Do you believe a blank sheet of paper can keep you up at night worse than a murderer?
I do.
My name is Lin Yuan, twenty-six, interning at Chengtai Law Firm for three months. My supervising attorney is Zhang—male, early forties, receding hairline, but his legal skills are beyond question. Everyone at the firm calls him Lawyer Zhang, and I follow suit.
That day Lawyer Zhang asked me to go to the archives to find supplementary materials for an old case, saying it might help with an appeal case I'm currently working on.
I searched for over an hour, and on the top shelf of the cabinet labeled "2007-2013," I found a kraft paper file pouch. The closure string was frayed, and in ballpoint pen was written the case number: [2007] X Criminal First No. 142.
When I pulled it out, the closure string broke on its own, and several papers inside slipped out. I squatted on the ground to pick them up, counted—everything that should be there was there.
Then I flipped to the last page.
Blank paper. A4 size, no watermark, no hidden pattern, no creases. Just a clean, blank sheet of paper, sandwiched between the service return receipt and the case closure report, like someone had deliberately slipped it in.
I thought it was a careless mistake by some assistant organizing files, pinched that paper and headed toward the wastebasket. The basket was half full, all useless copy scraps. My hand was halfway raised when the archives door opened.
Lawyer Zhang stood at the door, holding a thermos cup, eyes fixed on that blank paper in my hand.
"Put it back," he said.
"What?"
"That blank paper, put it back in the case file."
I looked down at the paper in my hand, then up at him: "This probably got mixed in by accident, right? A blank page..."
Lawyer Zhang walked in, placed the thermos on the table, reached out and took the paper from my hand, re-sandwiched it between the last page and the back cover of the file.
He didn't look at me, flipping through the stack of materials, voice flat: "The defendant in that case committed suicide in the detention center before sentencing. His final statement was never completed, so the case file has one blank page."
"...A blank page?"
"Yeah. The clerk at the time didn't dare fill it in, so the file was sealed as is. Later it became a rule—whoever takes over this case, leave that paper there."
I stood in place without moving. The archives AC hummed, the wind it blew had a dusty smell. I watched him close the file, push it back into the kraft paper pouch.
"Let's go," he picked up the thermos and headed out. "Found the materials?"
"Found them."
"Let's go."
I followed him out of the archives. The door closed behind me with a muffled thud. The hallway fluorescent lights were harsh white—after being in the archives for so long, the light made my eyes sting. I quickened my pace to catch up with Lawyer Zhang, mind still thinking about that blank paper.
But that night I forgot about it. Or rather, I thought I did.
Two weeks passed, work as usual. Organizing new case files, drafting legal documents, following Lawyer Zhang to court twice, recording statements in the courtroom until my fingers went numb.
Our firm had an unwritten rule: after interns organized case files, they had to place them in the stack on the right side of Lawyer Zhang's desk. He'd review them once and then archive them if there were no issues.
Every day before leaving work I'd organize the materials I handled that day—binding, numbering, checking page counts. During each check, I'd habitually flip through the entire file from cover to cover.
After that incident, every time I flipped to the page before the back cover, I'd pause. Just for a moment. Eyes scanning past, confirming it was still blank, then close the file.
Sometimes I thought I was being neurotic. It's just a blank sheet of paper—why am I staring at it? But my hand would pause on that page for half a second, like a driver's left foot unconsciously pressing the clutch when stopped at a red light.
That Friday night, everyone at the firm had left. Lawyer Zhang left at half past five, told me to archive the six civil files I'd just organized, said he'd need them on Monday.
I was alone in the office. AC off, window half open, June night wind pouring in, carrying the smell of oil smoke and cumin from the barbecue stall downstairs.
I was organizing the last file—a loan dispute case Lawyer Zhang himself handled. Not many materials, a dozen pages. I counted pages, punched holes, threaded the binding string through and tied it tight. When I flipped to the last page, I saw that blank paper again.
Not from that case. This file didn't originally have a blank page.
But in this file under my hands, the page before the back cover had a paper. No content. But it felt different from other blank papers. The one in the archives was rough copy paper, slightly yellowed, edges slightly curled. This one was smooth printer paper, brand new.
I flipped it over. Back side was blank too. Flipped it back again.
Then I saw it.
In the center-lower area of the paper, there was a faint line of handwriting. Pencil, pressed very lightly, like someone writing from far away.
I instinctively reached out to touch the surface of those characters. The paper was flat, smooth as new, no unevenness from pencil marks—only visible handwriting to the naked eye. The content was:
"What I wanted to say that day, wasn't like that."
I stared at that line of text for about ten seconds. The office was quiet, someone honked a horn outside on the street, a dog barked in the distance. I closed the file, then opened it again. The text was still there.
In that instant I had several thoughts. First reaction: Lawyer Zhang didn't leave, came back to play a joke. But I glanced at the office door—closed, hallway lights off.
Second reaction: some colleague's prank. But I'd been in the office organizing files the whole time, nobody came in. Third reaction... I skipped the third reaction and directly pulled out my phone to take a photo. The photo clearly showed that line of text.
I stood by the window for a while, letting the wind blow. The barbecue stall's smoke drifted up, making me cough. I took out a cigarette from my pocket, lit one. I don't smoke often, but that day I wanted one.
After finishing the cigarette, I went back to the desk and reopened the file. The text was still there.
I hesitated, found a scrap paper, and copied down the content of that page. While copying, I noticed the stroke order and pressure—compared with my own writing, it was clearly not mine. My characters were flatter, this line was longer, the ending stroke had a hook.
After copying, I sat in the office for another twenty minutes. Outside it was completely dark, the barbecue stall's lights were on, plastic tables and chairs lined up, some guys bare-chested playing finger-guessing games. I checked my phone: eight forty-seven.
I sealed the file and put it in the cabinet. The phone with that photo I gripped the whole way home, looked at it no less than ten times. Every time I looked, the text was still there. For a moment I wanted to call Lawyer Zhang, but hung up before dialing.
What would I say? Tell him a line of text appeared out of nowhere in the file? Or that the dead defendant from a decade ago started talking again?
My place is a fifteen-minute bike ride from the firm. Old community, sixth floor without elevator, two hallway lights broken. I walked faster than usual going up, my hand shaking when the key went into the lock.
After entering, I double-locked the door, turned on all the lights, boiled a pot of water. When the water boiled, I made a bowl of instant noodles, sat at the coffee table eating while scrolling through that photo on my phone.
After finishing the noodles, I made a decision. Monday I'd look up the judgment for that case. At least I needed to know the defendant's name, what he actually said, and what "not like that" was supposed to mean.
That weekend I didn't sleep well. Not out of fear, just couldn't stop thinking about that line of text. Saturday afternoon I even went to the firm specifically, but turned back at the door. Going into the archives alone on a weekend to look at an old homicide case's materials—just didn't feel right.
Monday morning I arrived half an hour earlier than usual. Only the cleaning auntie was mopping the floor. I said good morning and went straight to the archives.
I remembered the case number: [2007] X Criminal First No. 142. My hand was steadier than last time pulling it out of the cabinet. I'd re-tied the kraft paper pouch's closure string, but when untying it got stuck in a knot—picked at it with my nails for a long time.
Pulled out the file, flipped to the last page.
Blank paper. Still blank. No text.
I held it up to the window light, then used my phone's flashlight to shine from the back—nothing. That paper was clean, exactly as I'd first seen it two weeks ago.
I stood there frozen. The archives' fluorescent tube made a *zzt* sound. My hands and feet went inexplicably cold. I pushed the file back in, left the archives.
Lawyer Zhang arrived at eight-fifty, saw me sitting at my workstation daydreaming, asked "came this early." I said I couldn't sleep so came in. He didn't ask more, put down his briefcase, told me to bring over the files I'd organized last week.
When I handed him that stack, my hand touched the top one—the loan dispute file I'd organized Friday night. Lawyer Zhang flipped through it, nodded, and set it aside.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
"What's wrong?" he looked up at me.
"Nothing," I said. "Lawyer Zhang, that 2007 intentional injury case—was a verdict ever reached?"
Lawyer Zhang's hand flipping through materials paused. He looked up at me, that expression I can't quite describe—like looking at someone who shouldn't be asking questions.
"It was," he said. "The defendant died during proceedings, so the case was terminated. Civil compensation was borne by the family."
"That defendant... what was his name?"
Lawyer Zhang put down the materials, leaned back in his chair. The office AC started cooling, making a slight clicking sound.
"Lin Yuan," he said, "you'd best not look at that case file again."
"I was just curious..."
"Some case files are sealed for a reason," he interrupted. "Once archived, they stay archived. Just focus on your current work."
At that point I couldn't ask more. But I noticed when he said this, his eyes glanced toward the archives. Just a glance.
That afternoon, while Lawyer Zhang was in court for a hearing, I secretly checked the firm's case management system on the computer. The system only stored electronic files after 2009; for 2007 there was only a case number directory, no content.
I searched that case number in the system, and only one line came up: "Archived, physical file stored in Archives Cabinet No. 3."
Useless.
But I memorized the defendant's name: Zhou Guoping. Handwritten on the file cover, neat handwriting—probably by the clerk at the time. Filed in April 2007, investigation concluded in June, prosecution initiated in September. Then nothing.
I tried searching this name online. Many people with the same name, but when I added keywords like "intentional injury" and "2007," an old post on a local forum came up.
The post was from 2008, a reprint of a social news article. Title: "Detention Center Death Investigation Results Announced." The body was brief—essentially saying a detainee named Zhou in a detention center had hanged himself, ruled a suicide, no foul play suspected. Family had no objections to the findings.
That's all. But there was a reply under the post with only two words: "Died unjustly." That account had been deactivated.
That night I worked overtime until eight. The firm was empty again. Lawyer Zhang had come back from court, took a phone call and left early, said something at home. I dawdled to finish my work, then went to the archives.
I knew what I was doing. I was looking for that blank paper, but wasn't sure if I wanted to confirm it was blank or see that line of text again.
Pushed open the archives door. Lights were fine, three fluorescent tubes but one was flickering. I walked to Cabinet No. 3, pulled out that kraft paper pouch. This time I didn't hesitate when untying the closure string.
Flipped to the last page.
Blank paper.
I exhaled—couldn't tell if it was relief or disappointment. I closed the file, preparing to put it back.
But my hand stopped.
On the inside of the back cover—the thick cardstock's back, near the binding—there was text. Very small text, pencil. Leaned closer to read:
"You looked."
I nearly dropped the file in my hand.
At that moment, an extremely faint smell drifted through the air. Pencil shavings, the scent of freshly sharpened pencil, lingering in the fingertips—gone in a flash.
I spun around. The archives door was still closed. That flickering tube *zzt*-ed. I stood in front of the metal cabinet, cold sweat all down my back.
That line was written very small and crowded, like it was hiding from something. But the two words "you looked" were clear, handwriting matched the previous line.
This time I didn't take a photo. I don't know why—I just felt I shouldn't. I quickly put the file back, tied the closure string loosely twice, and turned to leave the archives. I didn't even look back when the door closed.
Back at my workstation I drank half a bottle of water. AC had turned off, pressing the switch didn't work—probably on a timer. Office was stuffy. The streetlight outside cast plane tree shadows on the desktop, swaying in the wind.
I was thinking one question: who wrote that line on the blank page? If Zhou Guoping wrote it, where is he now? If I was having mental issues... I looked at my own hands—no pencil dust. The pen holder on the desk only had ballpoint pens and red pens, no pencil.
That night when I got home, I sent a WeChat to Lawyer Zhang: "Lawyer Zhang, a question—besides you, who else has touched that No. 142 case file?"
Waited ten minutes, no reply. I sent another: "Never mind, just asking."
He replied with one word: "Yeah."
I stared at that "yeah" for a long time. Then I put my phone face down on the nightstand and turned off the light. Room was dark, curtain not fully drawn, a beam of light from the streetlight below seeped through the gap, casting a thin bright line on the ceiling.
I lay down for half an hour, couldn't sleep. Mind was racing—alternating between that forum post "died unjustly," Lawyer Zhang's expression when he said "don't look again," and those two words on the back cover.
Rolled over, picked up my phone and looked at that photo taken Friday night again. The line of text in the photo was still there, clear.
I held the phone up to my eyes, carefully examined the end of the strokes. The last point of the character "yang" had a tiny curve, like a personal habit.
I'd seen this curve before. The character "read" that Lawyer Zhang writes also has this curve at the end. I'd seen it countless times when he approves documents.
The moment this thought popped up, my whole body froze. Impossible. Lawyer Zhang had no reason to do this. He's the supervising attorney, he told me to put that blank paper back, he warned me not to look at the file. If he wanted to write on it, why use pencil? Why be secretive?
But that curve...
I put down my phone, picked it up again. Looked at it three or four times, confirmed I hadn't misseen. A curved ending stroke isn't rare in regular script, but having the same arc and angle—the probability isn't high.
Then I thought of another possibility. This text was written back then. Clerk, judge, or anyone could have. Lawyer Zhang was just keeping that "rule" going, he might not know how the text got there.
But this idea was even less convincing. Pencil writing from over a decade ago wouldn't have this color and pressure. That line of text looked like it had been written in the last few weeks.
I lay awake with eyes open past one AM, finally drifted off to sleep from exhaustion.
Next day at the firm, Lawyer Zhang was already there. I went in when he was on a phone call, he nodded at me. I sat at my workstation, turned on the computer, out of the corner of my eye saw he was drinking water after hanging up—said nothing.
Around ten AM, Lawyer Zhang called me to his office. "Come here."
When I went in, he was sitting behind his desk, holding a folder. As I sat down, he pushed the folder in front of me.
"Take a look at this."
I looked down. It was a printed document. Title: "Explanatory Statement Regarding [2007] X Criminal First No. 142 Case."
Content was roughly that the defendant Zhou Guoping was suspected of intentional injury causing death. Main evidence included surveillance footage, witness testimony, and victim's family statement.
After being taken into custody, Zhou Guoping gave three statements. The first two admitted the assault. The third he recanted, saying the victim's death had another cause. But the third statement wasn't completed—that night Zhou Guoping hanged himself in the detention center.
The last paragraph of the explanatory statement read: "The uncompleted portion of the third statement cannot be supplemented due to the party's death. A blank page is retained in the case file to indicate the missing record."
"Look at the very end," Lawyer Zhang said.
I flipped to the last page—a handwritten note, pencil, scrawled handwriting. I recognized it as Lawyer Zhang's, with that curved ending stroke.
It read: "I was the clerk's assistant back then. Zhou Guoping's third statement was halfway through when he said 'what I wanted to say that day wasn't like that.' Then he wouldn't speak again. Went to the detention center that night to deliver materials, he was already gone. I've kept this note all along."
I looked up at Lawyer Zhang.
"You asked me yesterday who touched the file," he said. "Not many people have. Most of those who handled it back then have left. I'm the last one."
"That text on the blank paper..."
"I didn't write it," he interrupted, looking straight into my eyes. "But the night you said you saw text on it, I sat at home writing this note. When I wrote that half sentence, I suddenly remembered something."
He paused.
"Zhou Guoping's third statement he recanted, said the victim's death had another cause. But he never finished. What 'not like that' actually was—nobody knows."
The office was quiet for a moment. Cicadas were chirping outside, late June, they'd started.
"Lawyer Zhang," I said, "do you believe it?"
He smiled, but that smile was different from usual. "Fifteen years as a lawyer, I've seen many cases. Some cases are concluded, but you always feel something's off. No. 142 is that kind. That's why I've kept this file under my own hands—don't let others touch it even if they ask."
"But what about that blank page?"
He looked at me without speaking. After about a dozen seconds, he stood up, walked to the filing cabinet, opened the bottom drawer, and took out a kraft paper envelope.
"I went back last night and looked at the copies I kept back then." He pushed the envelope toward me. "Zhou Guoping's third statement complete content—except for that last half sentence, everything before it is recorded. Look at what he said before."
I pulled it out to read. The statement was in Q&A format, investigator asking, Zhou Guoping answering. The beginning content roughly admitted he was at the scene that day, had physical contact with the victim. But toward the second half:
"Q: You mean the victim's fatal injury wasn't caused by you?
A: Right. I pushed him, but falling from that height wouldn't kill someone.
Q: Then who do you think caused it?
A: What I wanted to say that day, wasn't like that."
The statement ended there.
"He cooperated the whole time," Lawyer Zhang said. "Then suddenly changed his answer at the key question. After that he wouldn't say another word. That night he was gone."
I put down the copy. The paper felt slightly warm in my hand. That old forum reply popped into my mind, "died unjustly."
And another line I'd seemed to scan somewhere at some point—like someone mentioned the victim's family received an unexplained sum of money later. Lawyer Zhang seemed to notice my distraction, pursed his lips, but didn't mention anything.
"Lawyer Zhang, do you think that text... who wrote it?"
Lawyer Zhang took back the envelope, put it back in the filing cabinet. When he closed the cabinet door, his back was to me, voice slightly lower than before:
"I don't know. But some things, once written in the file, stay in the file. You've seen it, that's enough—don't spread it outside."
He turned back to face me: "In that loan dispute file you organized before leaving that day—did you handle the text on the blank paper?"
"...I took a photo. The text on the paper was gone later."
Lawyer Zhang nodded, expression unchanged. "In the future, if you see it—just see it. No need to memorize, no need to photograph."
"And if there's new text next time?"
He was silent for a long time. Cicadas kept chirping outside.
"Then just look."
I stood up to leave. Lawyer Zhang said behind me: "Over the years I've tried not to let outsiders touch this file. But files always circulate, there's always a next person to see them—can't be stopped."
I paused, didn't turn back, and walked out.
After leaving Lawyer Zhang's office, I sat at my workstation for a while. I still had that photo on my phone, but I knew it shouldn't be kept.
That afternoon I went to the archives to deliver some newly filed materials. I didn't slow down when passing Cabinet No. 3, but my peripheral vision caught that kraft paper pouch. The closure string was properly tied, still the knot I'd made yesterday.
That evening when I got home, I did two things. First, I deleted that photo from my phone. Second, I searched on the computer for "Zhou Guoping 2007 intentional injury another cause" keywords.
Search results were similar to before.
But one thing I hadn't noticed before—an old post on a local legal forum, title: "Anyone remember what happened to the victim's family in No. 142 case later?" The body had only one line: "I heard the victim's family received a sum of money after Zhou Guoping died, don't know who gave it."
Two replies below. One was "anonymous account transfer, can't be traced." The other only had an emoji: a question mark.
I stared at the screen for a long time. Curtain blew in the wind then settled, computer screen light reflected on the wall. I stood up and walked to the window to look downstairs. Not many people on the street, streetlight shone on a row of empty parking spaces. The barbecue stall was still there, the boss was collecting chairs.
I closed the computer, showered, and got ready for bed. Before lying down, I habitually checked my phone. Lawyer Zhang had sent a message around nine PM, two words:
"Early rest."
I replied with "yeah." Then thought about it, typed another line: "Lawyer Zhang, was that money the victim's family received back then given by Zhou Guoping's family?"
About three minutes after sending, Lawyer Zhang replied.
"No."
Then quickly came another: "Stop investigating."
That night I had a dream. Dreamed I was standing in the archives, flipping through that No. 142 case file in my hand. Flipped to the last page, the blank paper was covered densely with text, but when I leaned in to look, I couldn't recognize a single character—like ants crawling on paper, the more I looked the blurrier it got.
Then a voice said behind me: "Have you finished reading?" That voice was low, muffled, like coming through something. There was an unidentifiable urgency in the tone. I remembered Zhou Guoping's line in the statement "what I wanted to say that day wasn't like that"—it seemed to be that same tone.
I woke up sharply. Sky was already light, six twenty. An unread message on my phone, from Lawyer Zhang, sent at four thirty-seven AM.
"I'm taking leave today, go to work as usual. Archives locked, key's with me. Don't go anywhere."
I stared at this message twice. Outside cicadas hadn't started yet, sky was grayish blue.
I replied with one word: "Okay."
When putting down my phone I looked at the nightstand. There was a pencil stub, I don't know when it got there. I don't remember buying pencils.
But I didn't throw it away.
I sat by the bed, heard someone's alarm go off in the hallway. The first bus of the day passed on the street outside, engine sound getting closer then fading away.
That pencil stub on the nightstand, HB, sharpened, lead tip dulled, the wood had a faint tooth mark on it—like someone had bitten it.
AC wasn't on, but the back of my neck felt cool. I pulled on a T-shirt, stood up to wash.
I didn't touch that pencil stub. When I left, I glanced back over my shoulder—it was still there, standing stably on the edge of the nightstand, like waiting for someone to pick it up.
Going downstairs I walked slowly. Sixth floor, fifth floor, fourth floor—the motion-sensor lights on each floor lit up then went out. Reached the first-floor entrance, sunlight was blinding white, cicadas finally started chirping.
I got on my shared bike and rode to the firm. Wind passed my ears, hot.
Archives was locked. Key was with Lawyer Zhang.
But in the drawer of my office, I don't know when, a stack of brand new A4 white paper appeared.
I saw it when I pulled open the drawer to get a file folder. Right on top, the first sheet was blank, clean, exactly like the one in No. 142 case file.
I looked at it for two seconds, pushed the drawer back.
Cicadas outside continued chirping. The AC blade creaked to a new angle, cold air blew out.
I turned on the computer and started writing the legal brief due today.
The blank paper was in the drawer.