The summer afternoon sun slanted through the broken skylight of the attic, turning the floating dust into countless tiny insects dancing in the air. The light was harsh, almost accusatory, as if it resented being forced into this forgotten corner of the old house.
Lin Ze wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and panted as he dragged yet another cardboard box of yellowed books to the growing pile in the corner. He had just graduated from university this year, majoring in civil engineering. By all rights, he should have been out on a construction site somewhere, clipboard in hand, shouting measurements over the roar of machinery, or hunched over blueprints in a brightly lit office, dreaming of the structures he would one day help raise. Instead, he was here, in this crumbling tong lau in the city's decaying old district, sorting through the remnants of a life that had ended far too suddenly.
His grandfather had passed away three weeks ago—quietly, in his sleep, the doctor said. No warning, no prolonged illness. Just gone. At seventy-eight, Grandfather had still been sharp, still telling those strange stories that Lin Ze had loved as a child and dismissed as an adult. Stories about buildings that whispered at night, about neighbors who vanished without a trace, about doors that knocked when no one stood on the other side.
Lin Ze had always come here to escape when he was younger. His parents' divorce had been messy, loud, and endless. This house, with its creaking wooden floors and narrow staircases, had been his refuge. Grandfather never asked questions. He simply made tea, sat Lin Ze down at the old kitchen table, and spun his tales until the boy forgot why he was upset.
Now the house felt different. Empty. The silence pressed in from every corner.
He was dressed simply: a faded gray T-shirt already dark with sweat, loose jeans, and worn sneakers coated in decades of attic dust. His black hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands. At twenty-three, he looked older today—exhausted, hollow-eyed, carrying the weight of decisions he hadn't wanted to make. Selling the house would be the practical thing. He knew that. Property in the city was worth something, even in this rundown neighborhood. But every time he thought about putting it on the market, something twisted in his gut.
"Sigh… just a little longer," he muttered to himself, voice echoing faintly in the cavernous attic. He slapped the dust from his palms and surveyed the chaos around him.
The attic was a graveyard of forgotten things. Stacks of newspapers from the 90s, brittle and yellow. Broken furniture draped in faded sheets. Dozens of cardboard boxes labeled in Grandfather's neat but aging handwriting: "Old Clothes," "Tools," "Photos—Do Not Throw." Lin Ze had spent the entire afternoon up here, sorting, tossing, salvaging what little seemed worth keeping. A few photo albums. Some engineering notebooks filled with meticulous drawings and cryptic symbols he didn't understand. A jade pendant Grandfather had worn every day.
Most of it was junk.
He was about to call it quits for the day when his foot caught on something solid beneath a collapsed tower of boxes. He stumbled, caught himself, and looked down. There, half-buried under the weight of decades, was a wooden box he had never seen before.
It was small—perhaps half a meter long, thirty centimeters wide—made of dark, heavy wood that looked almost black in the dim light. The surface was carved with faint patterns, floral or geometric, worn smooth by time and touch. Age radiated from it like heat. But what drew Lin Ze's eye immediately was the brass lock on the front: old, green with verdigris, yet still firmly clasped. It hadn't been opened in years—maybe decades.
He crouched, heart beating a little faster for no reason he could name, and brushed away the thick layer of dust. The box had been deliberately hidden, pushed deep into the corner behind heavier items, as if someone had wanted it forgotten. If he hadn't decided to clear the attic completely today, it might have stayed buried forever.
Lin Ze reached out and ran his fingers over the lid. The wood was cool despite the stuffy heat. He gave the box an experimental shake. Something inside shifted with a dull, heavy thud—paper, maybe, or something denser. The sound was muffled but unmistakable: the box was not empty.
Curiosity flared, sharp and sudden.
He tugged at the brass lock. It didn't budge. The hasp was solid, the lock mechanism stiff with rust but intact. No key in sight, and certainly none among the scattered belongings he'd already gone through.
Lin Ze sat back on his heels, frowning. Grandfather had never mentioned this box. Not once. Not in any of the stories, not in the will, not even in passing. There had been no secret compartments, no dramatic deathbed revelations. Just a quiet funeral and a house full of ordinary memories.
So why hide this?
He glanced around the attic again, half-expecting to see Grandfather's kindly face peering from the shadows, smiling that knowing smile he always wore when telling one of his tales. But there was nothing. Only dust and silence and the slow creep of evening shadows as the sun dipped lower.
A sudden chill brushed the back of Lin Ze's neck, raising the fine hairs there. The temperature hadn't changed—he was still sweating—but something felt… off. The attic seemed darker than it should, the corners deeper. For a moment he thought he heard a faint scrape from inside the box, like paper shifting on its own.
He shook his head. Imagination. Exhaustion. Grief playing tricks.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to leave it.
Lin Ze stood, brushing dust from his jeans. "Tomorrow," he said aloud, as if the box could hear him. "I'll bring tools tomorrow and open you properly."
He turned to leave, but paused at the top of the narrow staircase. One last look back.
The dying sunlight caught the brass lock for a fleeting second, and in that instant—Lin Ze would swear this later, though he could never be sure—he saw a tiny pulse of red light deep inside the keyhole. A brief, malevolent glow, like an eye opening for the first time in years.
Then it was gone.
The attic was dark and silent once more.
Lin Ze swallowed, suddenly eager to be downstairs, and pulled the attic door firmly shut behind him.
He did not see the faint red glow return, softer this time, pulsing gently from within the sealed box like a heartbeat.