Mornings in Fujian are always damp.
Wearing a well-worn suit and carrying his newly purchased briefcase, Lin Ziang entered the building marked 'Xinchao Creative Advertising Co., Ltd.' with a lingering sense of anticipation.
Soft, old music played in the lift as the numbers on the display screen slowly climbed. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and felt slightly nervous. Last night's dream lingered in his mind — the talisman had faded, but he could still sometimes feel a hint of warmth in his palms.
'Don't overthink it,' he whispered to himself.
The lift dinged and the doors opened.
The company wasn't large, and the receptionist's smile was professional but perfunctory. The office was divided into separate compartments and filled with the warm smell of printers.
'New here? Put the documents on that table. Director Li has a meeting this morning," said a female colleague, not looking up.
Ziang nodded. 'Okay, thank you.'
He put his bag down and looked at his desk, a small one near the window. The desk was clean yet deserted.
Director Li was a man in his forties who dressed neatly and had a sharp voice.
'Young man,' he said, 'you need to work hard when you come to us.' He patted Zhang on the shoulder; his smile was not so gentle. 'Don't expect the company to indulge you just because you've graduated. We want efficiency and results, do you understand?"
'I understand.'
'Well, today, familiarise yourself with the client's profile, and then give me a preliminary proposal this afternoon.'
Ziang was taken aback. 'Today?'
'Aren't advertising graduates generally good copywriters? I prefer the fast-paced ones.' Director Li smiled and turned away.
Once the laughter had died down, the clatter of keyboards returned as the only sound on the floor.
Ziang took a deep breath and turned on his computer.
The client document on the screen was densely packed with information about branding, promotional objectives and visual concepts. It gave him a headache.
Outside the window, the sunlight was dimmed by clouds. The wind rustled the curtains, swaying them gently.
He felt an inexplicable sense of oppression.
At lunchtime, his colleagues went out in groups of three or four. He didn't join them, instead eating some bread at his workstation.
A strange smell began to fill the air, like a mixture of dampness and rust.
He stood up and checked the air conditioning vent, but found nothing.
'Is it just psychological?' he muttered.
But inside, a sense of unease stirred, as if something were stirring.
The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds and dappled the tabletop.
Buried in his copywriting, Zi'ang heard a hum and saw the lightbulb flicker slightly.
He looked up and saw the ceiling light flickering, too.
The keyboard clatter had ceased.
'Power outage?' his colleague next door muttered.
But the computer was still on, so the power must not be off. It was just the light flickering.
Zi'ang frowned. The light was flickering with an irregular rhythm, as if it were breathing.
He felt a chill. It was as if someone was blinking at him, using light and shadow to do so.
Suddenly, the pen on the table trembled slightly.
He stared at the tip.
The pen moved.
First it tilted, then it rolled slowly and came to rest on the edge of the table.
'The wind,' he whispered, trying to comfort himself.
But the window was closed. The air was motionless.
The next second, the pen moved again. It hung in the air for a moment.
Zi'ang's breath caught in his throat. About two centimetres off the table, the pen trembled slightly in the air as if held up by invisible fingers.
'Hey, did you see that?' He turned his head instinctively.
But at that moment, the pen fell to the ground with a thud.
The light returned to normal.
A colleague looked up from his headset. 'Huh? What did you say?'
'No, it's OK.'
He bent down to pick up the pen; his palm was cold. There seemed to be a slight damp patch on the pen.
He glanced at the ceiling light; the bulb was still flickering. Within the flickering rhythm, a faint whisper seemed to echo.
The voice was soft, like the sound of the tide.
'Don't forget... don't forget...'
He froze in his tracks. His palms began to heat up again.
He quietly clenched his fists and whispered, 'What the hell are you...?'
But no one responded. Only the printer suddenly beeped and switched on by itself. Sheets of blank paper were spat out, each bearing faint traces of markings that looked like burnt writing.
He suddenly unplugged the power cord. The machine stopped.
The smell of damp in the air grew stronger.
After getting off work, only a few emergency lights remained on in the office. Ziang was still sorting through documents.
The office was eerily quiet. Even the whirring of the air conditioning seemed to linger in his ears.
He stared at the pen on the table, its tip facing him.
He told himself that all the 'strange phenomena' could be explained scientifically: the flickering light was due to unstable voltage; the movement of the pen, to the vibration of the table; and the printer, to a program error.
But the 'heat' from his dream reminded him that it wasn't an illusion.
He walked to the window and looked outside. The night flowed on, the city lights shining like a tide.
The light from the street corner happened to shine through the window and reflect on his hand. The imprint of his palm appeared faintly, then faded.
He whispered, 'Mazu, are you reminding me?'
At that moment, a breeze blew in and the pages of the document fluttered gently.
He vaguely heard a voice echo:
'You're not the only one awake.'
He turned his head sharply.
The office was empty. But the light in the corner suddenly flickered again, like an eye blinking gently.
The next morning:
He arrived at the office as usual, pretending that everything was normal.
However, during the morning meeting, Director Li suddenly frowned. 'Who touched the printer?' They printed so much paper last night. What a waste.'
He froze. The stack of papers was still on the table. On the top sheet, a faint wave-like symbol had appeared.
'Is that you?' whispered the female colleague next to him.
'Me? I didn't—'
Before he could finish his sentence, the overhead light flickered.
Everyone looked up.
In that instant, Jiang saw the ballpoint pen in the centre of the conference table move slightly, imperceptibly.
His breath nearly stopped.
He looked up and saw that everyone was staring at the pen.
The air felt like a frozen sea.
'Who's playing a prank?' Director Li frowned, his tone subdued.
Ziang opened his mouth, but no words came out.
The lights flickered again.
The pen slowly slid onto the table with a soft 'pop'.
Everyone looked at Lin Ziang.
Someone whispered,
'Is it you?'
He was pale, and the heat from his palms burned through his skin.
And that voice — that whisper from his dream — resurfaced in his ears again:
'Don't let them see.'