— not the ordinary smell of paper burning, but something sweet, like something being caramelized. Grandma crouched on the ground staring at the flames when suddenly she stood, stepping back, pulling me with her.
The flames changed color.
From orange-yellow to pale blue, from pale blue to almost transparent white. The transparent flames were nearly invisible under the noonday sun; you could only tell they were still burning by the heat distortion rippling through the air. That sweet, cloying smell grew stronger and stronger.
"That's enough." Grandma murmured, pulling me to turn and leave.
"The fire—"
"Don't worry about it. It'll burn out on its own." Grandma walked fast. The old lady in her eighties was pulling me along, her strength incredible for her age. "I need to see your head chef."
"You know which hospital he's in?"
"You know. Just take me."
We bought a fruit basket at the hospital entrance fruit shop. Grandma picked it herself, carefully examining every apple, turning each one in her hand before selecting the six reddest, largest ones. The fruit vendor giggled that the old lady sure knew how to shop. Grandma ignored her, paid, and pulled me into the hospital.
Brother Lu was on the seventh floor, otolaryngology department. That specialty made my heart sink further— ears, nose, throat. Neck. Everything matched too perfectly. The elevator had only the two of us. Grandma stared at the floor numbers ticking upward, her expression tight since we'd left the kitchen.
We reached the seventh floor. Following the nurse's directions, we found Brother Lu's ward. The door was half-open. Inside, I could hear the steady beeping of a heart monitor. I knocked twice on the door and pushed it open.
Brother Lu lay on the bed by the window. The moment I saw him, I almost didn't recognize him. It had only been one day, but he looked like he'd lost a third of his body mass. His face was narrower, cheekbones more prominent, eye sockets sunken deep, lips bloodless. His neck was wrapped in thick gauze, with something dark visible beneath.
Brother Lu's wife sat beside the bed. When she saw us enter, she stood. She looked exhausted too— eyes red and swollen, probably from crying. Her gaze停在my face for a moment, then moved to Grandma beside me.
"This is..." Brother Lu's wife hesitated.
"I'm Xiao Song's grandmother," Grandma spoke up, her tone gentle. "Passing through the area. Heard the head chef was in the hospital, so I came to see him."
Brother Lu's wife nodded, took the fruit basket, and set it on the bedside table, thanking us. I noticed several fruit baskets already on the table. One was quite large— probably from the boss. Grandma didn't sit. She stood by the bed, studying Brother Lu's face, then looked at his neck.
"Bandages changed?" Grandma asked.
Brother Lu's wife froze, probably surprised a visiting old lady would ask that. "This morning. The doctor said the bruising spread, from his neck up to his jaw, down to his collarbone. The area's a third larger than yesterday. But they can't find the cause. CT and MRI both normal. Blood work fine. The doctor said he's never seen a case like this in his life."
Grandma listened, then fell silent for several seconds. "May I see what's under the gauze?"
Brother Lu's wife's expression shifted, wariness creeping in. "Are you a doctor?"
"No," Grandma said calmly. "But I might have seen this before."
Brother Lu's wife hesitated, glanced at Brother Lu on the bed. He was awake, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. His lips moved, producing sounds so soft I couldn't hear them from the bedside. But his wife clearly understood. She leaned down, ear to his mouth, then straightened. "He says it's okay."
Grandma walked to the bedside. Brother Lu's wife carefully unwrapped the gauze tape, unwinding layer after layer. The skin revealed beneath made me gasp and stumble back half a step, my back hitting the hospital wall.
Three bruises, running from the ear root to below the collarbone, each the thickness of fingers. Same location as the three red marks I'd glimpsed under the band-aid yesterday, but the severity was in a completely different league. The bruises were so dark they looked black, as if all the blood beneath the skin had coagulated there, edges showing an unnatural dark purple, like necrotic tissue. What made my scalp tighten were the spacing and shape of the three bruises— definitely finger marks. Three fingers, gripping the neck from the front. But normally a hand leaves four prints— thumb on one side, index, middle, ring on the other. This had only three. One thumb, two fingers. Like something had gripped Brother Lu's throat with just three fingers.
Grandma stared at those three bruises for a long time. I couldn't read her expression. Not fear, not shock— more like confirmation. Confirmation of what she'd already suspected before she'd come. She reached out, hovering her palm above the bruises without touching, about two centimeters gap. She held it there, motionless, as if sensing some invisible temperature or vibration.
After about half a minute, Grandma withdrew her hand. "Wrap it up. Keep him warm."
Brother Lu's wife re-bandaged him— her movements practiced, like she'd repeated this many times. Grandma walked to the window, gazing at the high-rise buildings outside发呆了一会儿, then turned back to Brother Lu.
"Young man," she called, her tone not like an old person addressing a middle-ager, but more like an elder speaking to a junior. "How many years have you been guarding that kitchen?"
Brother Lu's gaze moved from the ceiling to Grandma's face. He studied her for a long moment, then his lips moved again. This time I heard clearly: "Fifteen years."
"Fifteen years," Grandma nodded. "Then you should know— some things can't be solved by following rules alone. Some things exist outside the rules."
Brother Lu didn't speak, but something flickered in the corners of his eyes.
"The one who picked up the knife," Grandma pointed at me, her tone flat, like she was describing something trivial, "he didn't know anything. You took the hit for him. That was your choice. I'm not saying whether you were right or wrong. But what comes next— you can't handle it alone."
Brother Lu's wife stood nearby, bewildered, gaze darting between me and Grandma. Her expression shifted from confusion to unease. "What knife? What happened? What are you talking about?"
Grandma ignored her, walking to Brother Lu's wife and pulling the bottle of transparent liquid from her bag. She pressed it into his wife's hands. "Apply this to the bruises on his neck before sleep tonight. Not too much— just one pass over each bruise. After applying, pour the rest into the toilet and flush. Throw away the bottle. Don't turn off the lights tonight."
Brother Lu's wife turned the bottle over in her hands, studying it, probably wondering who this old lady was and why she should be trusted. She looked at Brother Lu. He gave a tiny nod— so small it was barely perceptible, but definitely a nod.
"What exactly is this?" Brother Lu's wife asked.
"Nothing valuable," Grandma said. "I made it myself. Mugwort water, with a few other things added. If you trust me, use it. If not, leave it there and let the nurse throw it away later."
With that, Grandma turned toward the door. As she passed me, she patted my shoulder. "Let's go. Let them rest."
I followed her out of the ward, through the elevator, out of the inpatient building. The sunlight was intense. The hospital plaza was crowded with people— families pushing wheelchairs, patients clutching medical records, doctors in white coats hurrying past. These ordinary, bustling, normal scenes formed a stark contrast with the things swirling in my brain, making me feel dazed.
"Grandma," I called, stopping her on the hospital steps. "You said some things exist outside the rules. What did you mean?"
Grandma stopped on the steps. The sunlight lit up her wrinkled face, making her look especially frail. She was quiet for a moment, then said: "While I was waiting on the street outside the hospital, I looked at that building. What's behind the kitchen?"
"The back alley. Across from it is a brick wall."
"And behind the brick wall?"
I thought back. "Seems like... some old residential buildings. A few tube-style apartments built in the seventies. They've been abandoned for years. I heard they're slated for demolition."
"No one's lived there, but the ground remains." Grandma said. "Your kitchen was probably built on the old foundation. What used to be there, your boss probably never even knew when he opened the shop."
"What used to be there?"
Grandma looked at me, lips pressed into a thin line, hesitating before answering: "Support facilities for the old residential area. Most likely a former grain shop or cafeteria. But can't rule out something else." She paused.
"Some places— what's buried underground lasts longer than the people on top."
A cold shiver ran down my spine. What did Grandma mean? Something buried beneath the kitchen? I thought of that unfinished post on the ghost forum— the first bite tastes your skill, the second bite tastes your courage. The post never finished the third bite. It just stopped.
"Grandma," I grabbed her sleeve. "Can you just tell me directly what I summoned when I tapped the board three times?"
Grandma stood on the hospital steps. The sun cast her shadow, short and small. She looked at me. In her murky eyes was an expression I'd seen since childhood— the look she got when someone came to her for "seeing things."
"I've never seen that thing with my own eyes," she said. "But I know where it comes from. Three fingers— not human. A person's hand has five fingers. A ghost's hand also has five. Something with three fingers is either a monster born incomplete, or—"
"Or what?"
"Or something that was chopped off." Grandma's voice dropped low, more to herself. "Old times had rules. Steal something, lose a finger. Steal again, lose another." She spoke like she was reciting history. "When only three fingers remain, that person usually couldn't survive. Not from blood loss— from starvation. Hands useless, can't work, nobody wants you, you starve to death."
She turned and continued walking. I stood frozen for two seconds before following, my mind buzzing.
"You mean... the thing in that kitchen was a thief who got his fingers chopped off? Starved to death?"
"Maybe a thief, maybe not." Grandma said. "It's been a long time. Nobody knows the truth anymore. But things like that have one characteristic— they're hungry." She emphasized each word. "Hungry for many, many years. You tap the board three times to call it to eat, but there's nothing on the board. It can't eat. Something that's been starving for so long, called to dinner but given no food— what will it do?"
It'll bite.
Grandma didn't say those three words, but her eyes finished the sentence. Brother Lu's three bruises— not grip marks. Bite marks. The three fingers hadn't been gripping his throat— they'd been pinning his throat to its mouth and biting down.
"So Brother Lu's skill caught its attention, and it bit his neck." My voice was dry and hoarse. "What happens next?"
Grandma didn't answer. She walked to the bus stop, waiting for the coach to the long-distance station. I stood beside her, unsure what to say.
"Zhiyan," Grandma spoke, eyes on the traffic flowing past, not looking at me. "Rules were never meant to save your life. Rules mark boundaries. As long as you stay on your side of the line, you're outside, it's inside. River water doesn't offend well water. But once you break that boundary— like tapping an empty board three times— there's no line anymore. It knows you've seen it, so now it can see you."
"What should I do?"
"Tonight, go back to your dorm. Clean your room thoroughly. Put a knife under your pillow— not a kitchen knife. Buy a new one outside. A fruit knife will do. Then sleep well." Grandma turned to look at me, eyes calm. "Its first bite wasn't aimed at you. You're not on its menu yet. But remember— don't go into the kitchen and touch that board again. And don't touch your head chef's knife anymore."
The bus arrived. Before boarding, Grandma turned back to look at me and said something I'd think about all night:
"The second bite tastes courage. Before it finishes tasting, don't let yourself show fear first."
The bus drove away. I stood at the stop watching its tail disappear around the corner, replaying everything Grandma had said in my head.
Brother Lu took the first bite for me. What about what's left? Who takes that?
I called Sister Wang from the stop, saying I'd come back for the afternoon shift. She hesitated on the phone. "You sure? The boss said if you're not feeling well, take another day. The people from the branch can cover."
I said no, I'd be there in the afternoon.
After hanging up, I stood at the stop a while longer. The midday sun blazed overhead. Cars came and went on the street. The small restaurant next to the stop had the smell of stir-fry drifting out. Everything was so normal, so impossibly normal. But that's exactly what made it unsettling— so many unnatural things had happened, yet the sun still shone, people still hurried about, the world went on as if nothing had occurred.
I took a deep breath and walked toward Hongbin Lou.
The afternoon kitchen was busy as usual. The chef from the branch was named Liu,forty-something, round-faced, easy-going— completely different temperament from Brother Lu's taciturn style. He even hummed songs while cooking. Sister Wang was busy in the cold dish area. When she saw me arrive, she poked her head out from the window. "You really okay?"
"Fine. Just didn't sleep well last night." I tied on my apron and went to my station to wash vegetables.
The cutting board was still on the counter,扣在台面上, exactly as I'd left it last night. I looked at its flipped-over back, a pot of vegetables in my hands, hesitated, and didn't flip it over. I pushed it to the corner of the counter and took out a clean plastic board to use instead.
Liu finished a wok of twice-cooked pork, glanced over and saw me using the plastic board. "Why not use the wooden one? That thing's great."
"It's... too heavy. Troublesome to wash."
Liu didn't press further, turning back to his work. Sister Wang came out with cold dishes, glanced at me, then at the wooden board in the corner, said nothing. But when she came back with the plates, she passed by me and murmured: "You feel it too, don't you? Something's wrong."
My hands paused for half a beat, then continued washing vegetables without looking up. "What's wrong?"
Sister Wang stood for two seconds, then walked back to the cold dish area without another word.
The entire afternoon I worked mechanically— washing vegetables, cutting, passing plates, cleaning counters. Liu's cooking was good, but compared to Brother Lu, there was something lacking. Sister Wang said it: Brother Lu's twice-cooked pork had meat slices curled at the perfect angle, heat control precise to the second, fat glossy and lean not dry. Liu's was tasty too, but just missing that*一口气*— that finishing touch.
"That's Brother Lu's skill," Sister Wang said while mixing cold dishes, a strange regret in her tone. "He stood in that kitchen for fifteen years. Close his eyes and he'd know which burner had high flame and which had low."
I didn't respond. What I was thinking was Grandma's words— the one with skill, it notices.
After the dinner rush, Liu and Sister Wang left one after another. I mopped the kitchen floor and was about to turn off the lights and leave. At the door, I looked back. The stove fires were out, woks hung neatly, counters wiped clean. The wooden board was still propped in the corner, motionless. Brother Lu's cleaver still on the knife rack, blade facing inward, reflecting the stark white light of the overhead fluorescent tube.
I turned off the lights, slid the door closed, and walked through the corridor back to the dorm. After washing up, I placed the fruit knife I'd bought that afternoon from the杂货店 under my pillow. The knife was new, the blade still carrying the smell of factory machine oil. I lay down and felt the knife handle beneath my pillow— cool, hard, a reassuring weight.
But I still couldn't sleep.
I stared at the ceiling, listening to sounds from the kitchen downstairs. The refrigerator compressor's hum had always been there, so familiar that on quiet nights I barely noticed it. But today there was an additional sound.
Coming from the kitchen direction. Very soft, very rhythmic, like someone tapping lightly on a wooden counter with fingernails.
*Tap. Tap. Tap.*
Three times. A pause. Three more.
I lay in bed, hand sliding under the pillow to grip the fruit knife. The handle slowly warmed in my palm. The sound from downstairs stopped. Silence for about ten seconds, then the refrigerator hum suddenly grew louder, like the compressor had kicked into high gear— *whirrrrr*— for five or six seconds, then everything went quiet.
Unnaturally quiet. The refrigerator stopped humming. The fluorescent tube stopped buzzing. Even the cat in the back alley stopped meowing. The entire building felt like it had been covered with a glass dome, all sound sucked out.
Then I heard a new sound.
Footsteps. Very slow, very light, coming from the kitchen direction, through the corridor, stopping beneath my dorm.
I held my breath, gripped the fruit knife tighter, and stared at the door.
No sound from outside. No footsteps, no breathing, nothing. But beneath the door, where there was originally a thin line of light— the hallway motion-sensor light wasn't normally on, but at night it occasionally flickered on from passing car headlights or wind— that line of light suddenly dimmed, like something had pressed against the door from the outside.
I stared at that sliver of light beneath the door.
The light flickered. Not like something had blocked it— the color itself changed. From warm yellow hallway light to a color I couldn't name. Darkish, reddish, like light seen through a thick layer of gauze.
Then I heard a sound. Not from outside the door— from inside my room. Right here in my room.
Something under my pillow was making noise.
Hard to describe that sound— like someone dragging a fingernail slowly across a metal knife blade, from hilt to tip, then back from tip to hilt. Dragging very slowly, so slow that every inch of metal being scraped was audible.
I flipped upright, throwing the pillow aside.
The fruit knife lay quietly on the bedsheet. Nothing else under the pillow. I reached for the knife, fingertips just touching the handle when I pulled back— the handle was hot. Not body-heat-warm hot. Scalding. Like it had just been pulled from boiling water.
I stared at that knife for a long time, then slowly reached out again and gripped the handle. This time, the handle was only warm. Normal body temperature. Not hot at all.
The light beneath the door returned to its normal color. The refrigerator downstairs started humming again. The cat in the back alley meowed once more, the sound fading from near to far, like something had spooked it.
I didn't lie down again. I sat against the headboard all night, gripping the fruit knife, until dawn.
When day broke, I made a decision. I needed to go back to the kitchen and look at that board.
Grandma said don't go into the kitchen and touch that board again. But there were things I had to see with my own eyes, or the defensive line in my heart would collapse first. The second bite tastes courage— if I started being afraid now, before it came to taste me, I'd already lost.
At six ten, full daylight. I went downstairs, crossed the corridor, and pushed open the kitchen door. The moment I slid it open, a gust of cold air rushed out, hitting my face, carrying a faint sweet smell. Exactly the same sweet scent as when Grandma burned spirit money in the back alley yesterday.
I stood at the entrance and saw something that made the back of my neck go cold.
The wooden cutting board I'd flipped over and placed in the corner was now face-up, sitting right in my usual cutting position. Liu hadn't moved it. Sister Wang hadn't moved it— I'd been the last one there last night. I clearly remembered placing the board in the corner, face-down. I hadn't touched it.
I walked over and looked down at the board.
In the central depression of the board was a new mark. Not a knife cut— knife cuts are straight. This mark was curved, like something's fingernail had dragged across. Very short, about three or four centimeters, shallow arc, winding across the depressed wooden surface.
I reached out my index finger to touch that mark.
The moment my fingertip touched the board surface, I felt an extremely faint vibration— like something inside the board was trembling at an extremely low frequency. That trembling traveled from my fingertip to my hand, then up my arm, like a very slow pulse.
I pulled my hand back, stepped backward, and bumped into the stove behind me. The iron wok wobbled, emitting a clear metallic ring that echoed through the entire kitchen.
The fluorescent tube flickered.
I didn't wait for it to flicker again. I turned and walked out of the kitchen, the sliding door slamming shut behind me. I stood in the corridor, back against the wall, catching my breath, heart pounding like a war drum.
My phone rang. It was Brother Lu's wife.
I picked up. Before I could speak, I heard her urgent, tearful voice on the line.
"Xiao Song, the stuff your grandma gave me yesterday— I applied it to Old Lu last night. After that he slept the whole night. This morning his fever broke and the bruising on his neck faded a bit. But—" Her voice cracked. She paused two seconds before continuing. "But when he woke up this morning, he said a few things."
"What did he say?"
"He said he saw a person in his dream." Brother Lu's wife's voice was barely a whisper, like she was afraid of being overheard by others in the ward. "A very thin, very thin person. Wearing clothes from some era I can't identify— dirty and torn. Standing by his bed, watching him. That person stretched out one hand— only three fingers on it— pointed toward the door direction, then said one sentence."
"What sentence?"
Long silence on the line. I could hear Brother Lu's wife swallowing hard. Then she spoke, voice trembling so badly I could barely make out each word.
"It said, 'I've tasted the skill. Next, call that kitchen helper over. I want to taste his courage.'"