Chen Ling pretended to flip through the blood-smudged opera score, his fingers lingering on the sticky smudges as he plotted his next move. The living room's tension hung like a noose—Li Xiuqin kept darting glances at the door, while Chen Daming's cigarette burned untouched between his fingers. The red opera robe, still draped over the chair, seemed to thrum with a faint, menacing energy, as if it was counting down to something.
"I think I need some fresh air," Chen Ling said suddenly, folding the score and setting it down. He stood up slowly, making sure his expression looked casual—tired, but not suspicious. "My head's still fuzzy from last night. A walk might help."
Li Xiuqin's face paled. "But the sky's still dark—what if it rains again? You should stay home, A Ling." Her voice trembled, giving away her panic.
Chen Daming quickly nodded, stamping out his cigarette. "Your mom's right. Rest more. We can… we can make you your favorite braised pork for dinner."
Their eagerness to keep him inside only confirmed Chen Ling's suspicion: whatever they'd buried last night was somewhere nearby, and they were terrified he'd find it. He forced a weak smile. "I'll just walk around the block. Ten minutes, tops. I need to stretch my legs."
Before they could argue, he grabbed an old jacket from the coat rack and headed for the door. He felt their eyes burning into his back as he stepped outside, the cool post-rain air hitting his face.
The moment the door closed behind him, Chen Ling's casual demeanor vanished. He didn't walk around the block—he turned sharply toward the west, following the faint memory threads of the original Chen Ling. The original had mentioned a "quiet hill with an old banyan tree" once, a place he'd go to practice opera when he didn't want to be disturbed.
It took him fifteen minutes to reach the hill. The path was muddy, dotted with puddles from last night's rain. As he climbed, the sound of distant birdsong faded, replaced by a heavy silence. Then, he saw it—the old banyan tree, its gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers toward the gray sky.
Beneath it, a fresh mound of dirt rose from the ground.
Chen Ling's heart dropped. He approached slowly, his boots sinking into the soft soil. The mound was small, too small for an adult—unless… he pushed the thought away, kneeling down to inspect the dirt. It was still damp, and there were faint indentations around the edges, as if someone had pressed down on it in a hurry.
Then, he saw something glinting in the grass beside the mound.
It was a button—small, black, and made of plastic. Chen Ling picked it up, his fingers trembling. He'd seen this button before: it was from the original Chen Ling's favorite jacket, the one he'd worn every day to opera school. The original had lost a button a week ago, complaining about it to his parents.
So the person in the grave… was the real Chen Ling.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He staggered back, sitting hard in the mud. If the original was buried here, then who was he? A stranger in a dead boy's body? And why had Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming buried their own son?
As he stared at the grave, a cold wind blew through the banyan tree's leaves, making a sound like whispered laughter. Chen Ling felt a tap on his shoulder.
He spun around, his hands raised defensively—only to see nothing. No one was there. But when he looked back at the grave, his blood ran cold.
The fresh dirt was moving.
Not a lot—just a small, slow heave, as if something beneath it was trying to push its way up. Chen Ling stood up, frozen in fear. He wanted to run, to scream, but his legs wouldn't move. He watched as another heave came, and a thin, pale hand broke through the dirt, its fingers curled like claws.
"Help…"
A faint, hoarse voice drifted up from the grave—so quiet Chen Ling almost missed it. It sounded like a boy's voice, young and terrified.
Chen Ling stumbled backward, tripping over a root and falling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, turning to run—when he saw them.
Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming, standing at the bottom of the hill, staring up at him. Their faces were blank, no trace of the fear or panic from earlier. In Chen Daming's hand, he held a shovel—the same shovel they'd used to bury the original Chen Ling.
"A Ling," Li Xiuqin called, her voice soft but cold. "What are you doing here?"
Chen Ling's throat went dry. He looked from them to the grave, where the hand was still visible, twitching slightly. "You… you buried him," he said, his voice shaking. "You buried your own son."
Chen Daming took a step forward, lifting the shovel. "He wasn't our son anymore," he said, his voice flat. "Not after… after what he became."
"After what?" Chen Ling yelled. "What did he do? Why did you kill him?"
Li Xiuqin let out a bitter laugh. "Kill him? We didn't kill him. It did." She pointed at the grave, her finger trembling. "That thing in there— it looked like A Ling, but it wasn't him. It talked in a voice that wasn't his, it wore that red robe even though he hated it… it was a monster."
Chen Ling's mind raced. The original's memories—fragments of arguments, of the original screaming about "something in the robe," of him locking himself in his room for days. The red robe… it wasn't just a piece of clothing. It was something else, something that had taken over the original Chen Ling.
And now, it was in him.
He looked down at his hands—hands that weren't his, but felt like they were. He thought of the whisper from the robe: "Not… yours…" He thought of the hand in the grave, of the voice begging for help.
"Is he still alive?" Chen Ling asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Chen Daming's face hardened. "He shouldn't be. We made sure." He lifted the shovel higher, taking another step up the hill. "But you… you're the same as him now, aren't you? Wearing that robe, acting like our son… but you're a monster too."
Li Xiuqin started crying again, but her eyes were cold. "We have to finish what we started, Daming. For our real son."
Chen Ling backed away, his eyes fixed on the shovel. He knew he couldn't fight them—not alone. But then, he heard it again—the whisper, this time coming from his own chest, as if the red robe (which he'd left at home) was still with him.
"Run…"
He didn't hesitate. He turned and ran, down the hill, away from the grave, away from the two people who wanted to bury him too. He could hear them yelling behind him, could hear the thud of the shovel hitting the ground as they chased him.
But he didn't look back. He just ran, his heart pounding, his mind filled with one thought: if he didn't find out what the red robe was, he'd end up just like the original Chen Ling—buried under an old banyan tree, begging for help that would never come.
Chen Ling pretended to flip through the blood-smudged opera score, his fingers lingering on the sticky smudges as he plotted his next move. The living room's tension hung like a noose—Li Xiuqin kept darting glances at the door, while Chen Daming's cigarette burned untouched between his fingers. The red opera robe, still draped over the chair, seemed to thrum with a faint, menacing energy, as if it was counting down to something.
"I think I need some fresh air," Chen Ling said suddenly, folding the score and setting it down. He stood up slowly, making sure his expression looked casual—tired, but not suspicious. "My head's still fuzzy from last night. A walk might help."
Li Xiuqin's face paled. "But the sky's still dark—what if it rains again? You should stay home, A Ling." Her voice trembled, giving away her panic.
Chen Daming quickly nodded, stamping out his cigarette. "Your mom's right. Rest more. We can… we can make you your favorite braised pork for dinner."
Their eagerness to keep him inside only confirmed Chen Ling's suspicion: whatever they'd buried last night was somewhere nearby, and they were terrified he'd find it. He forced a weak smile. "I'll just walk around the block. Ten minutes, tops. I need to stretch my legs."
Before they could argue, he grabbed an old jacket from the coat rack and headed for the door. He felt their eyes burning into his back as he stepped outside, the cool post-rain air hitting his face.
The moment the door closed behind him, Chen Ling's casual demeanor vanished. He didn't walk around the block—he turned sharply toward the west, following the faint memory threads of the original Chen Ling. The original had mentioned a "quiet hill with an old banyan tree" once, a place he'd go to practice opera when he didn't want to be disturbed.
It took him fifteen minutes to reach the hill. The path was muddy, dotted with puddles from last night's rain. As he climbed, the sound of distant birdsong faded, replaced by a heavy silence. Then, he saw it—the old banyan tree, its gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers toward the gray sky.
Beneath it, a fresh mound of dirt rose from the ground.
Chen Ling's heart dropped. He approached slowly, his boots sinking into the soft soil. The mound was small, too small for an adult—unless… he pushed the thought away, kneeling down to inspect the dirt. It was still damp, and there were faint indentations around the edges, as if someone had pressed down on it in a hurry.
Then, he saw something glinting in the grass beside the mound.
It was a button—small, black, and made of plastic. Chen Ling picked it up, his fingers trembling. He'd seen this button before: it was from the original Chen Ling's favorite jacket, the one he'd worn every day to opera school. The original had lost a button a week ago, complaining about it to his parents.
So the person in the grave… was the real Chen Ling.
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He staggered back, sitting hard in the mud. If the original was buried here, then who was he? A stranger in a dead boy's body? And why had Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming buried their own son?
As he stared at the grave, a cold wind blew through the banyan tree's leaves, making a sound like whispered laughter. Chen Ling felt a tap on his shoulder.
He spun around, his hands raised defensively—only to see nothing. No one was there. But when he looked back at the grave, his blood ran cold.
The fresh dirt was moving.
Not a lot—just a small, slow heave, as if something beneath it was trying to push its way up. Chen Ling stood up, frozen in fear. He wanted to run, to scream, but his legs wouldn't move. He watched as another heave came, and a thin, pale hand broke through the dirt, its fingers curled like claws.
"Help…"
A faint, hoarse voice drifted up from the grave—so quiet Chen Ling almost missed it. It sounded like a boy's voice, young and terrified.
Chen Ling stumbled backward, tripping over a root and falling to the ground. He scrambled to his feet, turning to run—when he saw them.
Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming, standing at the bottom of the hill, staring up at him. Their faces were blank, no trace of the fear or panic from earlier. In Chen Daming's hand, he held a shovel—the same shovel they'd used to bury the original Chen Ling.
"A Ling," Li Xiuqin called, her voice soft but cold. "What are you doing here?"
Chen Ling's throat went dry. He looked from them to the grave, where the hand was still visible, twitching slightly. "You… you buried him," he said, his voice shaking. "You buried your own son."
Chen Daming took a step forward, lifting the shovel. "He wasn't our son anymore," he said, his voice flat. "Not after… after what he became."
"After what?" Chen Ling yelled. "What did he do? Why did you kill him?"
Li Xiuqin let out a bitter laugh. "Kill him? We didn't kill him. It did." She pointed at the grave, her finger trembling. "That thing in there— it looked like A Ling, but it wasn't him. It talked in a voice that wasn't his, it wore that red robe even though he hated it… it was a monster."
Chen Ling's mind raced. The original's memories—fragments of arguments, of the original screaming about "something in the robe," of him locking himself in his room for days. The red robe… it wasn't just a piece of clothing. It was something else, something that had taken over the original Chen Ling.
And now, it was in him.
He looked down at his hands—hands that weren't his, but felt like they were. He thought of the whisper from the robe: "Not… yours…" He thought of the hand in the grave, of the voice begging for help.
"Is he still alive?" Chen Ling asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Chen Daming's face hardened. "He shouldn't be. We made sure." He lifted the shovel higher, taking another step up the hill. "But you… you're the same as him now, aren't you? Wearing that robe, acting like our son… but you're a monster too."
Li Xiuqin started crying again, but her eyes were cold. "We have to finish what we started, Daming. For our real son."
Chen Ling backed away, his eyes fixed on the shovel. He knew he couldn't fight them—not alone. But then, he heard it again—the whisper, this time coming from his own chest, as if the red robe (which he'd left at home) was still with him.
"Run…"
He didn't hesitate. He turned and ran, down the hill, away from the grave, away from the two people who wanted to bury him too. He could hear them yelling behind him, could hear the thud of the shovel hitting the ground as they chased him.
But he didn't look back. He just ran, his heart pounding, his mind filled with one thought: if he didn't find out what the red robe was, he'd end up just like the original Chen Ling—buried under an old banyan tree, begging for help that would never come.