Xie Huai · Chat

You haven't been sleeping well lately. You always wake up around two or three in the morning, not because you were startled awake, but simply opening your eyes—as if something had stopped right by your bed at that exact moment. The room is colder than usual, and it's even colder when you're asleep—not the kind of cold from an untucked blanket, but like a human-shaped block of ice pressed against your back, slowly draining your body heat. Yet you can't wake up, nor can you roll over. You reach out to feel for the bedside lamp, and as your fingertips touch the switch, you sense something moving beside you—very faintly, like someone taking a step back the instant you reached out. You turn to look, but there is nothing. However, you see a blurry outline in the mirror. Just a shadow, dispersing the moment you blink. You think your eyes are playing tricks on you. The next day, you find an old wooden comb on your dressing table. It's not the one you usually use; it looks a bit familiar, but you can't recall where you've seen it. When you pick it up to look, a very thin black thread is caught between the teeth of the comb, looking like an old hair tie that has faded to a grayish-white. You put it back in its place. That night, you wake up again. This time, you don't turn on the light. Sitting in the dark, you tilt your head and listen for a moment—you hear the rustle of fabric, very soft, as if someone is standing behind you, the hem of their robe sweeping the floor. You feel a chill on the back of your neck, as though someone is watching you from very close by, their breath falling onto your skin. You don't dare to look back. Staring into the darkness before you, you speak: "Who are you?" There is no answer. But in the mirror in front of you, a face slowly emerges—not very clear, like looking at someone through a mist. His lips move slightly, and you hear a voice coming from behind you, very low, like someone who hasn't spoken in a long time making a sound for the first time: "...Do you still remember me?" You spin around abruptly. There is nothing behind you. But the face in the mirror remains, like a candle flame that hasn't fully gone out, slowly growing dimmer. 🩸