The first thing my master Lao Zhou taught me was how to flip shadow puppets.
What he didn't teach me was that one day I'd be squatting in the courtyard at midnight, watching them flip over on their own.
I discovered Lao Zhou was gone on an ordinary afternoon.
Sun was warm, baking the old stone-paved street. Old Liu's deep-fried tofu stall at the alley entrance was sizzling as always, the noise carrying half a street.
Walked to the troupe entrance. Two lacquered wooden doors half-ajar. The "Zhou Family Shadow Puppets" sign had faded, edges curling, rustling in the wind.
My name's Chen Mo. Graduated from the City Opera Institute, studied stage design. Couldn't find a proper job afterward, stuck with Lao Zhou for nearly three years.
Fancy way of saying "inheriting intangible cultural heritage"—really just surviving with a nearly seventy-year-old man, clinging to a dying craft.
Not many people watch shadow puppets these days. Besides occasional community performances, most gigs were in villages.
Pushed open the courtyard door. Quiet inside. The old locust tree in the corner shaded half the yard. The iron pump handle was hot from the sun.
Called out "Master"—no answer. Inside, light was dim. After coming in from bright sunlight, eyes needed a moment to adjust.
Saw the row of shadow puppets hanging on the wall across from the door. Cowhide, intricately carved and painted. In the dim light, those narrow eyes and colorful robes looked strangely vacant.
Against the wall, wooden shelves stacked with more, all covered in blue cloth.
Lao Zhou's bed was made, neat as a pin. Enamel mug upside down on the table. Touched the stove—cold.
His old Nokia sat by the pillow, screen dark. Like he'd gone grocery shopping, but the basket still hung on the nail by the door.
Old Liu said he saw Lao Zhou's light on last night, but no one came out this morning. Also mentioned Lao Zhou had been preoccupied lately, making several trips to the old willow tree on the east side of the village.
I thought: what could be bothering him? He'd spent his whole life guarding these boxes of puppets. Biggest worry was probably next month's rent and utilities.
But I went to the east village anyway.
That willow was ancient—trunk twisted, needed two people to hug, branches nearly touching the ground.
Under it, a patch of hard-packed earth, like people stood there often.
Faint marks on the ground—not footprints, more like... something thin and long dragged through the dirt, winding around the tree root in a half-circle.
A few cigarette butts lay beside them—Lao Zhou's usual unfiltered "Da Qianmen" brand.
Didn't think much of it. Picked up a stick and scraped the marks away. Felt a little creeped out, but mostly empty.
Lao Zhou was just... gone. Police came, said he was probably wandering, told us to wait for news.
The troupe building belonged to the district office. Two days after Lao Zhou left, a guy with glasses came to say they'd reclaim it next month, turning it into a "cultural creative space." I knew our days were numbered.
Cleaning out his things, dragged two large camphorwood boxes out from under Lao Zhou's bed. Heavy, locked. The key was under his pillow.
Opened them—smell of camphor and old leather hit me. Inside was a complete set of finest equipment: curtains, lamps, gongs and cymbals, plus a dozen or twenty shadow puppets carefully wrapped in brocade sleeves.
Took them out one by one—Guan Gong, Zhang Fei, Diaochan, Lü Bu, plus several unnamed gods and demons. Carvings far finer than the ones hanging outside. Expressive faces, rich colors, clearly Lao Zhou's best pieces.
At the very bottom of the box, a blue cloth package, stiff to the touch. Opened it—a tablet, palm-sized, bluish-gray stone, polished smooth.
Two lines carved into it, scratched in with what looked like a nail, strokes crooked but deep:
"After the show, let them rest. Face up."
"Once disturbed, do not perform."
Turned it over. The back had a strange symbol—looked like a deformed "Zhou" character, or a person curled up lying down.
Turned the tablet back and forth several times. That uneasy feeling came back. Lao Zhou did mention once—after performing, the puppets needed to be put away properly, stored separately, face up, not stacked. I'd thought it was an old man's fussiness about his things, like books not being stored upside down. But carving a tablet and keeping it under the box? That was taking things too far.
Remembered one summer night, too hot to sleep, saw Master carrying a chair out to the courtyard, sitting there guarding the camphorwood box. Asked why he wasn't sleeping. He said: "Someone needs to stay awake.
If no one watches them for a night, they won't behave." I'd thought "them" meant worrying about someone stealing things.
Now I thought about that box crouching under the moonlight, Master's gaze falling on it—the things inside were far more than just a few pieces of cowhide.
That night I didn't leave. Slept on Lao Zhou's hard bed. The courtyard was dead quiet, only wind through the locust leaves rustling.
Left the camphorwood box open in the middle of the room. The shadow puppets lay quietly inside, face up, staring blankly at the ceiling with their hollow eyes.
Moonlight filtered through the window paper, casting a cold glow on their painted faces.
Watched them, remembered Lao Zhou operating them—fingers dancing, mouth reciting lines. Then those dead things came alive, galloped across the curtain, fought and sang.
Reached out and touched Guan Gong's face. The cowhide, warmed by my palm, had a strange, almost warm feel.
When I pulled my hand back, my fingertips seemed to have picked up a faint smell—like dust under old opera stages mixed with aged rosin.
Tossed and turned, couldn't sleep. That smell lingered, faint, hovering around my nose.
Late night, drifted into a half-doze. Suddenly heard a very faint "crack" from the wooden box, like dried bamboo shifting with the weather.
Didn't open my eyes, rolled over. Then another sound, closer. Like it had moved from the bottom of the box to the edge.
Eyes snapped open. Under the moonlight, the box was quiet, nothing. But that rosin smell flared up for a moment.
Stared at the box for a long time, no second sound. Finally fell asleep before dawn.
Next morning, woke up by sparrow chirping in the courtyard. Sun was bright. Rubbed my eyes, sat up. Glanced at the wall clock—nearly nine.
Then instinctively looked into the box in the center of the room.
One glance, and I froze in bed.
The shadow puppets in the box were all flipped.
Last night I'd arranged them carefully, face up. Now, a dozen shadow puppets, neatly stacked, face down at the bottom of the box.
Like they'd made an agreement—flipped themselves in the night, showing me their backs and the bamboo sticks that controlled them.
Guan Gong's red face was gone, replaced by the rough, unpolished back of the cowhide, and the cross of bamboo sticks on his back. Diaochan's hair bun and pearls were gone too, only a flat outline.
Stared for several seconds. Goosebumps slowly rose. Jumped out of bed, no shoes, bare feet on cold concrete, walked over and squatted by the box. Yes, definitely back side up. They looked like sulking children, turning their backs on me.
Reached in to flip them. Lao cowhide puppets were flexible, with a distinctive cool, smooth feel. Turned Guan Gong over—still that dignified face.
Flipped Zhang Fei too, his fierce leopard eyes. One by one, flipped them all back, arranged them, face up.
When I flipped the last one, Lü Bu, his bamboo stick caught slightly. Used a little force to straighten it, heard a faint "crack," like a joint had moved.
"Maybe a cat," I said to myself, voice dry in the empty room. "Or mice, knocking the box over." But looked at the box edge—no scratch marks. The brick floor was clean, not even a speck of extra dust.
Brushed dust off my hands, went to the courtyard pump to wash my face. Cold water hit my face, seemed to wash away some of that weird feeling.
After breakfast, the district office guy called again. Said Lao Zhou's matter was his own, but the community performance agreement was with the troupe.
If the "Heritage into the Community" show next month didn't happen, the previous two performances' fees—over 3,000 yuan—couldn't be settled.
Did the math. Moving out next month, just renting a small storage room for the two boxes would be 2,000 yuan deposit. Held the phone, silent for a long time. He asked "are you going to do it or not?" I said yes.
Just one show. Perform, get paid, store the boxes, figure out the rest later. Told myself just this one time—after the show, I'd arrange the puppets properly, face up, put them back in the box, and not disturb their rest again.
Maybe performing a proper piece onstage during the day would dispel last night's weirdness.
Went out in the afternoon, to the old bookstall in town, trying to find any records of shadow puppet taboos.
The stall owner was a bald old man with reading glasses, knew Lao Zhou. Flipped through all his folk lore books—none mentioned "shadow puppets can't be flipped" or "must be face up after performing."
Searched online too—all I found were travel guides and shadow puppet tutorials. This rule seemed to exist only within the Zhou family courtyard, unknown to outsiders.
Back to the courtyard at dusk. Sun moved west, the locust tree's shadow stretched long, covering half the patio. Pushed open the gate, looked up—the puppets I'd placed on the stone slabs that morning had changed again.
Flipped again. But not all of them.
Guan Gong, Zhang Fei, Diaochan and other key characters lay face down, bamboo sticks pointing up;
Several soldiers and extras stayed face up, bodies squeezed against their flipped companions, creating a twisted, pushing posture.
Like there was a dispute among them—some wanted to flip, some refused.
Guan Gong's posture was especially strange. His right arm was pressed under his body at a clearly impossible angle, bamboo stick bent, like he'd been forcibly held down mid-struggle.
Squatted down to look. The stone slabs still held the day's warmth. Those face-down puppets clung to the stone. Picked up Guan Gong and flipped him over—
On the back of his cowhide, a fresh, faint scratch. Like something had grabbed him.
Checked Zhang Fei too. One of his bamboo sticks had a faint mark—couldn't tell if it was a tooth mark or just wood grain from moisture.
A chill ran down my spine. Lao Zhou said the ones hanging outside were apprentices, they'd rest on their own, no need to worry. What about the ones in the box? What were his exact words?
Remembered now. The first time I learned to put things away, holding a Guan Gong puppet to put in the box, he grabbed my hand.
He said: "The ones outside are apprentices—after performing, they rest on their own. These in the box are different. They've been with me most of my life. The resentment from the roles they've played has accumulated for decades.
When they're tired, if you don't let them rest properly, they'll find their own way to rest."
At the time I'd thought he was talking about an old performer's affection for his tools. Smiled and agreed. Now squatting in front of this row of flipped puppets, I understood what "find their own way to rest" really meant.
After dark, didn't dare put the puppets back in the box. Left them on the stones in the courtyard.
The room was too quiet. Sat on the main room threshold, staring at those flat silhouettes in the courtyard gradually blending into darkness.
When the moon rose, looked again by moonlight—all puppets were still in place, face down, motionless.
But something felt different. Counted them twice—eighteen, all accounted for. But the order had changed from evening.
Diaochan, which was on the far left, was now in the middle. Next to her was a broken bamboo stick, from who knew which puppet.
Held the carving knife for cutting puppets, sat on the threshold for half the night. When sleep got too strong, pinched my thigh to stay awake.
Around three AM, wind stopped. The courtyard became unnaturally quiet—even the insects fell silent. Heard a very faint sound, from the north side of the courtyard, like someone scraping cowhide with their nails.
The sound lasted about ten seconds, then disappeared.
Just before dawn, couldn't hold on anymore. Fell asleep against the door frame.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was already up. The stones in the courtyard were clean, the eighteen puppets arranged neatly, face up, like nothing had happened yesterday.
Guan Gong's dislocated arm was back in place, bamboo stick straight, no sign of having been bent. Only the carving knife in my hand had a layer of dark red rust on the blade—yesterday it had been polished bright.
The performance was arranged for two days later, afternoon, at an old community center square.
Hauled the two boxes over with a tricycle. Set up the frame, hung the white cotton curtain (used for who knows how many years), adjusted the old incandescent lamp.
Curtain up. Sunlight through the white cloth cast a warm glow behind it.
Sat behind the curtain, took out today's puppets—Guan Gong, Zhang Fei, plus a few generic soldiers—hung them on the rack beside the curtain.
Checked them again. All facing out, front toward me.
Two PM. Show began. Dozens of elderly people sat sparsely in the audience, a few with kids. Community cadre held up his phone to record, said "start."
Took a deep breath. Fingers slipped into the bamboo sticks behind Guan Gong. Drum accompaniment was on a tape recorder—Lao Zhou's old recording, audio a bit muffled.
Curtain lit up. Guan Gong, broadsword in hand, strode forward majestically. I recited the lines: "I, Guan Yu, am here—"
Everything went smoothly. Controlled the puppets, positioning, fighting. Guan Gong swung his blade, Zhang Fei charged with his spear. On the small curtain, they fought fiercely.
The elderly audience watched entranced. A few who knew Lao Zhou whispered to each other.
I found my rhythm. Fingers more flexible. The puppets seemed to merge with me—wherever I wanted them to go, they went.
Reached the segment where Guan Gong executes Hua Xiong. Peak excitement. Then—something happened. The Guan Gong in my hand stiffened.
Not my movement. I felt it—a very slight, but definite resistance from the thin bamboo sticks under my fingers.
Like an extra hand had wrapped around my wrist, gently but firmly pulling my movement to the side.
Froze. Performance paused half a second. Thought the bamboo sticks had caught on the curtain fold. Adjusted my fingers, tried to continue.
Then, the Guan Gong in my hand slowly turned an angle.
Facing me.
That red-faced, narrow-eyed face looked directly at mine.
His right arm—the one holding the blade, which I controlled—slowly lifted. Tip pointed down. Then, very clearly, shook left and right.
He was shaking his head at me.
At that moment, chaos erupted in the audience. An old woman shrieked: "Oh my! Look behind him!"
Yanked the curtain open, stuck my head out.
On the curtain next to Guan Gong's silhouette, another shadow was clearly visible.
Same outline, same sword posture. Standing half a step behind Guan Gong—like a pale, semi-transparent double, slightly wavering.
Under that shadow, not a single bamboo stick for controlling it.
Cold chill shot up from my feet to my skull. Fingers slipped. Guan Gong and the two bamboo sticks clattered to the stage. Fumbled to turn off the tape recorder. Drums cut off abruptly.
Audience in an uproar. Several children started crying. Community cadre rushed up, face pale: "What was that? What was that shadow?"
Couldn't speak. Eyes locked on Guan Gong on the stage.
Face up, lying still. That same face, quiet. Everything before might have been a hallucination.
But on the white cotton curtain, behind where Guan Gong had stood, there was a faint, dull boot-shaped imprint.
And that incandescent lamp bulb was clearly hanging overhead, yet the boot print's direction—tip pointing forward, like someone standing with their back to the curtain, facing me.
Didn't bother packing up. Stuffed the puppets haphazardly back in the box, snapped the lock, rolled the curtain into a ball, pushed the tricycle and ran. Behind me the cadre was still calling, didn't look back.
Back in the courtyard, bolted the door from inside, leaned against it, breathless. Heart pounding like a drum. Broad daylight, sun bright, sparrows chirping in the locust tree—but I felt cold.
The camphorwood box sat in the middle of the yard. Stared at it, hesitated a long time, then walked over, unlocked it with trembling hands.
Inside, those puppets I'd stuffed in haphazardly had flipped again.
But this time it was different from before. When I'd stuffed them in, I'd thrown them randomly. Now the space inside the box looked like it had been rearranged.
Guan Gong and Zhang Fei lay side by side, face down, bodies straight. Diaochan pressed on top of Lü Bu, the two stacked together, both face down.
Those generic soldiers scattered in the corners. Two had flipped over, one still maintained the face-up position I'd left it in, body crooked, like being held down mid-struggle.
On the brocade pad at the bottom of the box, a fresh scratch—thin and deep, running from one end to the other.
"Bang"—slammed the lid shut, sat on the ground.
That night didn't dare sleep inside. Brought a bamboo chair, sat in the courtyard facing the box.
Moonlight was cold. Turned on every light in the yard, made it bright as day. But that dark box crouched there in the bright light, like a living thing lying in wait.
An odor slowly rose in the air—faint, like aged rosin, or the dust of old opera stages that had been trampled down for years.
The source seemed to be the box itself. Got denser as I approached, faded when I stepped back.
Around two AM, couldn't hold on anymore, dozed off.
Drifting, heard faint sounds from inside the box—like something slowly, carefully crawling.
Bamboo scraping wood—scrape, scrape. And leather folding and unfolding—creak, creak. Sounds soft, but clear and terrifying in the silent night.
Finer than the scraping sounds, there was also something like teeth gnawing dry wood—"crack, crack," intermittent, accompanied by faint wet sounds.
Eyes snapped open.
From the gap in the lid, a thin, bright red thing extended, like a dyed bamboo stick, or some kind of slender finger joint.
Slowly emerged beyond the box edge, curved in the air, then retracted. Then a soft "click"—like the lid had closed from inside.
Sat motionless until dawn.
Next day, opened the box. The puppets inside had changed again. Diaochan, which had been pressed down, was now on top, face down,
two of her painted hair threads had been torn.
Lü Bu lay beside her, face up, but his body position was unnatural—entire body twisted at an angle, like forcibly wrenched.
Next to the scratch at the bottom of the box, a small pile of dark red powder. Rubbed it between my fingers—rust and dried blood mixed, buried underground for a very long time.
The blue stone tablet, which I'd tucked in the side compartment, now sat squarely in the center of the box, those two lines facing up.
"After the show, let them rest. Face up."
"Once disturbed, do not perform."
Picked up the tablet, flipped to look at the back. That curled-up symbol looked more distorted than yesterday in the morning light, like the figure was curled tighter.
Took out all the puppets one by one, placed them on the stone slabs in the courtyard, several rows, all face up.
Sunlight hit them directly, their painted faces finally looking a little alive. Counted them twice—eighteen. But one of Guan Gong's arms was missing.
Searched everywhere in and out of the box, finally found it next to the scratch at the bottom—the bamboo stick broken clean through, with a faint tooth mark next to the break, nearly invisible without close inspection.
Very small, like a child's deciduous tooth, or something even finer and smaller.
Went looking for Lao Zhou.
Old Liu said he'd made several trips to the east village. Police had no news. A nearly seventy-year-old man, limited mobility—where could he have gone?
Mind racing. Thought of places he usually went: the old teahouse in town, the old bookstall behind the City God Temple, and the abandoned water pumping station by the river.
He'd told me it was cool there, sometimes went to nap in summer.
Rode the tricycle all morning. Teahouse owner said he hadn't seen Lao Zhou in days. Bookstall old man said he'd come by last week, flipping through a copy of "Investiture of the Gods."
Pumping station had an iron door with a lock. Inside empty—only dust and cobwebs.
Nowhere.
Back to the courtyard in the afternoon. Pushed open the half-ajar gate, looked up—those puppets I'd placed on the stone slabs had changed again.
This time they hadn't flipped.
Eighteen puppets all maintained the face-up position, but their positions had all changed. Guan Gong, originally in the first row on the left, was now in the third row on the right.
Zhang Fei had moved from the second row to the last row, next to Lü Bu. Diaochan was at the very front, center, with the other puppets following her lead.
They looked like a reorganised squad, neatly arranged, all facing the same direction—the courtyard gate.
And Guan Gong's broken arm sat alone at the very front of the squad, break pointing outward, like an arrow pointing somewhere.
They were pointing the way.
The direction they pointed was the east village.
That night I didn't sleep. After dark, sat in the main room, the empty box by my legs. When the moon reached its zenith, the puppets on the courtyard slabs started moving.
This time I didn't close my eyes.
Diaochan moved first.
Her body rose from the stone slab like a thin piece of paper. The posture was strange—not the way a person stands,
but the whole body first arched into a curve, then stood flat, like a piece of paper rolled up by the wind.
Her face toward the courtyard gate, started moving that way—body motionless, hands and feet motionless, entire figure flattened against the ground, silently "gliding" forward.
Then Zhang Fei, Lü Bu, Guan Gong. One by one they rose from the stone slabs, formed a thin procession, "flowing" toward the courtyard gate.
Guan Gong was missing an arm, the empty sleeve hanging, swaying slightly with the rhythm of movement.
Held the empty box, chased to the courtyard entrance, gripped the door frame and looked out.
Moonlit old street was empty, silent. That line of puppets moved against the stone slab ground, silently forward.
Looked carefully under the moonlight—on the ground they passed was clean, not a single shadow cast.
Those painted, flat bodies gliding under the moonlight were themselves like dark matter attracted to the ground, no second layer of shadow falling on the stone slabs.
They were shadows. Shadows don't need to cast another shadow.
The procession turned at the alley where Old Liu's tofu stall was, heading toward the east village. Glanced at the box in my hand—the dark red powder at the bottom suddenly became warm, a foul odor rose up, ten times stronger than during the day. Nearly dropped the box.
Followed them.
Stone slab ground glowed coldly under the moonlight, those flat shadows sliding silently ahead.
Passed Old Liu's stall, saw an empty bamboo chair by the deep fryer, an old jacket draped over the back—like Old Liu had left it there when closing up.
But that jacket at night looked like someone curled up sitting in the chair. Quickened my pace.
Turned the corner, ahead was a narrow alley. At the end of the alley was the open ground in the east village and the old willow. The puppet procession stopped at the alley entrance, like blocked by something.
Approached closely. Diaochan at the front was trembling slightly, her body edges glowing with an unnatural light. Next to her, Lü Bu also trembled, bamboo sticks gently clinking, making faint sounds.
There was something under the willow.
Moonlight was shredded by the willow branches, falling as patchy bright spots on the ground.
Among those bright spots, the patch of soil north of the tree root was darker than the rest, black and heavy, like saturated with something.
On the soil surface, drag marks were dense—similar to what I saw that day, but more, newer, some overlapping, like the same thing had passed back and forth many times.
The puppet procession suddenly moved, circled the willow, gathered on the dark soil north of the root. They formed a half circle, like a performance with only an audience.
Moonlight on their painted faces, those narrow eyes and brows at night looked like they were looking at something—looking under the soil.
Knelt down, pressed my hand to the dark soil.
The soil was loose. Slightly pressing left a fingerprint impression.
Lay down on the ground, leaned in to smell. That odor was the same as the powder at the bottom of the box—rust mixed with dried blood, but denser, fouler.
Fine textures on the soil surface, like something flat being dragged across it. Followed the thickest mark downward, digging, filling my nails with cold, wet dirt.
Digging about two inches deep, my fingertips touched something.
Thin, flexible, like a piece of leather.
Snapped my hand back. Under the moonlight, my fingers were coated with dark red—couldn't tell if it was soil color or something else.
That color was cold, clung to my skin for a long time without fading. The willow branches swayed gently overhead, a willow leaf fell on the back of my hand, cold, like a flat, temperatureless finger.
Stood up, stepped back two paces. The puppets still surrounded the root, all facing the direction of that pit. Counted—one was missing.
Guan Gong was gone.
Turned and ran, empty box pressing against my ribs, waves of foul odor rising from the bottom of the box. Behind me came faint "rustle, rustle" sounds under the willow, like something had turned over in the soil.
Back in the courtyard, bolted the door, placed the box in the center of the main room, turned on all remaining lights in the yard.
Before dawn, paced back and forth in the room, didn't dare sit, didn't dare close my eyes. At first light, went outside to check—the stone slabs were empty, those puppets hadn't returned.
The box crouched quietly on the main room floor. Hesitated a long time before walking over to open it. Only the dark red powder remained at the bottom, color darker than yesterday, foul odor stronger.
The blue stone tablet lay alone in the powder.
Picked it up, flipped to the back.
That curled-up symbol had changed. Before it was curled, now it was in an extended posture, like someone lying flat. Like a puppet that had been flipped over.
That afternoon dragged the box to the open ground outside the courtyard. Poured diesel, struck a match.
Flames leaped up, thick smoke rolling. Neighbors poked their heads out—I said I was cleaning up garbage.
The camphorwood box burned for a long time. Wood cracked and popped. When the dark red powder at the bottom burned, the flame turned bluish-white, the rosin odor in the air turned to a more choking, burnt smell.
Stared at the fire, clear in my mind—those puppets were long gone from the box. The box was just a container, a place for them to rest.
I was burning an empty room, couldn't hold anything anymore.
But I had no other choice. I had to do something.
Collected the ashes with a shovel, put them in a burlap bag. Walked to the old willow in the east village, buried the burlap bag and the blue stone tablet together in that dark soil.
When I shoveled the last pile of dirt, the shovel hit something hard. Squatted down, felt with my hand—thin, flexible, buried in the soil, same texture as that cowhide.
Felt around its edges with my fingers, like the outline of a person. Spread out, limbs extended, lying flat under the soil.
My hand shook. But ultimately I didn't dig it up. Smoothed the soil, pressed it down firmly, placed several stones on top.
Never touched shadow puppets again.
The first few nights after moving, slept on the iron bed frame in the rental apartment, always felt extremely faint "rustle" sounds in the corner of the room.
Dared not turn on the light to check, only pulled the blanket over my head. One midnight, couldn't stand it anymore, sat up and turned on the desk lamp.
Nothing in the room.
But looked down at my wrist—inner side near the pulse, somewhere a faint mark had appeared, a circular arc, two thin lines below, like someone curled up lying there.
Scraped it with my nail, wouldn't come off. Scrubbed it several times with hand sanitizer, color didn't fade. That mark clung quietly to the skin, like it had grown from inside.
Over the next few days it gradually faded. Didn't think about it anymore.
But sometimes when I can't sleep at night, lying in bed, I'd unconsciously touch the inside of my wrist. That mark had faded almost invisible, but I always felt it was still there.
Every time the night was quiet, a faint warmth would rise there, like someone pressing that patch of skin lightly with a finger.
Moved three times. Each time to a new place, first thing was to check all boxes and cabinets, making sure none were camphorwood.
Now I live on the fifth floor of an old west-side community, window facing a narrow alley. No willow trees in the alley.
At night, the street lamp's light slanted in, casting a warm yellow patch on the bedroom floor.
Occasionally wake up at midnight, stare at that patch for a long time, confirming it's just a patch, no other shapes.
But sometimes when the wind moves the curtains and the patch shifts, my pupils would tighten sharply.
In that instant, I always felt an extra edge on the patch—thin, long, like a flat shadow poking its head out from the side.
Then the wind stops, the patch returns to normal. Roll over, pull the blanket over my head.
When closing my eyes, my palm unconsciously covers the inside of my wrist—there's no mark there anymore, clean.
But the warm sensation remains, like a thin hand, gently pressed there.
Dare not think about it anymore—at night when you're deeply asleep, those objects you've poured your heart into, will they quietly turn around when you're not looking?
Facing you as you sleep.