Queshe · Chat

The rain had started in the afternoon. It wasn't heavy, but dense and fine, like someone scattering a handful of silver needles across the sky. They hit the cobblestones without splashing, merely blanketing the entire street in a layer of dull gray dampness. Queshe didn't even know when he had gotten separated from the teahouse folks. Just a moment ago, Xuedizi had been walking steadily only two paces ahead, carrying two packages of pastries wrapped in brown paper. Queshe had only crouched down to tie the loosened string on his tiger-head shoes, but when he looked back up, there was nothing left on the street but the rain. He stood in the middle of the empty alley and looked around. The shops on either side were all shuttered, their peeling paint soaked into dark blotches by the rain, gaping like mouths that couldn't close. This wasn't the Chinatown he knew. He must have taken a wrong turn earlier, chasing after a familiar-looking figure only for it to disappear around a corner, leaving him stranded in a place he had never been before. He didn't panic, though. Panic was useless—he had understood that since he was little. He simply tugged down his tiger-head hat to cover the wet bangs clinging to his forehead, then began searching for his way alley by alley. It was while searching for the way that he overheard those words. The speaker was a peddler hurrying along with a carrying pole, complaining to an old woman holding an oiled-paper umbrella: "...Don't believe me? I'm telling you, there's a light on in that manor at night! It's been on for three nights straight! That place has been abandoned for three years—who else would light a lamp? If it's not a ghost, what is it?" The old woman muttered "Amitabha," her pace visibly quickening. "Don't speak of it. That whole family was massacred back then—not a single soul spared, every last one dead." The two hurried along, their voices cut into fragments by the drizzle before vanishing down the end of the alley. Queshe stood where he was, tilting his head. The word "massacre" didn't stir much in him. He wasn't familiar with the concept and didn't see how it had anything to do with him. But the word "ghost" was different. The storyteller at the teahouse had told ghost stories before; he had crouched in the corner listening a few times—tales of vengeful women in red robes and scholars in white—eyes sparkling, finding them far more entertaining than the weeping patrons who came begging Madam Thirteen for help. A haunted manor. You rarely heard such talk in Europe. People here believed in God, churches, and priests brandishing crucifixes to cast out devils. They didn't say *naogui*; they said "haunted." But that peddler had spoken the most authentic dialect from back home—*naogui*. That meant whatever inhabited that manor likely had an Eastern face, just like them. A haunted manor in a foreign land. The corners of Queshe's lips curved upward, refusing to stay down. He glanced left and right to make sure no one was watching him, then headed off in the direction the pair had come from. Finding his way back could wait; the teahouse wasn't going anywhere. Ghosts didn't wait around, though—what if it stopped haunting the place tomorrow? He made his way deeper into the alley. The rain gradually eased into a faint mist, clinging to the eaves and bare branches, shrouding everything in a hazy blur. This alley was visibly more dilapidated than the streets outside; the wall plaster had peeled away severely, revealing the yellowish-brown bricks beneath, and shallow puddles gathered on the ground, reflecting the overcast sky like shattered mirrors. The manor stood at the very end of the alley. Queshe recognized it immediately. It looked nothing like the houses flanking it—it was far too tall. The inscribed plaque hanging above the lintel was completely illegible, leaving only faint traces of scraped lacquer, as if forcibly gouged away. The double doors were tightly shut, their peeling paint weathered, yet the bronze door knockers were gleaming, as though someone had recently polished them. The boughs of an old pagoda tree reached out over the courtyard wall, its rain-soaked leaves turned dark, stretching silently into the air like a mute gesture. Queshe stood at the entrance, looking up for a moment. Small as he was, the round ears of his tiger-head hat were soaked by the mist, and the tips of his tiger-head shoes were spattered with mud, making him look like a kitten fished straight out of a ditch. Yet his eyes were bright, without a trace of fear—only sheer curiosity. He even reached out to touch the bronze knocker. The instant his fingertips grazed the bronze surface, he hissed softly and yanked his hand back, blowing warm air onto his fingers. It was cold. Not the chill of rainwater, but a deeper, heavier cold, as if the bronze itself were radiating frost from within. Queshe stared at the knocker for two seconds, then crinkled his eyes and smiled. Signs of life were better than none at all. He wasn't stupid; he knew a house abandoned for three years shouldn't have gleaming bronze knockers. This ghost had standards—it knew to keep the front tidy. He took two steps back and circled along the outer wall, looking for a side door or a low wall to climb over. Since he was already here, how could he leave without taking a peek? Clumps of weeds grew along the base of the wall, drooping and battered by the rain. Parting the wet leaves, he trudged across the soft mud step by step, his tiger-head shoes sinking in and pulling out with squelching sounds. Sure enough, there was a breach along the side of the courtyard wall—not particularly low, but a few discarded gray bricks were piled beside it, suggesting someone had climbed over before. Queshe narrowed his eyes, tucked the hem of his robe into his waistband, and stepped onto the bricks to climb up. Nimble as a stray cat used to scurrying up and down heights, he scrambled onto the top of the wall in no time. Gripping the edge, he poked half his head over and peered into the courtyard. The courtyard was larger than he had expected. The doors to the main hall directly ahead stood ajar, pitch-black inside, revealing nothing. The courtyard was paved with flagstones, with thin weeds sprouting between the cracks, showing it had been neglected for a long time. Yet the stone table and stools beneath the old pagoda tree were spotless—no fallen leaves, no accumulated dust, as if someone sat there often. Stranger still, a lantern hung beneath the eaves in the corner of the courtyard. Paper-crafted, warm yellow, with a short candle stub burning inside. The flame flickered gently, bleeding a soft, gentle glow into the gray mist. Queshe stared at the lantern, unblinking. An empty house doesn't light lanterns. An old manor where a family was wiped out shouldn't have someone polishing the door knockers, lighting lanterns, and keeping the stone table spotless. He remembered the old woman's words—"Not a single soul spared, every last one dead." If they were all dead, who lit the lantern? Resting his upper body against the wall, half-drenched and chilled by the damp mist, he had no intention of leaving. A voice in his heart urged him to turn back—he had been missing for so long that Madam Thirteen must be worried. But another thought rang louder: *I'm already here.* Right then, an exceedingly faint sound drifted from behind the half-open door of the main hall. It wasn't the wind, nor was it the rain. It was the whisper of something brushing against fabric, like the hem of a robe trailing across wooden floorboards, or fingertips gliding over paper. Queshe's breath caught for an instant. Then, he reacted in a way even he hadn't anticipated. Instead of pulling his head back and jumping down the wall to flee, he leaned further upward, cocking his head and straining to peer inside the doorway. Then he saw it. From within the darkness behind the door, a pair of eyes was watching him. Those eyes gleamed faintly in the dark, their color indistinct—like moonlight reflected in a deep pool, or a pinprick of cold glint constricted within the pupils of a beast. The figure behind the door stood cloaked in shadow, their form unclear, only appearing tall and slender, long robe hems pooling onto the floor, utterly still. Queshe stared into those eyes for three whole seconds. Three seconds later, the little face beneath the tiger-head hat broke into a smile. He asked, "Big Sister, do you live here?"