The porridge in the bowl had gone cold, but Chen Ling kept stirring it slowly, his gaze fixed on the red stains on the edge of the ceramic—stains that looked eerily like dried blood, not mud. Outside the window, the rain had finally stopped, but the sky remained a dull gray, as if the world was still trapped in last night's chill.
Li Xiuqin had retreated to the bedroom "to fold clothes," but Chen Ling could hear the faint sound of her whispered sobs through the door. Chen Daming sat on the sofa, smoking one cigarette after another; the ashtray was already overflowing, and the acrid smoke hung in the air like a thick fog. Neither of them spoke, but their silence was heavier than any accusation.
Chen Ling set down his spoon. The red opera robe he'd been wearing was now draped over the back of the chair, its fabric still stiff in places from the mud that had dried overnight. As he stared at it, a strange feeling crept over him—like the robe was watching him, its threads humming with a sound only he could hear.
"Did… did I wear this robe last night?" he asked, pretending to furrow his brows in confusion. It was a risky question, but he needed to test their reaction.
Chen Daming's hand froze mid-air, the cigarette ash falling onto his pants. He stared at the robe, then at Chen Ling, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Y-You said you went to practice opera… you always wear it when you practice." His voice was shaky, as if he was struggling to remember a lie he'd made up long ago.
Li Xiuqin's sobs stopped abruptly. A moment later, she emerged from the bedroom, her eyes red but her expression forced into calm. "Yes, A Ling. You were so eager to get better at the 'Hong Niang' scene that you even took the robe with you when you went out. We… we were worried it would get ruined in the rain."
Chen Ling nodded slowly, but his fingers tightened around the spoon. The original Chen Ling's memories told him he hated the "Hong Niang" role—said it was "too soft, not like real opera." And the robe… in the fragments he'd pieced together, the original had only worn it once, for a school performance, then stuffed it in the back of the closet, vowing never to touch it again.
They were lying. But why?
As he thought, a gust of wind blew through the open window, lifting the hem of the red robe. For a split second, Chen Ling thought he saw something move on the fabric—like a shadow, thin and dark, slithering across the crimson threads. He blinked, and it was gone.
"Dad, where's my school bag?" he asked suddenly. "I think I left my opera score in it." Another test—he knew the original's score had been torn up a week ago, after a fight with his teacher.
Chen Daming's face paled. "I… I don't know. Maybe you left it outside? The rain was so heavy—"
"The score was in his desk drawer." Li Xiuqin cut him off, her voice sharp. She glanced at Chen Daming, then back at Chen Ling, forcing a smile. "I'll get it for you." She hurried to the bedroom again, her steps faster than before.
Chen Ling watched her go, then turned his gaze back to the robe. This time, he reached out and touched it. The fabric was cold, even though it had been drying indoors all morning. And as his fingers brushed the collar, he heard a faint whisper—so soft he almost thought it was his imagination.
"Not… yours…"
He pulled his hand back as if burned. Chen Daming saw the movement and stood up abruptly. "A Ling, are you okay? Did the robe scratch you?"
"I'm fine." Chen Ling forced a smile, but his heart was racing. The whisper hadn't been in his head. It had come from the robe—from the red threads that seemed to glow faintly now, as if fueled by his fear.
Just then, Li Xiuqin returned, holding a crumpled stack of paper. "Here's your score," she said, holding it out to him. "It… it got a little wet, but most of it's still readable."
Chen Ling took the papers. They were dry—too dry, as if they'd never been near rain. And when he unfolded them, he saw that the notes were smudged in places, not by water, but by something dark and sticky. Something that looked like blood.
He looked up at Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming. Their faces were both pale, their eyes fixed on the score in his hands. The silence in the room was back, thicker than ever, and this time, Chen Ling could feel it—not just in the air, but in the robe behind him, in the score in his hands, in the way his "parents" avoided his gaze.
Last night, they'd buried someone. Someone who looked like him. And now, the red robe was whispering secrets. Secrets that, if he wasn't careful, might bury him too.
He folded the score and set it on the table. "Thanks, Mom. I'll practice later." His voice was steady, but inside, he was screaming. He needed to get out of this house—needed to find out who was in the grave, and why his parents were lying to him.
But as he stood up, the red robe shifted again. This time, he didn't just hear the whisper—he felt it, cold and sharp, against his neck.
"They know… they always knew…"