Have you ever wondered what you would do if one day, something in your house that never spoke suddenly answered you?
I mean, if you had a cat, had raised it for a full two years, talked to it every day after work, never expecting it to actually respond—but then, one day, it did.
Would you scream and run out the door, or freeze in place, pretending that moment never happened?
I chose the third option.
I sat on the sofa, staring at the cat intently, forcing a stiff smile.
"I've been under too much pressure lately," I said to it, my voice steadier than I expected, so steady it felt unfamiliar even to myself. "I'm starting to hallucinate."
The cat ignored me. It lowered its head to lick its paw, just like usual, that nonchalant look as if saying "none of my business."
I let out a long sigh of relief, my back already soaked in a thin layer of cold sweat.
But that night, I couldn't sleep a wink.
I
My name is Su Wan. I'm twenty-six years old, single, and work as a copywriter at an advertising agency.
To put it nicely, I'm a copywriter; to put it bluntly, I'm a tool person who dare not go against the client's wishes, no matter how unreasonable they are, and will revise drafts as many times as they ask. The company is in an old office building near the CBD, with cheap rent, and it takes me forty minutes to commute by subway. I rent a one-bedroom apartment in an old community in the southern part of the city, with a monthly rent of 2,300 yuan. It has a small north-facing balcony that's bitterly cold in winter.
I have a British Shorthair cat, male, four and a half years old, named "Nian Gao" (Rice Cake).
I adopted Nian Gao two years ago from an adoption platform called "A Cat's Life with You." At that time, the volunteer said that its original owner could no longer keep it due to allergies. I saw its photo—it had a round head and a chubby face, looking naive and adorable. My heart softened, so I made an appointment to pick it up. On the day I picked it up, it huddled in the pet carrier, not making a sound. When we got home, it directly hid under the bed and didn't dare come out for a full day.
Later, as we got closer, it showed its true British Shorthair nature—lazy, gluttonous, and inactive. It slept for two-thirds of the day, and the remaining one-third was spent squatting by its food bowl, waiting for meals.
Every day after work, the first thing I did when I opened the door was call it.
"Nian Gao? I'm home."
It would usually walk out slowly from some corner, glance at me faintly, then sit quietly on the floor, waiting for me to change my shoes, wash my hands, and pour its cat food.
I would squat down, gently stroke its head, and chatter on about the troubles of my day.
"The client made me revise the draft three times again today; it's so annoying."
"Why won't you answer me?"
It was just a casual joke. I had been saying it every day since I adopted it, for a full two years—just like many people talk to their pets, with no expectations, just looking for an emotional outlet.
Of course, Nian Gao wouldn't answer. At most, it would meow once and rub my fingers with its head as a response.
I never thought there was anything wrong with this, until last Wednesday.
That day, I worked overtime until 11:30 PM on a promotional video copy for a real estate project. After the client saw the fourth version, they suddenly said, "I think the first version is better." I was so angry I almost smashed my computer. But I didn't dare—I needed this job too much. I had rent to pay, cat food to buy, medical insurance to renew, and every expense was waiting for my salary.
I held back my anger, replied with a smile, "No problem," then opened the first version, corrected three typos, and sent it again.
When I left the company, the late November wind cut my face like a knife. I bought a cold rice ball and rushed to catch the last subway home. It was already past midnight when I got home. Two voice-activated lights in the corridor were broken. I climbed the creaky stairs to the fourth floor, my hands trembling as I took out my keys to open the door.
The room was pitch black. Nian Gao didn't come to greet me, which was normal—it would have been sound asleep by this time.
I turned on the light, changed my shoes, threw my bag on the sofa, and dragged my tired body to the kitchen to heat the rice ball.
The microwave beeped. I picked up the warm rice ball and walked out, only to suddenly see Nian Gao squatting beside the coffee table, its eyes glowing faintly green under the light, staring straight at me.
I sat down and took a bite of the rice ball, which tasted like wax.
"I was bullied by the client today," I muttered to it, my voice dull in the empty room. "I revised the draft all day, and in the end, they still used the first version. Isn't that annoying?"
Nian Gao didn't move, just stared at me, its eyes seeming to hide something, yet nothing at all.
I reached out to stroke its head. Its fur was soft, and its body temperature was a little higher than mine—touching it relieved some of my irritability.
"Why don't you comfort me?" I said casually, as I always did.
I lowered my head to continue eating the rice ball, and out of the corner of my eye, I accidentally caught sight of its shadow—under the light, its shadow was not the shape of a cat, but the outline of a hunchbacked person. It stayed like that for a second, then instantly turned back into the shape of a cat.
My heart skipped a beat. Before I could react, a voice suddenly came from directly in front of me.
"Because you deserved it."
Hoarse and deep, like the voice of a forty-year-old man, or an old radio turned up to maximum volume, forced out of the throat—harsh and weird. What was even stranger was that there was no clear source of the sound; it seemed to float directly in the air, yet clearly drifted into my ears.
I had a mouthful of rice ball in my mouth, and my whole body froze instantly, even forgetting to breathe.
I didn't dare look up, staring intently at the rice ball in my hand, at the grains of rice on it, at the expiration date printed on the packaging, telling myself over and over: I misheard, I must have misheard.
Yes, I definitely misheard. The sound insulation in the old community is poor; the neighbor must be watching TV, or someone upstairs is talking. I must have mistaken the neighbor's voice for Nian Gao speaking.
I took a deep breath and slowly raised my head.
Nian Gao was still squatting in the same place, its posture unchanged, its eyes still staring at me, its mouth tightly closed, not moving at all.
I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
I took three more deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. I stood up, threw the remaining rice ball into the trash can, and turned to wash my face in the bathroom. The cold water splashed on my face, making my temples ache. I looked at myself in the mirror—my face was pale, the dark circles under my eyes were as dark as ink, and my eyes were full of exhaustion and panic.
"You're too tired," I muttered to myself in the mirror. "It's just exhaustion making you hallucinate. You need to get a good night's sleep."
I brushed my teeth, turned off the light, and lay down on the bed. My heart was still pounding.
Nian Gao jumped onto the bed, curled up at my feet, breathing evenly, its belly rising and falling—looking just like usual.
I opened my eyes, staring at it intently for a long, long time.
It didn't make any sound, just like an ordinary cat, sleeping quietly.
"Hallucination," I whispered to myself, my voice as soft as a mosquito's hum. "It was just a hallucination."
I turned over, wrapped the quilt tightly around myself, and forced my eyes closed. But my mind was filled with that hoarse voice from just now, and that weird human shadow.
That night, I had a nightmare. In the dream, a cat was sitting opposite me, its mouth opening and closing as if it was saying something, but I couldn't hear it clearly. I couldn't help leaning closer, and it suddenly turned its head sharply—its eyes were not the vertical pupils of a cat, but human eyes, brown, with a bit of cloudiness in the whites, like an old man's eyes, staring straight at me, making my hair stand on end.
I was so scared that I woke up suddenly, covered in sweat. The phone screen showed 4:17 AM.
Nian Gao was not on the bed.
I quickly turned on my phone's flashlight and shone it around the room. Finally, I found it squatting on top of the wardrobe, facing away from me, motionless, like a sculpture.
"Nian Gao?" I called out tentatively.
It didn't turn around, not even moving its ears.
II
The next day, I asked for half a day off from work. I didn't go to the company; instead, I went to the hospital—not for Nian Gao, but for myself.
I registered for ENT and neurology appointments. The hearing test came back normal. The doctor asked if I had been under too much pressure and not getting enough rest, advising me to rest more and, if necessary, get a psychological evaluation.
I held the vitamin B tablets prescribed by the doctor, walked out of the hospital, and stood at the door, staring blankly for a long time.
The November sun was thin, offering no warmth at all. The ginkgo trees by the road were half yellow, their leaves blown all over the ground by the wind, looking particularly bleak.
I comforted myself over and over: it must be due to too much pressure. I had been rushing to finish the project lately, working overtime until after 10 PM every day, with no rest on weekends. Besides, I had mild anxiety to begin with. I had had hallucinations a few times before—working overtime until midnight, always hearing my phone ring, but picking it up to find no messages; taking a shower, always hearing someone call my name, but turning off the faucet to find only silence.
This time should be the same. I was just too tired, my brain had a momentary lapse, causing hallucinations and illusions.
I built up enough psychological preparation, and the panic in my heart eased a little.
In the afternoon, I went to work, spent the whole afternoon going over drafts with the client, and didn't get off work until after 7 PM. On the way home, I specially went to the supermarket to buy a bag of Nian Gao's favorite chicken freeze-dried treats, planning to give it an extra meal when I got home—as a way to make up for my neurosis last night and comfort myself.
When I opened the door to go home, Nian Gao immediately jumped off the sofa, ran to my feet, rubbed my pants with its head, and kept meowing—looking exactly like usual, no abnormalities at all.
I squatted down, opened the bag of freeze-dried treats, and it meowed even more eagerly when it smelled the scent.
"Okay, okay, here you go, here you go." I smiled, pouring a few pieces of freeze-dried treats into its bowl.
It buried its head in eating, crunching loudly, looking just like an ordinary, gluttonous British Shorthair cat.
I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching it eat. The stone in my heart slowly fell, and I thought I had made a big deal out of nothing last night, being too neurotic.
"Was it you talking yesterday?" I asked it half-jokingly, with a hint of tentativeness in my tone.
It ignored me, focusing only on eating the freeze-dried treats.
"If you can really talk, say something again." I asked again, still a little uncertain in my heart.
After it finished the last piece of freeze-dried treat, it looked up at me, yawned loudly, then turned around and walked away slowly, not even giving me an extra glance.
I smiled and shook my head, completely letting go of my worries—sure enough, I had been too tired and had a hallucination.
That night, everything was normal. I took a shower, scrolled through my phone for a while, turned off the light around 11 PM, and got ready to sleep. Nian Gao jumped onto the bed as usual, curled up at my feet, and soon fell into even breathing.
I was drowsily about to fall asleep, and just as I was half-asleep and half-awake, a voice suddenly came into my ears.
Very soft, as if muttering to itself, or talking to someone. There was still no clear source, yet it was terrifyingly clear.
"You didn't even turn off the light."
I suddenly opened my eyes, fully awake in an instant.
The room was dark. The curtains were not fully closed, and a streak of streetlight leaked in from outside, shining on the ceiling, casting mottled shadows. I maintained my lying posture, motionless, even holding my breath as lightly as possible, afraid of disturbing something.
That voice was floating in the air at my feet.
"Coming home so late every day, not eating properly." The voice was still low, hoarse and deep, exactly the same as what I heard last night.
The quilt at my feet moved a little; Nian Gao turned over and changed positions, continuing to lie there.
"Not even having a partner."
As soon as those words were spoken, all the hair on my body stood on end, and a chill ran from the soles of my feet to the top of my head.
This was not a hallucination.
I was fully awake. I could clearly feel my heart beating, thump, thump, thump, hitting my ribs one by one, so fast it felt like it was going to jump out; I could feel my palms sweating, sticky, clutching the quilt until it wrinkled; I could feel the weight of the quilt on my body, and the warmth of Nian Gao at my feet.
This was definitely not a hallucination.
It was Nian Gao, yet not Nian Gao—the voice did not belong to a cat, but was tightly bound to it.
It was a voice completely unrelated to a cat, hoarse and deep, like a middle-aged man, muttering to himself like a human beside my quilt, talking about my trivial matters, as if an invisible soul was attached to Nian Gao, silently observing me through its existence.
I used all my strength not to scream, my whole body stiff as a stone.
I slowly sat up, leaned against the headboard, pulled the quilt up to my chin, and stared intently at Nian Gao at my feet.
It was lying there, its head facing me, its eyes half-open and half-closed. The streetlight did not reach it, and I could only see a blurry outline, quiet and still—as if it was not the one speaking just now, or as if it was just a "container" for that soul.
It did not speak again.
I sat on the head of the bed like that, eyes open, staring at it, all night long, until the sky turned pale. Fear wrapped around my heart like vines, but deep in my heart, there was also a strong sense of confusion—who was that voice? Why was it attached to Nian Gao?
# III
At dawn, I made up my mind.
I had to figure out what was really wrong with this cat, and where that hoarse voice was coming from.
I skipped work that day. I sent my team leader a message saying I wasn't feeling well and asked for a day off. He only replied with an OK emoji, no extra questions asked. He'd probably noticed how worn out I'd been from all the overtime lately.
I sat on the living room sofa. Nian Gao was asleep on the cat tree across from me, lying sprawled out in total relaxation, its fluffy belly exposed, looking just like any ordinary cat.
I stared at it sleeping, my mind a tangled mess. Then I picked up my phone and started searching frantically online.
I first looked up *Can cats talk?*
There were countless videos online of cats making sounds that resembled "hungry", "mom", or "no". But those were all just accidental tone similarities. A cat's vocal cord structure was nothing like a human's. They could never pronounce human phonemes, let alone form complete sentences.
Next I searched *Cats making human-like voices*.
All that popped up were folk tales and supernatural rumors. Some said that when a cat lived long enough, it became a medium, bearing the souls of the departed. Others claimed cats were spiritually sensitive, able to see things humans couldn't, and could also act as vessels for lingering spirits. It wasn't the cat speaking, but the soul attached to it. There were even claims that hearing a cat "talk" meant a lost soul was using the cat's breath to voice its deepest obsessions.
The more I read, the more frightened and confused I grew. I simply closed the browser and changed my approach. I would start digging into Nian Gao's past.
I'd adopted Nian Gao two years ago from a rescue adoption platform called *A Cat's Life with You*, a small charity with an official WeChat account. I scrolled back through my chat history from two years prior and found the volunteer I'd contacted back then—a girl named Xiao Lu.
I sent her a message:
"Hi, this is Su Wan. I adopted Nian Gao from you two years ago. Would it be convenient to ask about its previous background?"
After sending the message, I stared at the chat box for a full ten minutes, but Xiao Lu didn't reply.
I flipped through the old adoption records too. Back then, Xiao Lu had sent me several photos of Nian Gao along with a short introduction:
*British Shorthair male, neutered, fully vaccinated, gentle temperament. Original owner can no longer keep him due to allergies, seeking a loving home.*
Just a few simple lines. At the time, I only cared whether Nian Gao was healthy and didn't think much before arranging a time to pick him up.
But reading that introduction now, I suddenly noticed a strange omission. It never mentioned who the original owner was, nor when they'd sent Nian Gao to the rescue.
I kept scrolling through our chat logs and found the pickup address Xiao Lu had given me. I hadn't collected the cat at the rescue shelter, but at a residential compound gate. I remembered that day clearly. Xiao Lu had driven a white Honda, lifted the pet carrier holding Nian Gao out of the trunk, and handed it to me.
"The cat food and litter box are inside the carrier," she'd said back then. "They were given by the original owner's family. Message me anytime if you have problems after taking him home."
I recalled asking her at the time, "Why couldn't the original owner keep him anymore?"
Xiao Lu had answered, "Allergies. They raised him for years and finally couldn't bear it anymore. Plus something happened in their family, so they had to give him up reluctantly."
I hadn't pressed further back then, but now I saw a clear contradiction. Xiao Lu had said the owner had raised Nian Gao for years, yet the adoption papers listed his age as only two and a half years old when I adopted him.
A cat raised for years could technically be two and a half, but when I later found Nian Gao's vaccination booklet, I uncovered a critical detail. His date of birth had been altered. Faint traces showed the original date was March 2020, not the later forged March 2022.
I'd adopted him in November 2023. Using his real birth date, he had already been three and a half years old then, perfectly matching Xiao Lu's claim of being "raised for years". The edited date was only to make him seem younger and easier to get adopted.
The date on the vaccine record was fake. Xiao Lu had deliberately hidden Nian Gao's true age. He was neither half a year old nor two and a half. He was a fully grown adult cat who'd lived with someone for many years.
Lost in these tangled thoughts, my phone suddenly pinged. It was a reply from Xiao Lu.
"Nian Gao? What's wrong? Is he alright?"
I typed back right away: "He's perfectly fine. I just want to ask about his past. You said his original owner gave him up because of allergies, right? Also, his vaccine booklet date looks altered. What's his real age?"
"Yes, it was definitely allergies," Xiao Lu replied quickly, deliberately avoiding the age question.
"Then what was the original owner's name? And what is Nian Gao's actual age?" I pressed, a hint of urgency in my tone.
It took a long while before she replied: "Why are you asking all this suddenly?"
"I'm just curious," I softened my tone on purpose, hiding my suspicion. "He's had a previous owner after all. I want to know more so I can take better care of him."
There was another long silence, so long I thought she wouldn't answer at all. Then she sent a voice message.
I pressed play. Her voice sounded hesitant, laced with quiet awkwardness and fear.
"Honestly… this adoption was a little special. Nian Gao's original owner was surnamed Chen, Chen Jianming. A middle-aged man who lived alone. He raised Nian Gao for over three years. He contacted us several times before wanting to give the cat away, but every time we made arrangements, he changed his mind. The last time, it was his distant nephew who reached out. He said Chen Jianming had passed away suddenly from a heart attack. No one in the family dared keep the cat, so they sent him to our temporary foster spot."
She paused, lowering her voice even more.
"I was afraid you'd turn him down because of his age, so I changed the birth date on the vaccine booklet and told you he was only two and a half. I'm sorry… Also, from what his nephew said, Chen Jianming stayed with Nian Gao right up until his death. After he passed, Nian Gao stayed by his side, refusing food and water, until the nephew found the body and took the cat away. We tried contacting the nephew later to update him on Nian Gao, but his number was no longer reachable."
My fingers turned ice cold gripping the phone, a chill creeping up my spine.
I suddenly remembered the first time Nian Gao had spoken. That hoarse, gravelly voice—exactly the tone of a middle-aged man who'd lived alone and smoked for years. It matched perfectly with how I'd imagined the lonely Chen Jianming sounded.
It wasn't Nian Gao talking at all.
It was Chen Jianming's soul, attached to the cat.
My fingers trembled uncontrollably as I typed: "How long has Chen Jianming been gone?"
"Almost two years," Xiao Lu replied. "We placed Nian Gao with you not long after he passed. I never dared tell you the truth before, afraid you'd get scared… after all, this cat stayed with him until his very last moment."
I didn't reply. I tossed my phone aside and slumped back on the sofa, staring fixedly at Nian Gao across the room.
He was awake now, perched on the cat tree licking his paws slowly and carefully. His rough tongue groomed his fur neat and tidy, looking every bit the gentle, ordinary cat.
As I watched him, I noticed faint grayish smudges tucked between his paw pads—like dried dust, the grime of someone who'd lived alone for a long time. I stood up and walked over, reaching out to wipe it away, but he suddenly darted back. His paw grazed the back of my hand, leaving a faint thin mark.
It didn't hurt, but it was unnaturally cold. Not the normal temperature of a cat's paw. It was a piercing, metallic chill, carrying the icy cold of Chen Jianming's death.
He looked like any ordinary cat—round-faced, docile, adorable. But I knew the truth. He was anything but normal. Inside him resided a lonely soul, one with nowhere else to go, forced to cling to the only cat he'd loved.
Xiao Lu's words finally cleared up all the earlier contradictions. It hadn't been Chen Jianming who sent the cat away, but his nephew. Nian Gao's real age had been deliberately hidden just to make adoption easier. Yet new doubts began swirling in my mind.
Why had Chen Jianming's soul stayed bound to Nian Gao all this time?
And why had he started speaking to me?
Lost deep in thought, I watched Nian Gao stop licking his paws. He turned his head and looked straight at me, quiet and unblinking.
Beneath the fluorescent light, his eyes were amber, his vertical pupils narrowed to thin slits. His gaze was deep and perceptive, holding loneliness, grievance, and a strange obsession I couldn't understand.
He stared at me for a very long time.
Then he opened his mouth and yawned silently.
Not a single sound came out.
Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that he was "saying" something. That silent wordless weight felt far more chilling than any hoarse human voice.
# IV
For the next three days, I barely went to work. All I could think about was digging up every detail about Chen Jianming.
It wasn't actually that hard. Xiao Lu had given me his name, I knew he'd lived somewhere in the southern part of the city, and I'd even found an old address buried in the adoption records—the exact residential compound gate where I'd picked up Nian Gao. It was only three subway stops away from where I lived.
I took half a day off and headed to the old neighborhood where Chen Jianming had resided. The complex was full of red-brick apartment buildings covered in withered vines. The paint on the unit doors was peeling badly. A few elderly men sat playing chess in the small garden. The whole place had an old, quiet air to it, yet there was an inescapable sense of desolation hanging in the air.
I went to the neighborhood committee and made up an excuse. I said I was Chen Jianming's distant niece, that we'd lost touch for years, and I'd come to ask about him and see where he used to live.
The woman at the committee was kind and helpful. She flipped through old files for a long time before confirming that Chen Jianming had indeed lived here, Unit 5, Room 202, Building 3. He'd passed away nearly two years ago, exactly matching what Xiao Lu had told me.
"It was a sudden heart attack," the woman sighed, her tone full of pity. "He lived all alone, no one by his side. His distant nephew only found his body several days later. Such a sad, lonely end. When we came to handle the affairs, we saw a British Shorthair blue cat staying right beside him. It was terribly thin, listless and dull-eyed, heartbreaking to look at. We wanted to take the cat away, but his nephew said he'd handle it. After that, we never knew where it went."
My heart tightened at once. I hurried to ask, "Was it a round-faced British Shorthair blue cat?"
She nodded immediately. "Yes, exactly. It looked gentle enough, but it was extremely skinny back then. It wouldn't leave his side, ignored everyone who called it. Thinking back now, that cat was truly spiritual. It knew its owner was gone and stayed to keep watch."
I thanked her and stepped out of the committee office. Standing in the compound, I looked up at the window of Room 202, Unit 5, Building 3. The window was closed, covered by faded old curtains that blocked the view inside. A gloomy cold aura lingered there, as if still holding the chill left behind after Chen Jianming's death.
Chen Jianming had been gone for almost two years. I'd adopted Nian Gao the November right after his passing. Not long after he died, his nephew had sent Nian Gao to the rescue station, and soon after, the cat came home with me. It hadn't wandered the streets for a year; it had never really left the familiar scent of its old owner—from Chen Jianming's home, to the rescue shelter, and finally to mine.
The committee woman's words cleared up all my earlier confusion. Everyone present had seen Nian Gao when handling the funeral affairs. The cat had simply been taken away by his nephew and sent to rescue foster care. There was no contradiction at all, only my own misunderstanding and Xiao Lu's vague explanation back then.
I stood there lost in thought for a long time. My fear slowly faded away, replaced by a sharp twinge of sorrow. I felt sorry for Chen Jianming's lifelong loneliness, and for Nian Gao's unwavering devotion. The cat had guarded its dead owner's body, then carried his lingering soul all the way to my home, simply chasing a familiar scent to cling to.
The bitter November wind cut through my collar, making me shiver. I turned around and hurried back home.
By the time I unlocked my door, night had already fallen.
Usually at this hour, Nian Gao would come trotting out from some corner to rub against my trouser legs. But today, the house was deathly silent, not a single sound to be heard.
This wasn't like him at all.
"Nian Gao?" I called out softly. My voice echoed through the empty room, unanswered.
I changed my shoes and searched every corner—the living room, kitchen, bathroom, balcony. He was nowhere to be found.
In the end, I discovered him hiding inside my bedroom wardrobe.
The closet door was ajar. Peering through the gap, I saw him curled up tightly beneath my hanging clothes, completely motionless. His eyes glowed faintly, fixed steadily toward the outside of the closet, as if searching for something lost.
"Why are you hiding in here?" I pulled the door open and reached out to touch him. My voice trembled almost imperceptibly, laced with quiet tenderness.
He didn't run away, nor did he nuzzle my hand. He simply stayed where he was, staring calmly back at me.
Then that hoarse voice drifted over again. No clear source, yet crystal clear in my ears.
"You went looking for me today."
My whole body turned rigid, blood running cold in my veins. I hadn't taken Nian Gao with me at all when I visited the old neighborhood. How could he possibly know? Unless Chen Jianming's soul could still sense the place he'd once called home, could feel someone coming to look for him.
This time, I didn't pretend I hadn't heard it, nor did I run away. I squatted down to meet his gaze directly. My voice shook a little, yet it held unshakable certainty.
"You're Chen Jianming, aren't you?"
Nian Gao said nothing. He blinked slowly, stepped out of the wardrobe, walked past my feet, and headed straight out of the bedroom.
I quickly followed him.
He jumped up onto the sofa and sat down.
But it wasn't a cat's sitting posture.
A normal cat would rest on its front paws, hind legs tucked beneath its body, leaning slightly forward. Now, his hind legs stretched straight out, front paws resting on the sofa cushion, his back leaning against the couch backrest. The pose was eerily stiff and unnatural—the exact way Chen Jianming used to sit while watching TV in life.
I stood in the bedroom doorway, staring fixedly at him. Cold sweat soaked my back, yet for the first time, fear was mixed with calm. I knew he meant no harm. He was just a lonely wandering soul with nowhere else to belong.
He didn't look at me. His gaze was fixed on the dark television screen across the room. The black glass reflected the living room's faint shadows, along with his strange silhouette. It was as if Chen Jianming's spirit was looking through Nian Gao's eyes, gazing at the familiar scenes of his old life.
"The day I died," the hoarse voice spoke again, unnervingly calm yet hiding a faint trace of grievance, "I was right here. I was sitting on this sofa watching TV. Suddenly I collapsed. I called out his name… and then there was nothing left."
My back pressed tightly against the doorframe. My nails dug deep into my palm, the sharp pain making it hard to breathe. I could picture the scene vividly: a cold empty room, a lonely middle-aged man, his loyal cat staying faithfully by his side. One sudden collapse, and the cat kept watch day after day until someone finally discovered the body.
"I waited two days before anyone came," he continued, speaking as if recalling a trivial memory, yet his loneliness threatened to spill out with every word. "They took him away. They wanted to take me too, but I refused to leave. I wanted to stay by his side… yet I had no choice."
For two long days, he'd crouched beside Chen Jianming's lifeless body, watching him grow cold, breathing in the slow decay of the quiet room. The thought sent a chill running down my spine, my stomach churning uncomfortably. But above all else, I felt overwhelming sorrow.
"Who… exactly are you?" I forced the words out. My throat was dry and rough like sandpaper, every syllable an effort. Deep down I already knew the answer, yet I still needed to hear him admit it himself.
He tilted his head slightly—a perfectly normal cat gesture, yet paired with his human-like sitting posture, it felt eerie enough to make my hair stand on end.
"I am Chen Jianming," he finally confessed, his tone carrying quiet relief and confusion. "I don't understand why it happened. After I died, I just kept following this cat. I can't leave him… and I can't leave this familiar scent either."
"Chen Jianming," I said slowly, biting down each word firmly, "You're already gone. You should move on."
"Move on? To where?" He asked back, a faint edge of panic in his voice. "I have no home left. I have nothing left but him."
Hearing those words coming from a cat's form sent shivers crawling over my skin. I opened my mouth, wanting to say something, yet I had no words left. I'd never imagined a departed soul could be this lonely, this helpless.
I took a deep breath, struggling to steady my trembling voice.
"Then why did you come to my home? Why me?"
Falling silence filled the living room, heavy and suffocating. Only the faint sound of wind drifting in from outside broke the stillness.
An ambulance siren passed by in the distance. Red and blue light flickered faintly through the curtain gap, sweeping across the wall for a moment before fading away, leaving the room shrouded in quiet darkness once more.
"It's because you smell like me," his voice came softly, tinged with sorrow.
"What?" I froze, caught off guard.
"You use the same laundry detergent I once did," he said plainly, no emotion in his tone. "I always bought that Fresh Floral scent. Cheap, familiar, comforting. When I was sent to the rescue shelter, I smelled that scent on you. It felt like home. I wanted to follow you back. I thought… I'd come home again."
My mind went completely blank.
Laundry detergent.
The brand I used was the cheapest one from the supermarket—Fresh Floral Scent, a big blue bottle for nineteen ninety-nine. I'd stuck with it for two years, never switching. Partly because it was cheap, partly because I'd grown used to the familiar fragrance.
It wasn't the detergent itself that had woken his voice. It was the familiar scent that had calmed his lonely soul, drawing him close, urging him to pour out his heart. His sudden ability to speak wasn't triggered by some strange switch. It was the instinct of a lonely spirit, desperate for someone calm and gentle enough to listen to him.
"You can still smell it?" I asked instinctively.
"I can," he replied. "The scent lingers on you… it once lingered on me too. Staying with you makes me feel less alone."
"So after you were sent to the shelter… you chose me on purpose?" I asked again, the last of my doubts slowly unraveling.
"There was no real choice," he murmured, his manner still carrying feline habits yet his tone unusually gentle. "They brought you there. You had that familiar scent, and you seemed kind. So I followed you home. I never meant to disturb you. I just needed a place to stay… someone who felt safe."
His voice dropped to a whisper, almost too quiet to hear, filled with a raw loneliness and grief I'd never sensed before.
"I thought he'd come back. I thought I had a home again."
After those words, he fell silent. He stayed seated on the sofa in that unnatural human posture, staring blankly at the black TV screen, lost in memories of his mortal life.
I walked over from the bedroom doorway and sat carefully on the sofa, keeping a cushion's distance between us. I stared down at my palms, the faint nail indentations still red and stinging. The sharp pain kept me grounded, fully awake.
"Chen Jianming," I whispered softly, gentle sympathy in my voice, "Have you always been this lonely?"
He didn't answer. Slowly, he shifted back into a normal cat's posture—front paws planted on the floor, body leaning forward slightly. He let out a huge yawn, jumped down from the sofa, and walked over to his food bowl to start eating.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of his chewing echoed clearly through the quiet living room. He ate earnestly, behaving exactly like any ordinary, gluttonous British Shorthair cat.
It was as if the soul who'd spoken in a human voice and sat in a strange human posture had never existed at all. Yet I knew the truth. Chen Jianming's soul still lingered inside him, quietly keeping me company, quietly pouring out his endless loneliness.
# V
In the days that followed, I tried to live peacefully with Nian Gao, and with Chen Jianming's soul clinging to him. I no longer ran away or gave in to fear. Deep down, I knew he meant no harm. He was just a lonely spirit who craved company.
It was never easy. At first, my heart still raced every time I heard that hoarse voice, and I still shuddered whenever he sat in a human-like posture. But slowly, I grew used to it. I grew used to him murmuring *Don't push yourself too hard* when I worked overtime. I grew used to his faintly disgusted tone saying *The trash stinks already* whenever I forgot to take it out. I grew used to him quietly tucking the blanket over me after I fell asleep.
Fear gradually faded into tender sorrow and understanding. I finally comprehended Chen Jianming's lifelong loneliness, and why his soul refused to leave Nian Gao. He'd lived alone his whole life, with no family, no friends. Only Nian Gao had stayed by his side. The cat was his only attachment in life, and his only anchor after death.
I never told a single soul about what had happened—not my friends, colleagues, or family. I knew no one would believe me. They would only say I was overworked and mentally strained, insisting I go see a psychologist.
Maybe I really should have gone. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't want to break this fragile peace, didn't want strangers disturbing Chen Jianming's lingering soul, nor did I want Nian Gao to lose this quiet companionship.
I took Nian Gao to the pet hospital again, not because he was sick, but to find answers. I wanted to know if there was any physical abnormality that allowed a human soul to stay bound to his body.
I booked him a full checkup: blood routine, biochemistry, ultrasound, X-ray, and even a vocal cord examination. The doctor was a young woman with round glasses, straightforward and concise in her words.
"All indicators are perfectly normal," Dr. Sun handed me the test results with a smile. "He's in great health, just a little overweight. Simply control his portions from now on. His vocal cords are completely standard for a British Shorthair—physically incapable of producing human speech."
"Is it possible…" I hesitated for a long time before asking vaguely, avoiding directly mentioning possession, "that he carries something intangible with him?"
Dr. Sun fell quiet for a moment, then smiled gently. "You mean a spiritual medium cat from old folk tales? Science has no solid proof for such things, but we can't completely dismiss them either. Some animals are far more spiritually attuned than humans. They can sense things we can't perceive. Especially pets deeply bonded to their owners; after their person passes away, they often act strangely, as if mourning and keeping watch."
I nodded and didn't press further. Science could never explain what I'd lived through firsthand. Chen Jianming's voice hadn't come from Nian Gao's vocal cords at all. It was his lingering spirit, using the cat's presence to voice his obsessions and sorrows. Such supernatural ties could never show up on medical reports.
I held Nian Gao in my arms as we left the clinic. He stayed perfectly calm, front paws resting on my arm, head leaning softly against my shoulder, looking every bit the gentle ordinary cat. Yet I could feel Chen Jianming's presence lingering around him—mild, tranquil, stripped of all the eerie coldness from before.
On the way home, I passed a supermarket and went inside to buy another bottle of laundry detergent. The exact same blue bottle of *Fresh Floral Scent* I'd always used. I had no desire to run away from all this anymore, no wish to return to my old lonely routine. I wanted Chen Jianming to know this place was also his home, that I would stay with him, and with Nian Gao.
Back home, I placed the new bottle on the balcony beside the empty old one. Faint traces of the floral fragrance still lingered inside it, mixing softly with the scent of cat food. It no longer felt cold and haunting like it had in my dreams; it felt warm and reassuring instead.
Nian Gao squatted beside the washing machine, watching me quietly. There was no longer loneliness in his eyes, only quiet gratitude, as if he understood everything I'd done.
From that day on, Nian Gao—or rather, Chen Jianming—spoke far more often. No longer just quiet mutters in the dark, he began talking to me openly, sharing stories from his lifetime. He told me he'd worked as a copywriter in his youth, just like me, and had suffered endless unreasonable demands from clients. He said he'd never married, not because he didn't want to, but because he'd never met the right person. He told me how he'd found stray Nian Gao downstairs one cold winter day, seeing the same loneliness in the cat that lived in himself, and brought him home without hesitation.
I listened quietly, replying softly now and then, just like talking to an old friend. We ate together, watched TV together, shared the quiet nights. Nian Gao remained the lazy, laid-back British Shorthair he'd always been, yet he now carried Chen Jianming's warmth within him—chiding me for leaving things lying around, reminding me to eat on time, sitting silently beside me whenever I felt sad.
Everything settled into gentle calm, as if none of those strange, haunting events had ever taken place.
Yet every night, I would hear Nian Gao making soft sounds on the balcony.
It wasn't ordinary meowing, nor Chen Jianming's hoarse human voice. It was a faint, tender whimper, full of quiet longing and silent farewell.
I would sneak over to listen. Stepping lightly to the balcony door, I peered through the glass. Nian Gao sat perched on the railing, facing the night outside, mouth opening and closing softly, gaze focused as if talking to the empty air, bidding farewell to someone far away.
I knew he was letting go of Chen Jianming's past, releasing his own lonely memories. The spirit within him was slowly finding peace, letting go of earthly obsessions.
One quiet windless night, the house perfectly still, I finally understood the soft whimper. It wasn't a human voice at all, just a quiet cat's meow, yet carrying all of Chen Jianming's gentle gratitude: *Thank you… goodbye.*
I stood behind the glass door, my heartbeat slow and steady. There was no fear left, only gentle reluctance. I knew Chen Jianming's soul was finally leaving. He'd let go of his attachments, and at last found peace and his destined rest.
Late one night, I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed of Chen Jianming standing on the balcony, wearing his gray coat, smiling softly at me before fading slowly into the night. His smile held no trace of loneliness or sorrow anymore; he was finally free.
I woke just before dawn. Nian Gao lay curled beside me, fast asleep with steady breathing. The depth and eeriness were gone from his eyes, replaced only by the lazy docility of a normal cat.
Chen Jianming's voice never came again after that day.
Nian Gao returned fully to being just a cat—eating, sleeping, grooming himself, rubbing against my legs, racing around the apartment at five in the morning, curling up at my feet every night to sleep. He never sat in that strange human posture again, never spoke in that hoarse voice.
Sometimes I would kneel down and call his name softly, *Chen Jianming*. He would lift his head, glance at me indifferently, then go back to whatever he was doing. As if he didn't understand… yet also as if he still remembered.
I knew Chen Jianming's soul had moved on. He'd bid farewell to his past, to me, and to Nian Gao. But he never truly left. His warmth and lingering care remained etched in Nian Gao, woven into this small apartment filled with the familiar fresh floral scent.
On quiet afternoons, I would sit on the sofa, stroking Nian Gao's head and chattering about my day just like old times.
"Got pushed around by another client today. Why won't you answer me?"
Nian Gao would meow softly, rubbing his head against my fingers. It was just a cat's quiet response… yet it felt as if Chen Jianming was replying for him.
I smiled and stroked his fur, my heart light and peaceful.
Some loneliness is healed by quiet companionship.
Some obsessions are untangled by gentle kindness.
Even a departed soul could find a final resting place through being seen and accompanied.
And I, too, was no longer lonely, all because of this one special, unexpected bond.