The first thing Chen Ling felt was warmth—soft, golden warmth, like sunlight through a window. He opened his eyes slowly, squinting at the brightness, and found himself lying on a wooden bed in a small room. The walls were lined with opera posters, their colors faded but vivid: a woman in a red robe singing under a spotlight, a man in armor brandishing a sword, a group of performers bowing to a cheering crowd.
This wasn't the cottage. It wasn't the hill. It wasn't anywhere he recognized.
He sat up, his head throbbing slightly. His hands—his hands, not the original Chen Ling's—were resting on the bedspread. He flexed his fingers, staring at them in shock. They were calloused, just like he remembered, the nails chipped from years of fixing old radios. This was his body. His real body.
Where was he?
A soft knock came at the door, and it creaked open. A woman stepped in—tall, with silver hair pulled back in a bun, wearing a plain black dress. She held a bowl of soup, and when she saw Chen Ling was awake, her face broke into a gentle smile.
"You're finally up," she said, setting the bowl on the nightstand. "You've been asleep for three days."
Chen Ling stared at her. There was something familiar about her—something in the shape of her eyes, the way she tilted her head when she spoke. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
"I'm Mei," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I found you in the alley behind the Lotus Opera Troupe's warehouse. You were lying on the ground, unconscious. Master Wei called me—he said you'd helped him with… a difficult matter."
Master Wei. The opera troupe. Madame Hong. The memories came flooding back: the red robe, the grave, the sealed study, the original Chen Ling's alive body, the feeling of fading away.
"I… I was in someone else's body," Chen Ling said, the words tumbling out. "Chen Ling's body. Madame Hong's spirit was in the robe, and I got stuck there, and his parents buried him, but he was alive, and we sealed her, and then I… I disappeared."
Mei nodded, as if none of this surprised her. "Master Wei told me. He said you were a 'bridge'—someone who could hold Madame Hong back long enough to save Chen Ling. He also said you might not come back. But here you are."
Chen Ling looked around the room again. The posters—he realized now that the woman in the red robe was Madame Hong, young and smiling, before her spirit turned bitter. "Whose room is this?"
"Mine," Mei said. "I used to be part of the troupe. I sang Hong Niang, once. Before I realized what the robe really was." She paused, her gaze softening. "Master Wei and I have been trying to stop Madame Hong for years. We thought we'd lost hope… until you came."
Chen Ling picked up the bowl of soup, blowing on it gently. "What happened to Chen Ling? And his parents?"
"Chen Ling is recovering," Mei said. "His parents took him to the hospital—he had a bad case of hypothermia, but he's awake now. He doesn't remember much about Madame Hong, just flashes… but he's alive. That's what matters."
"And the robe? The mask?"
"Still in the study," Mei said. "The wards are holding. But Master Wei says we can't keep her locked up forever. Madame Hong's spirit is old, but it's strong. Eventually, she'll find a way out—unless we finish what she started."
Chen Ling frowned. "Finish what she started?"
Mei stood up and walked to one of the posters—Madame Hong singing, the crowd cheering. "She just wanted to sing. To be remembered. But greed twisted her. If we can give her what she really wanted—one last performance, a proper goodbye—maybe her spirit will rest. Maybe she'll let go."
Chen Ling thought of the robe, glowing with embers, the faint sound of Hong Niang's song. He thought of Madame Hong's shriek when the mask touched the fabric—rage, yes, but also sorrow. A sorrow that had festered for eighty years.
"Would that work?" he asked.
Mei shrugged. "We don't know. But it's worth trying. Master Wei is already planning it—he's gathering old troupe members, fixing the stage at the warehouse. We're going to perform The Story of Hong Niang—the whole opera. And we're going to leave the robe on the stage. For her."
Chen Ling set down the bowl. He thought of the original Chen Ling, alive and recovering. Of Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming, finally free from fear. Of himself, back in his own body, in a room filled with opera posters and sunlight.
He owed Madame Hong something. Not forgiveness—never that—but a chance to end her song properly.
"I want to help," he said.
Mei smiled. "Master Wei knew you would. He's waiting for you downstairs. Said you might have a voice for it—after all, you spent time in Chen Ling's body. And his voice was just like hers."
Chen Ling stood up, his legs still wobbly but strong enough. He walked to the door, then paused, looking back at the poster of Madame Hong. For a moment, he thought he saw the woman in the poster smile—faint, fleeting, like a memory.
He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Below, he could hear the strum of a guzheng—slow, gentle, not mournful anymore. Hopeful.
The song wasn't over yet. But this time, they were going to sing it right.