Night fell over the town like a soft curtain, and the Lotus Opera Troupe's warehouse glowed with lantern light—strings of red and gold bulbs strung between rafters, casting warm shadows over the makeshift stage. The red opera robe lay draped over a wooden stand at center stage, its fabric no longer dulled by the mask's magic; instead, it shimmered faintly, as if breathing in the music that filled the air.
Chen Ling stood backstage, his hands trembling slightly as Mei adjusted the collar of his costume—a simple white robe, nothing like the red one on stage, but still heavy with the weight of the moment. Master Wei stood beside them, his guzheng in hand, his face calm but his eyes sharp.
"The crowd's here," Old Zhang whispered, poking his head through the curtain. "Just a few—Chen Ling's parents, some old troupe folks. No one else. We didn't want to risk it."
Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming. Chen Ling's chest tightened. He hoped they'd find closure tonight, too.
The music started soft—Master Wei plucking the guzheng's strings, Old Zhang's erhu joining in with a slow, sweet melody. Mei stepped onto the stage first, playing the role of Hong Niang's mistress, her voice gentle as she sang of love and longing. Chen Ling closed his eyes, letting the music wrap around him, feeling the familiar warmth of the voice that wasn't quite his rise in his throat.
When it was his turn, he stepped onto the stage. The lantern light hit his face, and he saw Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming sitting in the front row, their hands clasped together. He met their eyes, nodded once, then turned to face the red robe.
He began to sing.
The aria poured out of him—clear, bright, just like Madame Hong's voice, just like the original Chen Ling's. The red robe shimmered brighter, its threads writhing slightly as if dancing to the music. Chen Ling didn't look away, didn't falter. He sang of Hong Niang's joy, her sacrifice, her hope for a happy ending—all the things Madame Hong had never gotten to finish.
Halfway through the aria, a soft mist began to rise from the robe. It swirled around the stage, catching the lantern light, until it took shape—a woman in a red robe, her face hidden by a veil, her hands raised as if conducting the music. Madame Hong.
The crowd gasped, but no one ran. Li Xiuqin squeezed Chen Daming's hand, her eyes wide but not afraid. Master Wei's fingers moved faster on the guzheng, the music swelling to match the mist's dance.
Chen Ling kept singing. He sang of goodbye—of letting go, of peace, of being remembered not for rage, but for song. The misty figure tilted her head, as if listening, and the veil began to fade. When it lifted, Chen Ling saw her face: young, beautiful, her eyes filled with sorrow, not anger.
As the final note approached, Madame Hong's figure reached out, as if touching the air. Her fingers brushed Chen Ling's cheek—cold, but gentle—then she turned to the crowd. She looked at Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming, and for a moment, her expression softened. Then she turned back to the red robe, her misty form beginning to fade.
Chen Ling hit the final note, holding it until his lungs ached. When he stopped, the warehouse was silent. The mist was gone. The red robe lay still, its shimmer faded, now just a piece of cloth.
Madame Hong was gone.
The silence lasted a beat, then Li Xiuqin stood up and clapped. Chen Daming joined her, then Old Zhang, then Mei, until the warehouse echoed with applause. Chen Ling bowed, his eyes stinging with tears—not of sadness, but of relief.
Later, as they packed up the lanterns, Li Xiuqin approached him. She held out a small, folded piece of paper—an old photo, yellowed at the edges. It showed a young woman in a red robe, singing on a stage, a crowd cheering behind her. Madame Hong, in her prime.
"She would have loved that," Li Xiuqin said, her voice soft. "Thank you. For letting her say goodbye."
Chen Ling took the photo, folding it carefully and slipping it into his pocket. "She just wanted to be heard," he said.
Master Wei walked over, carrying the red robe. "We'll bury it tomorrow," he said. "With the mask. Somewhere quiet, where it can rest."
Chen Ling nodded. He looked around the warehouse—at Mei laughing with Old Zhang, at Li Xiuqin and Chen Daming talking softly, at the empty stage where a spirit had finally found peace. He thought of the original Chen Ling, recovering in the hospital, of himself, back in his own body, of the town that would finally be free from the robe's curse.
The song was finished.
As he walked out of the warehouse into the cool night, Chen Ling pulled out the photo and looked at it. The young woman in the red robe smiled back at him, bright and alive. He tucked it back into his pocket, then started walking home—slowly, savoring the quiet, the feeling of a weight lifted, the knowledge that some endings weren't sad.
They were just new beginnings.