Before opening that door, I thought the worst case was the customer bailing, leaving the dress behind and costing me half a day's wages.
After opening it, I realized things were... far simpler than I'd imagined. Simple enough to reduce to an empty room, a gray mirror, and an old qipao folded on the floor. Completely empty. Not a single strand of hair left behind.
I'd rather she'd just run away.
I've been working at this tailoring shop for nearly half a year. The shop is wedged in the middle of Sophora Blossom Street. On one side is a wonton shop, on the other a watch repair place. The three storefronts share a common wall—when it rains during plum season, the plaster bulges and oozes water stains.
The plane trees across the street are old enough to have stories. Their canopies droop over the sidewalk, keeping the shop cool in summer and... also cool in winter.
The boss's surname is Chen. The regulars call him Old Chen. He's past sixty, back hunched, knuckles thick and hard—yet when he threads a needle, his hands are steady. When he hired me, he had one requirement: be diligent, don't flap your mouth.
I nodded. He added a second line: the shop has its rules. About that fitting room inside—you remember the rules clearly.
The fitting room is a small square partitioned off behind the tailoring counter. Particleboard walls, gray cloth curtain. Inside, a full-length mirror with a fine crack at the top-right corner, like a dried riverbed.
An incandescent bulb hangs on a pull cord. Tug once, it turns on. Tug again, it turns off. Low wattage—even at dusk it barely makes a difference. Facing the curtain is a low stool for customers, seat polished bright.
There are three rules. If someone goes in, you wait. Wait however long it takes. But you listen for sounds inside. If it's completely silent for longer than the time to burn a stick of incense, knock. Three times.
*Dong. Dong. Dong.* If no answer, lift the curtain and look. If nobody's inside, take the garment out and burn it in the back alley. If someone's inside, close the curtain. Don't ask what they're trying on—let them come out, pay, and leave.
The boss was cutting dark blue cotton with large scissors when he said this. *Snap, snap*, the cuts were perfectly straight. "Remember?" he asked. "Remembered," I said. He *mm*-ed without looking up.
At the time I thought it was funny. This wasn't some deep mountain temple—it was a small shop on a busy street. What tricks could a tiny fitting room possibly pull? It was just a precaution against theft or swapping, a way to scare people into behaving. As for burning clothes, I understood it as disposing of abandoned items.
This was the modern era. Ghosts and spirits? Please.
The first few months passed quietly. Not many people came into the shop, even fewer into the fitting room. Occasionally an auntie or lady would come try on a coat, the curtain would lift and fall, footsteps would circle inside twice, she'd come out, check herself in the mirror, haggle a bit, and leave.
The sewing machine went *click click click*. I scrolled on my phone behind the counter. Days were as dense and flat as stitching.
One afternoon in June, the rain was moderate—not too heavy, not too light—thick enough to seep into your bones. The glass door was wet, plane tree leaves dripping. The wonton shop had extended their awning, steam mixing with rain vapor. The watch repair old man was watching the rain from his doorway.
No customers all afternoon. I'd finished short videos, then scrolled news until my eyes ached. The sewing machine's *clicking* slowed down—boss was cutting a gray silk lined jacket, probably sleepy.
The curtain lifted. A woman walked in.
I didn't see her face clearly. She wore a hat—a wide-brimmed dark soft hat, brim pulled low, half her chin hidden. Trench coat was beige, thick material, not the season's style.
Cuffs and pant legs were wet, darkened a shade. She looked like she'd been soaked through, carrying a damp smell mixed with something else—an undertone like old wood.
She carried a kraft paper bag in one hand. Walked to the counter, placed the bag on the surface. Fingers were long, knuckles pale. Her voice was muffled, like through a layer of cloth: "Take in the waist on this garment."
I took it and pulled it out. The bag opened only slightly. What showed first was the fabric. Dark purple, silk. The moment my fingers touched it, it felt colder than room temperature—like just retrieved from somewhere cool.
Pulling it further out, the pattern appeared—intertwining lotus, deep background with light flowers, stitching dense. When the light hit it, the pattern seemed to move.
I pulled the whole qipao out, flipped it to check the label at the collar. Nothing. No laundry tag, no size tag. The collar edge had an extremely thin piping, hand-sewn, stitches nearly invisible. The fabric was old—at least ten years.
"Take it in?" I asked. She didn't answer. Extended an index finger and tapped the counter. *Tap. Tap.* "Try it on," she said.
Then she took the qipao from my hand. My fingertips briefly touched the silk—cold. She draped it over her arm, turned and walked toward the inner room. Trench coat hem swept the stool. The cloth curtain lifted and fell with a *plop*.
The sewing machine was still running. Boss didn't look up.
I sat back and continued scrolling. About five or six minutes passed. I glanced at the curtain. It hung there, still. A while later, looked again—no movement.
Trying on a garment, checking in the mirror, taking it off—ten minutes is long. I put down my phone and walked to the curtain. There was a gap at the bottom, pitch-dark inside, couldn't see anything. I hesitated, then rapped three times on the wooden doorframe.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
"Hello? Done trying?"
No sound inside. The sewing machine stopped at that moment. The shop went dead quiet—rain suddenly poured in. I knocked three more times, harder.
"Hello? Are you there?"
Still no answer. I put my ear to the curtain. No fabric rustle, no footsteps, not even breathing. A slight sound came from behind me by the tailoring table—like a stool leg scraping the floor.
Boss looked at me over his reading glasses. The message in his eyes was clear: look yourself. He went back to his work.
I took a deep breath and lifted the curtain.
The moment it raised, I smelled it. That damp, old-wood scent from her—but much stronger, almost a warm fog rushing out at me. The bulb was on, dim yellow light covering the cramped space.
Nobody inside.
The dark purple qipao lay piled on the floor. Silk crumpled, the intertwining lotus pattern dark in the light—like a patch of water weeds in deep water. Mirror was empty, reflecting the particleboard walls. Nothing on the hooks. Stool was empty.
Where was she? The trench coat? The hat? She'd clearly worn them when she came in. If she'd changed clothes, they should be on the stool. She'd only brought a qipao—nothing else. But she was gone.
Her changed clothes were gone too. The only thing left was this qipao that didn't seem to belong to anyone.
I stood at the curtain opening, back going cold in waves. The qipao lay quietly on the floor, silk surface with a dark sheen. I hesitated a few seconds, then squatted down to pick it up.
Fingers barely touched the silk when I pulled back. It was warm. The fabric was warm—not residual body heat, but evenly, thoroughly warm, seeping from inside out. Like just taken off someone, the skin's impression still locked in the weave.
I stepped back, back hitting the stool edge. A corner of the fabric pile had flipped up, showing a slightly lighter purple underneath.
I stared at it for seconds, mind in chaos, turning the boss's rules over and over. No one inside—burn it. No matter how strange, rules were rules.
I found a white cotton cloth, wrapped my hand, and reached for the qipao again. The warmth still came through the cloth, faint, like touching a heating pipe through a wall.
I wrapped the entire qipao in the cloth, held it, and walked to the back alley. Pushing the back door open brought in damp cold air.
The back alley was a narrow passage between our shop and the wonton shop, too narrow to stretch arms. Ground was broken brick, moss growing year-round. At the end of the alley was a red brick wall, three meters high, with broken glass on top.
Beyond the wall was the back wall of another row of houses, barely enough space to squeeze through sideways. This alley was a dead end—only our shop's back door and the wonton shop's, no other exit.
A rusty iron bucket sat by the corner, where we usually burned fabric scraps and thread ends. I dropped the wrapped qipao in. The silk slipped half out of the white cloth, dark purple against gray daylight—a sickly sheen.
I pulled out a lighter, lit a sheet of old newspaper, and dropped it in. Flames leapt up, licking the silk. First came a pungent burning smell, mixed with chemical sizing burning. The silk curled, blackened, edges rolling. The lotus pattern writhed in the flame.
I watched it burn. Fire grew stronger, iron bucket crackling. Wind poured in from the alley entrance, flames leaning to one side. Right then, the qipao turned itself over.
It had been burning front-side up. Suddenly something pushed from underneath, the whole garment flipped over, the back side now facing up. The fire was weaker there, dark embers crawling along the silk surface, scorching the fabric yellow but not burning through.
Right in the center of the scorched area, a white cotton strip appeared.
Edges were black-stitched. Two words embroidered on it in dark red thread. Stitches fine and neat, stroke by stroke, more precise than machine work.
My name.
I stood in the rain, staring at that label, tongue frozen. The alley wind howled between the two walls, flames leapt suddenly and swallowed the cotton strip.
Then the entire qipao finally burned to a blackened mass, collapsing twisted at the bottom of the bucket. A thin thread of smoke rose from the ashes, mixing with rain vapor and dispersing.
I leaned against the back door, back pressed to the panel, chest tight. Legs feeling weak. A name. My name, embroidered inside a mysterious old qipao. Dark red thread, like dried blood. Who'd go to this trouble? Who knew me?
The back door creaked open. Boss leaned out with an umbrella. "Burned?" he asked.
I nodded. Lips wooden.
He glanced at me, eyes moving from my face to the ashes in the bucket, then back. "Come in," he said, handing me the umbrella. I took it, fingers still shaking.
He retreated into the shop, back door left ajar. I stood holding the umbrella for a few seconds, rain pattering on the canopy. The embers in the bucket were soaked by rain, giving off one last wisp of steam. I gritted my teeth and went inside. Feet were wet, leaving prints on the wooden floor.
That night I couldn't sleep. Eyelids ached, but my mind was clear as ice water. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the dark purple qipao turning over in the fire, then that label with my name.
Tossed and turned countless times. Got up, drank some cold water, lay down again. A night bus occasionally passed outside, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling and disappearing. Around 3 AM I got up to pee. Passed the living room mirror—out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw someone standing behind me. Spun around—nothing. Looked at the mirror again, only my own face, pale as paper, dark circles under my eyes.
Went to the shop the next day. Boss was already there. He came earlier than me, sat behind the tailoring table, gray wool fabric spread out in front of him, using chalk to draw lines. I changed into my uniform, took a rag to wipe the counter.
Sunlight came through the glass door. Street was dry, water droplets still hanging from plane tree leaves. Everything was normal, like last night never happened. I tried to tell myself it was coincidence.
A name isn't that unique. "Fang" or "Li" are everywhere. My two characters weren't rare, but weren't one-of-a-kind either.
Thinking this way, my chest loosened a little. But not much.
Aunt Liu came in the morning. She ran a grocery shop at the street corner, chubby, loud voice. She brought a pair of brown trousers to hem, slung them on the counter, and started chatting.
Suddenly she leaned closer: "Xiao Chen, yesterday afternoon did you see a woman in a beige trench coat pass by here?"
My heart tightened. "Aunt Liu, you saw her?"
"Hah, I didn't see her. My husband did." She lowered her voice. "Yesterday he was sitting at the door picking vegetables, said a woman walked from the east end—beige trench coat, wide-brimmed hat, couldn't see her face.
"Walked lightly, like her feet didn't touch the water. He said she stopped at your shop door, then went in. After that, he never saw her come out."
Her chubby face leaned closer, eyes wide: "Strange, right? A whole person goes in, and never comes out? Does your shop have a back door to somewhere else?"
My throat was dry. "She... tried on a dress, wasn't satisfied, left through the back alley."
"Back alley?" Aunt Liu straightened up. "Isn't that a dead end? Blocked by that wall, can't even squeeze through sideways." She tsked, said a few more words, and left.
After she left, I stood behind the counter, the cold that had settled in my heart creeping back up. Boss was still cutting that gray wool, chalk line steady. I glanced at him, he didn't look up.
Afternoon was uneventful. Boss got a call—someone in the east district needed a birthday suit, he'd measure at their house. He grabbed his toolbox, told me to watch the shop, and left.
I was alone in the shop. The sewing machine stopped, the old clock ticking, making the room seem especially empty. I sat for a while, then stood and walked to the inner room.
The curtain hung there, exactly as usual. I lifted it.
The fitting room was empty. The full-length mirror reflected half my face, gray. The incandescent bulb was cold, cord hanging there. The stool was clean.
There was a darker patch on the floor, edges blurred—like a water stain, or something else. I squatted and looked for a long time, couldn't tell what it was. When I stood up, my eyes accidentally swept across the kraft paper bag on the counter.
I spun around to look at the counter. The surface was clean, nothing else. The bag—that woman had carried it yesterday, the one with the qipao—I'd never noticed it after she left. Now it was gone. When? Last night? This morning? Or right under my nose?
I walked to the counter, checked the surface carefully, then bent down to look underneath. Nothing. Any corner, nothing. Boss came back and I didn't ask him, he didn't mention it either. The bag was like it never existed.
But it had clearly sat there for an entire afternoon. If that woman had vanished from the fitting room, had the bag vanished too? Or was there more in that bag than just the qipao?
The back of my neck tightened. I dared not think further.
Boss came back in the evening. Sky was getting dark, a cool breeze came in with him. He took off his jacket and hung it by the door. I sat behind the counter, he glanced at me, said my face was still pale. I said I was fine. He didn't say more, walked behind the tailoring table and lit a cigarette. Smoke rose, dispersing in the dimness.
After a long silence, he suddenly said: "That garment. Before you burned it, you flipped it over to look?"
My throat tightened. "Yes."
"What did you see?"
I didn't answer. He flicked the ash, voice lowered. "The one trying on clothes in the fitting room—might not be alive." My fingers tightened on the rag. "Boss, you knew."
He smoked, the cigarette tip glowing. "Been doing this forty years, seen plenty. Qipao is worn close to the skin, it's the easiest thing for something to attach itself to. Made a few, altered a few—they all carry something. The rules are there to prevent this. Burn it, break the tether, and it passes."
"But I saw my name," I said.
He extinguished the cigarette on the windowsill. "You saw it, it saw you." He turned, half his face in twilight, half outlined by the streetlight outside. "You touched it, it remembers you. The name is a mark. The garment thinks you're suitable, wants to follow you."
My scalp tingled. "That garment was burned, it..."
"The shell is burned," he interrupted. "The tether can't be burned. It marked you, this fire can't stop the root."
I couldn't speak for a long time. Boss walked back to the tailoring table, pulled open a drawer, rummaged around, took out a palm-sized red cloth package, and handed it to me. "Put it under your pillow. Seven days."
He said: "Within seven days, no matter what you hear—knocking, calling your name—don't turn around, don't answer. After seven days it can't find you, it'll give up."
I took it, squeezed it—something hard inside, a wooden token, edges worn smooth. "Boss, what if after seven days..."
He didn't answer. Lit another cigarette, drew once, smoke hiding his expression. "Get through these seven days first."
I gripped the red cloth package and went home. That night I stuffed it under my pillow, left the light on, and lay down with my clothes on. Outside, wind blew branches, *rustle rustle*, like silk brushing against something.
I pulled the blanket up to my chin. Eyelids grew heavy. Between waking and dreaming, I heard someone call my name. Voice very faint, distant, a woman's. Muffled, like through a layer of cloth. Exactly like that female customer with the hat.
I didn't answer.
Rolled over, buried my face in the pillow. The voice called twice more, faded away. My whole body stiffened, I only fell into an uneasy sleep when it was fully light.
In my dream, a dark purple qipao hung in the fitting room, spinning by itself, the lotus pattern making me dizzy. A figure appeared in the mirror, back to me, wearing that garment. Shoulders slowly, slowly turned around.
I woke up. The alarm was blaring. The red cloth package was still under my pillow, pressing against my skull. I took it out, didn't dare open it.
After that, every day at the shop I walked around the fitting room. When customers came to try on clothes, I stood outside the curtain and waited, the moment they came out I'd take the garment. Boss stepped on the sewing machine as usual, like nothing had happened.
But every evening after closing, he'd sit a while longer by the tailoring table, staring at the inner room direction, silent. I'd wanted to ask him about the carved mark thing several times, but swallowed the words.
That voice came at night. Second night was knocking. *Tap, tap, tap*, three times. Not light, not heavy, same rhythm as when I'd knocked at the fitting room door. I curled up in the blanket, biting my lips, not making a sound.
Knocked three times, then stopped. Third night was footsteps. From the living room to the bedroom door, then stopped. I stared at the gap under the door, eyes wide open—no shadow. Footsteps stayed a long time, then slowly walked away.
Fourth and fifth nights grew quiet. I started to think maybe boss was right, after seven days it'd be fine. Sixth night I didn't even dream, slept through till morning.
Seventh morning I pulled the red cloth package from under my pillow. Seven days up. I weighed it, the wooden token inside pressing against my palm. Hesitated, untied the cord, opened the red cloth.
Inside was a boxwood token, smooth and warm, worn from years of handling. I flipped it to the back. A single character carved into it. Dark red lacquer filled the strokes, color heavy, like it had seeped in.
Chen. My surname. I stared at that character, fingers starting to shake. When boss gave me the cloth package, he said put it under the pillow for seven days. He didn't say what was originally carved on the token. I tied the cloth back with shaking hands, stuffed it in my pocket, and headed to the shop.
Boss was already at the shop when I arrived. He looked up when he saw me, eyes pausing on my face for a moment. I walked over, placed the red cloth package on the counter, and pushed it toward him. "Boss, did you open it?"
He didn't take it. Looked at the package, silent for a while. "When I gave it to you, it was empty," he said. "The carving was added later. I carved two characters on it to test if it was still there." He paused, voice lowered. "Carved it last night. Came this morning—completely red."
I stood there, hand in pocket clutching that wooden token. Through the fabric it pressed against my thigh, slightly warm. The cloth curtain in the inner room suddenly moved. No wind. Windows were closed. It swayed on its own, then settled back, quiet.
Sunlight came through the glass door, bicycle bells rang on the street, steam from the wonton shop drifted over. Everything was like every other day. I gripped the wooden token tighter in my pocket.
Boss sighed, turned around to step on the sewing machine. *Click click click*. The machine started, covering his last half sentence.
"Once you put it on, it's hard to take off."
I stood behind the counter, looking at the gray cloth curtain in the inner room. The dark gap under the curtain, nothing visible. But I knew it was there. It's always been there. Didn't leave after seven days, won't leave after seven days.
The cloth curtain hung quietly. The wind had stopped long ago. Only in the shadow at the bottom edge, a flash of dark purple silk quickly retreated into darkness. Vanished.
The sewing machine went *click click click*. I stepped back and sat behind the counter. Sunlight illuminated the countertop in front of me, a bright white.
I pulled my hand from my pocket, looked at my palm. That wooden token pressed against my thigh through the fabric, warm—like human body temperature.