What's the worst part about working the night shift? Being so tired you can't sleep? Or being so bored you start counting the flickering tubes in the ceiling lights?
Let me tell you, it's neither.
The worst part is when someone actually shows up to bring you something.
Not food delivery. Not packages.
Something you know perfectly well shouldn't be here—but there it is. And you have to pretend you didn't see a thing.
01
My name is Zhang Yuan. I graduated last year with a degree in marketing.
Job hunting took me from June all the way to December. I sent out over three hundred resumes, trudged through more than forty interviews. Some companies said I lacked experience. Others said my salary demands were too high. And some just collapsed before they could give me an answer.
By the end, I had twelve hundred yuan to my name. I was two months behind on rent.
When my mom called to ask how the job search was going, I told her things were going great, I was just waiting for responses. After hanging up, I crouched on the balcony of my rental apartment and smoked half a pack of Hongtashan cigarettes, wondering when this nightmare would ever end.
Then a college classmate threw me a lifeline.
Li Wei. We were roommates. After graduation, he'd returned to his hometown—a third-tier city—and worked as the station manager at a gas station on the east side. He said they were short-staffed for the night shift and asked if I was interested.
I told him, I'm a college graduate. You want me to pump gas?
He said, Don't look down on it. They provide housing. Base salary plus night shift bonus comes to over five thousand a month. Survive first, figure out the rest later.
I thought about my unpaid rent and that twelve hundred in my pocket. The next day, I bought a train ticket.
The station was called Chengshun Petrochemical, located at the urban-rural fringe on the east side. Go two kilometers further east and you'd hit the national highway. Beyond that—just wasteland. The station was small: four pumps, a tiny convenience store, and a duty room.
When I arrived that afternoon, Li Wei was waiting for me in the duty room. Two years since we'd last met. The guy had put on weight, his face shiny with oil, wearing the gas station uniform with the buttons on his chest about to pop.
"Yuan bro." He handed me a bottle of water. "The conditions aren't great. Make do for now."
I said as long as there's food and a bed, I'll manage.
He told me to follow the day shift workers to get familiar with the procedures, then officially start the night shift at eight PM.
The day shift veteran who trained me was surnamed Wang—everyone called him Old Wang. Fifty-something, lean, dark-skinned, face like a crumpled paper map. When he spoke, he always squinted at you, as if sizing something up.
"College boy here to pump gas?" he asked.
"Yeah. Taking it as it comes for now."
"Night shift?"
"Li Wei assigned me to nights."
Old Wang went quiet for a moment. He folded the rag in his hands. "The night shift— that'll be your post?"
"That's right."
He gave me a look, said nothing, and patted my shoulder. "Then be careful."
I thought he meant watch out for cars, be safe with the customers—that kind of thing. Didn't think much of it.
Day shift was nothing special. Pump gas, collect money, issue receipts. Occasionally someone from the store to buy water. I learned fast. By six PM that day, I'd more or less got the basics down.
At seven-thirty, Li Wei showed up.
He pulled me into the duty room, closed the door, his expression unusually serious.
"Yuan bro, I need to explain the night shift rules."
"I'm listening."
"After eleven PM all the way until four AM, you're alone out there. Don't be scared— our area's pretty safe. But..." He paused. "There's one rule you absolutely must remember."
I looked at his face. This didn't sound like a talk about pumping gas.
"If someone shows up on a bicycle after midnight, don't ask questions. Pretend you didn't see anything. Just fill it up."
I froze.
"Bicycle? What kind of gas does a bicycle need?"
Li Wei waved his hand. "Don't worry about what kind or how. Just remember—when you see someone pushing a bicycle, grab the nozzle, walk over to the bike, and squeeze the trigger at the chain position."
"Wait—"
"Whether it's a motorcycle or an electric bike, anything with two wheels— aim at the chain and squeeze."
"But—" I thought this was ridiculous. "What if they ask me what grade? Ninety-two or ninety-five?"
"They won't ask. If they do, say ninety-two. But in three years working here, that's never happened."
I opened my mouth to argue. Li Wei raised his hand.
"Yuan bro, I know you have questions. But I'm begging you— don't ask. Just treat this as the station's rule. Follow it, and the other night shift guys all do the same."
His expression was dead serious. Not the kind of serious people use for jokes.
I nodded.
"Got it. I remember."
02
Night shift ran from eight PM to eight AM.
The first half was manageable. Cars rolled in steadily— trucks, sedans, occasionally motorcyclists heading home from the city after work. I kept busy, time flew.
After eleven-thirty, traffic thinned out dramatically.
By midnight, practically nothing.
I was new to this place, had nothing to do for entertainment. I scrolled through short videos on my phone twice before getting sick of it. Started pacing the small patch of the gas station instead.
Late April nights still carried a chill. Wind blew in from the highway, carrying a strange earthy smell. Streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, illuminating the gas station's canopy in a halo of light. Beyond that— nothing but darkness, endless and unknowable.
I stood by the pumps smoking, the ember of the cigarette glowing bright then dim in the black.
That's when I heard it.
A sound.
Soft.
Squeak— squeak—
Like something grinding without oil, metal scraping metal.
I figured it was the wind. Ignored it.
The sound grew closer.
I turned my head, looked in the direction it came from.
Someone was approaching from the highway direction.
Pushing a bicycle.
Under the streetlight, the figure wore dark clothes— couldn't make out the color. Head down, shoulders hunched,一步一步 step by step toward the station. The bicycle looked ancient, its wheels turning sluggishly, each rotation accompanied by a "squeak."
My first reaction wasn't fear. It was confusion.
One AM. Middle of nowhere. Someone pushing a bicycle to a gas station?
If they wanted gas— where's the fuel tank?
If their bike broke and they came here for help— I was the only one here, and I couldn't help with anything.
The figure drew nearer. I could make out a gray-blue jacket now, old-fashioned style, looked like something from over a decade ago. Black pants, cuffs rolled up once, revealing a stretch of calf— unnaturally pale.
He never looked up, eyes fixed on the ground.
Pushed the bike to the pump. Stopped.
Then spoke.
Voice hoarse, as if sand had been poured down his throat. "Master, some gas please."
My brain went "whomp."
I suddenly remembered what Li Wei had said.
"If someone shows up on a bicycle after midnight— don't ask questions. Pretend you didn't see anything. Just fill it up."
I took a deep breath. Said nothing.
Turned around, grabbed the nozzle.
Walked to the bicycle. Squatted down.
Chain position. I aimed there and squeezed the trigger.
*Click.*
No fuel came out.
Of course not— I hadn't pressed the pump button. The nozzle was locked.
But I squeezed it anyway.
The air carried no smell— no gasoline, nothing.
I stood up, hung the nozzle back.
The figure nodded. Same hoarse voice, but seemed to carry something extra. I couldn't describe that feeling. "Thank you, master."
Then he pushed the bike away.
Squeak— squeak—
The sound faded slowly, then vanished.
I stood there, palms drenched in sweat.
About ten minutes later, I thought of something.
I went into the duty room, opened the surveillance system.
The gas station had full coverage— all four pump positions on camera. I rewound to 1:03 AM, found the segment.
In the footage— just me.
Alone.
Nozzle in hand, squatting down, squeezing at nothing.
Standing up, hanging the nozzle back.
From start to finish— only me.
I stared at the screen for about half a minute, dragging the progress bar back and forth three times.
No one.
No bicycle.
No gray-blue jacket figure.
I killed the monitor. Sat in the chair. Lit a cigarette.
My hand trembled.
Not from fear— from the war inside my head. One voice said what you experienced was real, you saw that person with your own eyes, heard him say "some gas please." The other voice said— can the footage lie? Can surveillance骗 you?
I wanted to call Li Wei. Looked at the time— 1:20 AM.
Forget it.
I finished that cigarette, lit another.
Nothing else happened the rest of the night.
03
Eight AM. Li Wei came for shift change.
First thing I said: "Someone came last night."
He froze. His expression shifted. "How many people?"
"One."
"Bicycle?"
"Yeah."
He went quiet for several seconds. Pulled me into the duty room, shut the door.
"What did you do?"
"Exactly what you said. No talking. Nozzle in hand, squeezed at the chain."
He exhaled long and deep, relief washing over him. "Good. Did he say anything?"
"Thanks, master."
Nod. No further questions. He started flipping through the shift handover log. Seeing he had no intention of explaining, I couldn't hold back.
"That person— what the hell was it?"
Li Wei stopped flipping. Looked up at me. His chubby face wore a complicated expression— like he was debating whether to tell me.
"Yuan bro— you really want to know?"
"I've already met one. Can't exactly pretend I didn't see anything now."
He mulled it over for another moment. Closed the door. Pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered me one, lit his own.
"That was a ghost passing through."
He said it calmly, like commenting on the weather.
"What?"
"I heard it from Old Wang. Two kilometers east of here, past the highway— used to be a cemetery. They relocated most of it when they built the road. But some无人认领的老坟— old graves no one claimed— they just flattened and buried."
He took a drag. "Some of those things— they're travelers. The roads of the underworld sometimes overlap with the roads of the living. They follow the path, get tired, see a place with lights on— think it's a spot to rest."
"But why would they come to a gas station?"
"The bicycle is paper." Li Wei tapped ash. "You're not filling it with gas— you're giving them spirit money, the silver foil from joss paper. Squeeze the nozzle at the chain— that's the signal you're giving them travel expenses."
I nearly dropped the cigarette.
Not from fear— from sheer absurdity.
I was a modern, educated person. Paper money, silver foil, ghosts? Those words I only heard in movies.
"You believe this?" I asked Li Wei.
He glanced at me. "I don't."
"Then why make me do it?"
"I don't believe, but I don't dare skip it either." He stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray. "Yuan bro, some things you can't explain— but they happen anyway. You checked the footage, right?"
I nodded.
"In the footage— just you, right?"
I went silent.
"I ran into it too once." Li Wei's tone was flat, but I could sense the depth behind it. "Exactly the same. Bicycle, dark clothes, couldn't see the face. Watch the footage— always just you alone."
His eyes carried a deep weariness. The kind you get after being worn down by something repeatedly.
"How often does this happen?" I asked.
"Unpredictable. Sometimes once or twice a month. Sometimes nothing for two or three months. Old Wang says it relates to the solar terms— around Qingming, the Ghost Festival, the Double Ninth. More frequent around those times. But could happen anytime."
"What's the worst you've seen?"
Li Wei hesitated. "You want to hear?"
"Go ahead."
"Once— past two AM— three showed up." He held up three fingers. "Three bicycles, in a row, riding in from the highway. Not pushing— riding. You know that feeling? Standing by the pumps, watching three shadows ride out of the darkness, wheels turning— but you hear absolutely nothing."
"I followed the rules that night, handled them one by one. After filling them up, none of them left. All three stopped in front of the station, just stood there. Watching me."
"How long?"
"About ten minutes or so. I stayed inside the duty room, didn't dare go out. They stood outside the canopy, in that dim gray light— perfectly still."
"Then?"
"Then at some point they were gone. When I looked again— nothing."
I listened, spine going cold.
Li Wei must have noticed. He clapped my shoulder.
"Yuan bro, I know you don't buy it. Neither did I at first. But work here long enough and you'll understand— some things aren't about belief."
"Then what's it about?"
"Survival."
04
The next night, I came prepared.
Bought better cigarettes, brewed strong tea, searched online for stories about supernatural encounters at gas stations. Results were a mixed bag— some said gas stations were built on mass graves, others claimed gasoline attracted yin energy, still others insisted night shift workers saw things because their yang energy was low.
None of it was useful.
After midnight, I started getting nervous.
Not scared— excited. I even felt a bit twisted about it. A grown man alone at a rural gas station at night, actually looking forward to seeing someone pushing a bicycle.
But that night— nothing.
Neither did the third night. Or the fourth.
A whole week passed. Besides that first night, no other anomalies.
My vigilance gradually faded. I started attributing that first night to exhaustion and tricks of the light. No one in the footage meant probably no one was there at all— maybe I was so tired I hallucinated.
On the second week, one night at past two AM— I heard it again.
Squeak— squeak—
This time I didn't freeze.
Turned, grabbed the nozzle, walked to the bicycle, squatted down, squeezed at the chain.
The whole sequence flowed like I'd done it a hundred times.
When I stood up, I glanced at the figure from the corner of my eye.
Same gray-blue jacket. Same head down. At his pant leg— that exposed calf, white as something impossible. The white of a paper effigy burned for the dead. That color— bloodless, deathly pale.
I looked away. Hung the nozzle back.
The figure nodded. Thank you, master. Pushed the bike and left.
This time I didn't immediately check the footage. Waited about half an hour, finished two cigarettes, then went into the duty room.
Opened the recording. Scrolled to 2:15 AM.
In the footage— just me.
Nozzle in hand, squatting, squeezing at air.
Identical.
I closed it. Leaned back in the chair. Stared at the ceiling.
This time I wasn't scared. Not even surprised.
I was thinking about something. That thing's bicycle— was it really paper? If it was paper, why did I hear metal-grinding sounds? Paper wheels should make a soft rustling noise, not squeaking.
Unless the sound wasn't coming from the bicycle.
I shook my head, drove the thought away.
Don't think too much. Li Wei said— just follow the procedure.
On the third day, I got up early specifically to dig through the trash cans behind the gas station.
Found nothing.
I didn't know what I was looking for. Maybe scorched joss paper, maybe fragments of silver foil. But the trash held only empty water bottles, cigarette boxes, instant noodles containers— exactly what you'd expect.
On the fourth day, I encountered the third one.
This time I started paying attention to details.
When that person came pushing the bike from the highway, I carefully watched the movement. His feet were walking— step by step, touching the ground. But he had no shadow.
Under the canopy, several lights blazed. Light falling on anything should create a shadow. A car pulling in has a shadow. A person walking should have one.
He didn't.
I glanced down at his bicycle.
Neither did it.
When I crouched with the nozzle, I deliberately avoided looking at the person's face. My gaze stayed on the bicycle chain, but I could feel that person's eyes on the top of my head. That sensation— like someone placed a block of ice up there. Cold, seeping from the crown of my head down the back of my neck.
I squeezed the nozzle.
Stood up.
Thank you, master. The figure pushed the bike and left.
I watched his retreating back. He walked out from under the canopy, into the streetlight's glow, then into the darkness. Under the streetlight, his body blocked the light— but there was no change in any shadow on the ground.
Then— gone.
That morning I specifically went to find Old Wang.
Old Wang was on day shift, wiping down the pumps. I walked over, offered a cigarette.
"Old Wang, can I ask you something?"
He took the cigarette, tucked it behind his ear. "What?"
"Who set the night shift rule originally?"
Old Wang wiped his hands, gave me a look. "You've encountered it?"
"Yeah."
"How many times?"
"Three."
Old Wang went quiet for a while. Took the cigarette from behind his ear, lit it. "My first encounter— was worse than yours."
"What do you mean?"
"What I encountered wasn't a bicycle." Old Wang took a drag, smoke curling from his nostrils. "It was a tricycle."
I blinked. "Tricycle?"
"An old-school covered tricycle for the elderly. Past three AM— someone pushed it in, asked for gas. I was new then, no one told me the rules. I just stood there frozen. The person stood there, staring at me, kept staring."
"Then?"
"Old Manager Li— not the current Little Li, the previous one— came out, saw what was happening. Rushed over with the nozzle, filled up the tricycle. After that the person left. Old Li dragged me aside and cursed me out. Said if I wanted to die, don't drag the gas station down with me."
Old Wang spoke calmly, but I noticed his fingers holding the cigarette trembling slightly.
"Old Li told me afterward," Old Wang continued, "these things don't always come on bicycles. Bicycles are most common, but sometimes it's tricycles, sometimes those old-style heavy-duty bikes with the crossbar. What they ride in on depends on what they rode when they were alive."
"And the tricycle one?"
Old Wang glanced at me. "Old Li said it was an old man. He'd ridden a tricycle his whole life, taking his grandson to and from school. Then had a traffic accident at an intersection. Died. The tricycle burned too."
"Burned?"
"Paper, right?" Old Wang flicked ash. "Everything they use is paper. What looks like a bicycle is actually paper-mache. What you're filling isn't gasoline— it's the oil vapor on the nozzle and your own intent. Squeeze at the chain, and they receive it."
The more he talked, the more far-fetched it sounded. But I didn't dare interrupt.
Old Wang finished his cigarette, tossed the butt in the trash. "Xiao Zhang, let me tell you something straight. These things aren't scary. You'll get used to them. What's scary is— sometimes they call your name."
My spine went cold. "Call my name?"
"Never happened to me, but it happened to Old Li. One Ghost Festival, a bicycle came. Old Li filled it. The person didn't leave. Stood there and said one sentence— Li Jianguo, you owe me a life."
Old Wang's voice dropped to a whisper. "Old Li collapsed right there. Came down with a bad illness afterward. Before the year was out, he quit."
I stood by the pump, didn't know what to say.
Old Wang patted my shoulder. "Rules are rigid, people are flexible. Remember— don't talk, don't look up at their face, don't ask their name. As long as you follow these three, nothing happens."
05
That night, back in my rented room, I tossed and turned.
Don't talk, don't look up at their face, don't ask their name.
I understood the first two— no communication, no eye contact, to avoid establishing some kind of connection. But the third— don't ask their name. That got me thinking.
In folklore, many taboos involve names. Knowing a entity's name supposedly gives you some control over it. Conversely, if something knows your name, it can find you.
I lay in bed, staring at the crack in the ceiling, my thoughts racing.
Honestly— by this point, I wasn't entirely disbelieving anymore. Not because how terrifying these things were, but because I couldn't find better explanations. Surveillance footage doesn't lie. From a physics standpoint, if someone stands under a light but casts no shadow— either the light path was wrong, or my eyes were wrong.
But I couldn't make myself accept the paper bicycles, silver foil, ghost explanations. I was a modern city person, raised on science education. Asking me to believe ghosts actually existed— I couldn't get past that hurdle in my head.
In that conflicted state of mind, I muddled through the third week.
May 13th. I remember clearly— Wednesday.
1 AM.
I was in the duty room boiling water for instant noodles when I heard something outside.
Not the squeaking. The sound of wheels on pavement.
I figured a car had arrived for gas. Carried my noodles out.
Under the canopy sat a sedan— black, paint gleaming. A man in his thirties stepped out from the driver's side, wearing a dark jacket, glasses.
"Fill it up. Ninety-two." He said.
I set down the noodles, grabbed the nozzle, started pumping.
Everything normal. Normal car, normal person, normal gasoline.
After filling, the man scanned to pay, drove away.
I went back to my noodles.
About ten minutes later, a thought struck me.
After that man drove off— I seemed to have heard a sound.
Squeak— squeak—
Very faint. Like from far away, or right next to my ear.
I walked to the edge of the gas station, looked toward the highway.
Nothing under the streetlight.
Figured it was the wind. Didn't think more of it.
Another half hour passed. Around 1:40, a big truck arrived. The driver was a forty-something uncle, breath reeking of betel nut. When he got out, he glanced toward the highway and cursed.
"Damn it! Who the hell left a bicycle there?"
My heart tightened. "What bicycle?"
"Right there, under the streetlight. You don't see it?" He pointed.
I followed his finger.
Under the streetlight sat a bicycle.
Dark colored, couldn't make out the exact shade.
No one beside it.
Just a bicycle— alone, parked under the streetlight, the handlebars pointed toward the gas station.
I stared at it for about five seconds. Turned to the driver. "Sir, the tank's full. Total is eight hundred twenty-three."
The driver scanned to pay, grumbling as he climbed back in. The big truck rumbled away.
Under the canopy— just me again.
I stood there, watching the bicycle under the streetlight.
It stayed. Motionless.
My instincts screamed at me— don't go over there. Old Wang's rules said nothing about this scenario, but my gut was screaming a warning: don't go near that bicycle.
I stood rooted for several minutes. The bicycle never moved. No sound, no one to ride it. Just there.
Finally, I made a decision.
Walked into the duty room. Closed the door. Turned off the lights.
The whole room went dark. Only the canopy lights and the streetlight remained on.
Through the duty room window, I watched outside.
The bicycle was still there.
I stared until my eyes burned.
Then I blinked.
Looked again.
Under the streetlight— nothing.
The bicycle was gone.
I checked my phone. 2:47 AM.
The rest of that night, I didn't dare leave the duty room.
06
The next morning, I told Li Wei about the bicycle.
Li Wei's face changed after hearing it.
"You said it was just parked there? No one beside it?"
"Right."
"The driver saw it too?"
"Yeah."
Li Wei was silent for a long time. Then said something that made my blood run cold.
"Yuan bro, you know what this means?"
"What?"
"These things— normally they stay hidden. Only when they want you to see them do you see them. This time— it showed you its bicycle, but not the person."
"So?"
"So it's telling you," Li Wei's voice dropped, "it's watching you. You just haven't seen it yet."
I felt blood rush to my head.
"Don't scare me."
"I'm not scaring you." Li Wei rubbed his face. "Yuan bro, let me tell you something. Don't panic."
"Go ahead."
"I checked last night's surveillance footage yesterday. At 2:10, you went out to fill up that black sedan, right?"
"Right."
"While you were pumping gas— on the highway side of the footage— a bicycle rode past."
"What?"
Li Wei handed me his phone. On the screen was a screenshot from surveillance.
In the image, I was standing by the black sedan pumping gas. And at the very edge of the frame, on the highway side— a blurry figure, riding a bicycle,一闪而过 through the画面.
Just one frame.
If you weren't watching frame by frame, you'd never notice.
"I checked ten minutes of footage before and after," Li Wei said. "Only this one frame had it. The frame before— nothing. The frame after— nothing. It rode past behind you in those few seconds while you were pumping gas."
My hand holding the phone started shaking.
Something rode past behind me— I should have heard it, should have felt air movement, should have sensed something. But I didn't.
Was it too light, or was it existing in some non-physical way?
I returned the phone to Li Wei. Couldn't speak for a long while.
"Yuan bro," Li Wei looked at me, "if you're scared, you can switch to day shift. I'll talk to upper management, make the adjustment."
I thought about it. Shook my head.
Not because I wasn't afraid— I needed this job. That 1,200 was long gone. This month's pay was already earmarked for back rent. I had no exit strategy.
"Alright," Li Wei sighed. "Then remember— don't talk, don't look up at their face, don't ask their name. If something comes to you, follow the procedure exactly. After you're done— don't look back."
"Why not look back?"
"Because when you turn around— you'll see something you shouldn't see."
I didn't know what Li Wei's "something you shouldn't see" was— but I knew I absolutely did not want to see it.
07
The days that followed, I became extremely careful.
Every night after eleven, I barely left the duty room. The pump had a self-service sign. Only if a car actually came would I go out.
The bicycles came a few more times. Each time I followed the rules precisely— nozzle, squat, squeeze, stand, hang back. No talking, no looking up, no seeing faces.
Days turned into weeks, slowly becoming mechanical repetition.
I started getting used to this life.
Even started thinking these things weren't so scary after all. They wouldn't hurt you, wouldn't approach you— just came to collect travel expenses. You gave, they left.
Like tossing a coin to a roadside beggar.
But on a night in late May, everything changed.
It was May 29th. I remember because the next day was the Dragon Boat Festival.
Past one AM— a sound from the highway direction.
Not squeaking.
Ding— ling— ding— ling—
A bicycle bell.
I walked out of the duty room. Under the canopy stood a person.
Unlike the previous ones who kept their heads down, unreadable. This one was looking up— at me.
An old man. Hair silver-white, face a maze of wrinkles carved by time. Wearing a faded blue Mao jacket, feet shod in black cloth shoes.
He was pushing a heavy-duty bike— black frame, silver handlebars, the bell gleaming.
He looked at me and smiled.
"Young man, some gas please."
I stood there, stunned.
He spoke Mandarin— standard, crisp Mandarin.
Every other thing that had come before spoke in dialect— hoarse, mumbled dialect. But this old man— his Mandarin was clear as a normal person's.
"Young man?" He called out again.
I came back to my senses. Turned to grab the nozzle.
When I crouched down, I saw his feet.
Black cloth shoes, pant legs rolled up once. The exposed ankle— normal coloring. Not that deathly white. An elderly person's color— slightly yellowed, but living flesh.
My heart stumbled.
This didn't look paper. Paper things had the wrong color— that pallid white, the white of something with no life. But this old man— his skin tone, his expression, his manner— too much like a real person.
I squeezed the nozzle at the chain. Stood up.
The old man looked at me, then at the pump. Smiled.
"Thank you, young man."
Then he pushed the bike away.
After two steps, he stopped. Turned his head.
"By the way— what's your name?"
I didn't speak. Remembered Old Wang's words— don't answer.
The old man smiled. "It's fine. I'm just asking."
He took two more steps. Stopped again.
This time he didn't turn his head— just spoke, facing away, voice pitched just loud enough to reach me.
"Zhang Yuan— do you remember your grandmother?"
My blood froze solid.
He called my name.
He knew my name.
And he knew about my grandmother.
My grandmother passed when I was twelve. Cancer. When she was alive, she loved riding her bicycle to the market with me. On the back seat— a little bamboo chair. I'd sit there, hands gripping her clothes.
That bicycle— was a black heavy-duty bike, just like this one.
I stood there, watching the old man push the bike slowly into the darkness.
His figure grew fainter and fainter, finally disappearing at the end of the highway.
I heard the bell ring once more.
Ding— ling—
Then— nothing.
I stood under the gas station canopy and cried.
Not from fear.
From remembering my grandmother.
The rest of that night, I sat in the duty room, tears streaming. I didn't know who that old man was, didn't know why he knew about my grandmother, didn't understand what those words meant.
But I knew one thing.
Two kilometers east on that highway— used to be a cemetery.
My grandmother's grave— was there.