The warehouse stage smelled of sawdust and old silk, sunlight streaming through gaps in the tattered cloth windows to dust the floor with gold. Master Wei stood at the center, tuning a guzheng, while a handful of former troupe members milled around—an older man adjusting a faded blue costume, a woman braiding flowers into her hair, their faces a mix of nervousness and resolve. Mei led Chen Ling down the creaky wooden stairs, and all eyes turned to him.
"Everyone, this is Chen Ling," Mei said, her voice carrying over the soft rustle of fabric. "He's the one who helped us seal Madame Hong."
A murmur went through the group. The man in the blue costume—his name was Old Zhang, Mei whispered—nodded approvingly. "He's got the look of her, doesn't he? The way he holds himself. Just like Chen Ling used to."
Chen Ling's throat tightened. He wasn't Chen Ling—not really. But he forced a smile and dipped his head in greeting. "I'm just here to help. Whatever you need."
Master Wei set down the guzheng and stepped forward, his eyes sharp but warm. "We need your voice. Chen Ling's voice—your voice now, after being in his body—matches Madame Hong's. We're going to have you sing Hong Niang's part. The aria at the end—the one she never got to finish."
Chen Ling froze. "I can't sing. I've never done opera in my life."
"You don't have to 'do' opera," Master Wei said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Just let the voice come. It's still in you—lingering from your time in Chen Ling's body. Madame Hong's spirit reacted to it. It'll react again."
Old Zhang handed him a tattered sheet of music—Hong Niang's final aria, the notes smudged but legible. "We'll start slow. Mei will sing with you. Just follow her lead."
Mei stepped beside him, holding a similar sheet. "Breathe," she said quietly. "It's not about being perfect. It's about letting her hear it. Letting her know we're not here to fight—we're here to let her finish."
The rehearsal began. Old Zhang played the erhu, its sound low and mournful, while Master Wei plucked the guzheng. Mei started singing first, her voice clear and steady, weaving through the melody like a thread of silk. Chen Ling closed his eyes, trying to ignore the stares, and let the music wash over him.
At first, nothing came. His throat felt tight, his voice cracked when he tried to join in. The group fell silent, and Chen Ling's face burned. "I'm sorry—I can't—"
"Wait," Master Wei said, holding up a hand. He walked to the corner of the stage, where a covered object sat on a wooden stand. He pulled off the cloth, revealing the red opera robe—borrowed from the sealed study, its fabric still dulled by the mask's magic. "Touch it. Let it remind you. Let it connect you."
Chen Ling hesitated, then stepped forward. His fingers brushed the robe's collar—cold, but not hostile. For a moment, he heard a whisper, soft and warm, not menacing: "Sing… finish it…"
He closed his eyes again. This time, when Mei started the aria, a voice rose in his throat—clear, bright, and unfamiliar, yet somehow his own. It matched Mei's note for note, weaving around hers like two voices in one. The erhu and guzheng swelled, and the warehouse fell quiet, everyone staring at him.
When the last note faded, there was a beat of silence. Then Old Zhang clapped, and the others joined in, their faces glowing.
"That's it," Master Wei said, his voice thick with emotion. "That's the voice she's been waiting for."
Chen Ling opened his eyes, breathless. He felt lighter, as if a weight he didn't know he carried had lifted. "I… I didn't know I could do that."
Mei smiled. "It was always there. You just needed to let it out."
The rest of the rehearsal passed in a blur. They ran through the opera's final scene—Hong Niang mediating between her mistress and the scholar, the joyous resolution, the aria that Madame Hong had died mid-performance. Chen Ling's voice grew stronger with each take, the notes flowing easier, as if he'd sung the aria a hundred times before.
By dusk, everyone was tired but hopeful. Old Zhang packed up his erhu, while Mei folded the red robe carefully, as if handling something precious. Master Wei pulled Chen Ling aside, his expression serious.
"Tomorrow night is the performance," he said. "We'll leave the robe on the stage, center front. When you sing the final aria, focus on it—let Madame Hong feel the music. If she's ready to let go, she'll show herself. If not…"
He trailed off, but Chen Ling knew what he meant. If Madame Hong wasn't ready, the robe would react—maybe violently. Maybe they'd have to seal her again, this time forever.
"I understand," Chen Ling said.
Master Wei nodded. "Go home. Rest. You'll need your strength tomorrow."
Chen Ling walked out of the warehouse as the sun set, painting the sky pink and orange. He didn't go back to Mei's house—instead, he found himself walking to the hospital, where the original Chen Ling was recovering.
He stood outside the door to Chen Ling's room, listening to Li Xiuqin's soft laughter inside. He didn't go in. He didn't need to. He just needed to know the boy was safe.
As he turned to leave, he heard a voice—faint, familiar, coming from his pocket. He pulled out the mask, now cool and quiet, but for a second, he swore he heard Madame Hong's voice, soft and sad: "Tell him… I'm sorry."
Chen Ling paused, then slipped the mask back into his pocket. He didn't know if he'd tell the original Chen Ling. Maybe it didn't matter. What mattered was tomorrow—finishing the song, giving Madame Hong her goodbye, and finally closing this chapter.
He walked into the dusk, his steps light, his voice still humming the aria's melody. Tomorrow night, they'd sing for Madame Hong. For Chen Ling. For everyone who'd been hurt by the robe's curse.
And maybe—just maybe—they'd finally find peace.