I was going to find someone. Sister Wang. Not because she ran the delivery station—because her reaction was too strange.
That unclaimed package appeared and disappeared, and all she said was "Stay out of it." A package sitting for half a year, carrying nothing but my name—anyone would find that weird, right? But she didn't.
I needed answers.
---
The station's roll-up door was half-closed. I ducked under it. Lights off. Dim. Sister Wang wasn't at the front desk. Nobody in the sorting area either.
"Sister Wang?"
No answer. I walked deeper in. Heard something from the back room. Door half-open. A sliver of light leaked out.
I pushed through.
Sister Wang sat with her back to me, facing the security monitor. Not a live feed—a recording. Grainy footage. But clearly the inside of the station.
"Sister Wang."
Her shoulders twitched. She didn't turn around.
"Why are you back?" Her voice was hoarse. Like she'd been crying. Or her throat was injured. "Didn't you quit?"
"I need to ask you something." I walked over. Stood behind her. "That unclaimed package. You know something, don't you?"
She didn't answer. Pressed a key. The footage played. The sorting area. Dim lighting. Nighttime. Date stamp: January 17th.
A woman appeared. Came in through the back door. Holding a package. Walked to the metal shelf. Set it down. Then she did something strange—she turned and looked straight at the camera.
I knew that face.
Sister Wang.
But not quite. She looked younger. Hair darker. What threw me off was her expression. Staring into the lens. Smiling. But the smile was stiff. Like someone hooked fingers into the corners of her mouth and pushed them up. Her eyes weren't smiling at all. Just watching through the screen, my arms broke out in goosebumps.
"That footage is from last year." Sister Wang's voice drifted over. "January 17th."
"You put the package there?"
"I did."
She finally turned around. The back room was dark. Half her face caught the screen's glow. Half hid in shadow. Her eyes were red. Dark circles underneath. Like she hadn't slept in days.
"That package belongs to Susu."
"Susu?"
"Susu." Her lips trembled. "Chen Suyun."
Hearing that name, every hair on my body stood up.
"You know her?"
"She's my daughter."
---
Silence filled the back room. Outside, a car passed. Its headlights cut through the gap in the roll-up door, a white slash across the ceiling. Gone in a blink.
"Susu is my daughter." Sister Wang repeated it. Voice soft. Like she was talking to herself. "January. My mother-in-law was taking her back to our hometown for New Year's. The train station. So many people. Looked away for one second—she was gone."
"Wait—" I cut her off. "Your mother-in-law? The old woman at No. 159? She said Susu was her granddaughter. Said her son and daughter-in-law were in Guangdong—"
"She's lying." Sister Wang's mouth twisted. An expression somewhere between crying and laughing. "She has no son. Never did. My husband was an only child. Car accident two years ago. He's gone."
"After that, my mother-in-law's mind went. Insisted he wasn't dead. Said he was working in Guangdong. When Susu disappeared—she completely broke. Won't admit Susu's missing. Says Susu's mother took her away. That she'll come back eventually."
I listened. Cold crawling down my spine in waves. Looking at Sister Wang's face, something clicked.
"That package—"
"The hair in the metal box. I put it there." Sister Wang's voice dropped. Forced calm. "My mother-in-law found a spirit medium back home. Wanted to use Susu's hair to find her. A ritual. I don't believe in that stuff. We had a huge fight. I stole the hair when she wasn't looking. Mailed it to the station. Figured—better it sit here than let some shaman mess with it."
She paused. Voice suddenly shaking. "But I shouldn't have sent it. I shouldn't have sent Susu's hair anywhere."
"Why?"
She didn't answer. Turned back to the screen. Typed a few keys. Jumped to another recording. The station. Night before last. Timestamp: 2 a.m.
The metal shelf. The package sitting on it.
Screen flickered. That same flash of darkness. Same as I'd seen before. When the picture came back—something new beside the package.
A small figure.
A child. Crouching next to the shelf. Back to the camera. Wearing a red padded jacket. Hair cropped brutally short—scalp nearly visible. Like someone hacked at it with scissors. The footage was too dark to make out details. But I could see movement. Her head bobbing. Like she was looking through something.
Then she stood.
Turned around.
She had no face.
Not blurry features. Not hidden by hair. The entire area where her face should've been—nothing. Just smooth, blank skin. Like an unfinished porcelain doll. Where the eyes, nose, and mouth should be—only shallow depressions. Like someone pressed a thumb into wet clay.
I stared at the screen. Blood drained from my body. Cold so deep I couldn't breathe. Throat locked. Tried to scream. Nothing came out. But I couldn't look away. The child—the faceless child—faced the camera. Faced me. Slowly raised one hand.
Her hand clutched a lock of hair.
Black. Long.
She pressed it to the top of her head. Like she was trying to put it back. It wouldn't stay. Slid off. She placed it again. Slid off again. Again and again. The same motion. Over and over. The footage froze on her raised hand. Recording ended.
"You see?" Sister Wang's voice went dry. Brittle. "She's looking for her hair."
I couldn't speak. My teeth were chattering. Upper and lower, clacking together. Soft, involuntary clicks.
"Those packages. I didn't send them." Sister Wang said. "Susu sent them."
"Impossible." I finally found my voice. But it came out raw. Not mine. "A child—how could she—"
"I don't know how." She cut me off. Voice exhausted. Flat. "But I know why she chose you."
She looked at me. Eyes swollen. Bloodshot to the rims.
"She needs help. She's trapped somewhere. Can't get out. Her hair is the only thing she can reach. Whoever she sends it to—they can help her."
"Help her do what?"
"Find her." Sister Wang's voice crumbled to ash. "Bring her back."
Silence swallowed the back room. The screen froze on the last frame. The faceless child. Facing the camera. Hand raised. Clutching her hair.
I closed my eyes. Opened them.
"Why don't you go yourself?"
"Because I can't find her." Sister Wang's tears finally broke. Drop after drop. Hitting the back of her hand. "I tried. Went to the spirit medium my mother-in-law talked about. Went to the train station where Susu disappeared. Every place I could think of. I can't find her. The hair chose you. Not me."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Bent down. Pulled something from under the desk. Handed it to me.
A document envelope. Brown kraft paper.
"What is this?"
"The last thing she sent you."
I didn't take it. Couldn't even bring myself to touch it.
"What's inside?"
"A map." Sister Wang said. "Old map. One spot marked. I checked. It's in the western suburbs. Used to be a textile factory dorm. Abandoned for years."
She looked at me. Pleading in her eyes. Fear. And something else I can't describe. Like a drowning person staring at the only person on the shore who can pull them out.
"I'm too scared to go." She said. "I really am."
I wanted to say I wasn't going either. Wanted to throw the envelope back at her. Walk out that door. Never come back. But my head was full of that faceless child. Again and again. Pressing hair to her head. It slides off. Pressing it back. Slides off.
Her hand never stopped reaching up.
I took the envelope. Opened it.
A folded map. Yellowed paper. Torn edges. Mildew smell. I spread it open under the screen's faint glow. Old city map. Maybe ten years out of date. Street names all different from now. West suburbs. A red circle drawn by hand.
Next to the circle. A line of crooked writing. A child's hand.
"Big brother. I'm here. Come find me."
---
I stood in that back room a long time. Outside, full dark. No idea what time it was.
Sister Wang was gone. Don't know when. Maybe went home. Maybe somewhere else. Just me. And the frozen image on the screen.
I folded the map. Put it in my pocket. Walked out. The station was pitch black. Packages stacked neat on the shelves. The metal shelf. Empty.
I pushed open the door. Stepped onto the street.
---
The rain that had been falling all day had stopped at some point. Puddles on the pavement. Streetlights reflected on the water. Rippled by the wind. Like broken mirrors. I stood outside the station. Pulled out my phone. Opened the map app. Typed in the address.
It existed. Twelve kilometers away.
I called a car.
The driver was chatty. Weather. Traffic. Gas prices. I didn't answer a single question. He pulled over on a dark stretch of road. Glanced back at me.
"Buddy, what're you doing out here this late? This place has been dead for years."
"Looking for someone," I said.
The car left. Taillights fading into the dark. Silence rushed in. So quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
---
Ahead of me: abandoned buildings. The textile factory dorms. Rows of four-story concrete blocks. Windows long gone. Nothing left but black holes gaping at the night.
Ivy crawled up every wall. Dead vines tangled with living ones. Like a giant web of dried-up veins. The air carried a smell I couldn't place. Stagnant water. Rotten fabric. Thick. Clinging. Once it seeped into your nose, it wouldn't leave.
I turned on my phone's flashlight. Headed toward the nearest building.
No door at the entrance. The concrete frame was cracked wide open. Broken bricks and trash piled half a foot deep on the floor. I stepped in. Crunch under my feet. Echoes bouncing through the empty hallways. Like multiple footsteps walking alongside mine.
First floor. Doors on both sides hanging open or half-open. Flashlight swept across the rooms. Old furniture. Broken bed frames. Shattered toilets. Plaster peeling off the walls in sheets. Bare red brick underneath. On one wall, spray-painted in huge characters:
"DO NOT ENTER."
I swallowed. Kept going.
The spot on the map wasn't inside any of the buildings. I pulled the map out again. Studied it under my phone's light. The red circle was drawn behind the last row of dorms. A small patch of open ground.
---
I cut through the buildings. Circled around to the back. Worse than the front. Weeds waist-high. Wild paper mulberry trees growing out of wall cracks. Canopies black against the sky.
In the clearing. A manhole cover.
Round. Iron. Rusted badly. The concrete around it split in several places. Like something had pushed up from below.
I crouched down. Pointed the flashlight at it. No markings. No labels. Dirt and dead leaves packed into the edges. Looked like it hadn't been touched in years. But I noticed—one edge was slightly lifted. Something wedged underneath. A scrap of fabric.
I reached for it. Fingertip touched cloth. It crumbled to pieces.
Red.
The red of a child's padded jacket.
Pulled my hand back. Stared at the manhole cover. Flashlight beam shaking on the rusted iron. My hand was trembling. The light trembled with it. The wind had died. The insects had gone quiet. The silence was absolute. Like someone pressed mute on the entire world.
Then I heard it.
A sound from below the manhole.
Faint. Distant. Like it traveled through layers of earth and water. But in that dead silence of the night—every syllable reached me clear.
"Big brother."
The voice from the phone. A little girl's voice. Tearful. But not crying. More like laughter. A laugh that had been suppressed too long. Finally released. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
"You came to find me."
My hand froze on the manhole cover. Fingertips registering the rough grit of rust. The flashlight slipped. Hit the ground. Rolled. Beam tilted crooked into a patch of dead grass.
I wanted to run. My knees were still shaking. But I didn't move. Because I knew—if I ran today, there'd be another package at the door tomorrow. The day after. The day after that. The hair would keep coming. From that dark, damp place nobody knew about. Strand after strand. Into my hands. Until the very last one.
Some doors—once you push them open—can never be closed again.
---
I took a deep breath. Gripped the edge of the manhole cover. Rust bit into my palm. The sting sharpened my focus. I heaved upward. The cover moved. Iron grinding against concrete. A screech like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I slid the cover aside.
A smell surged up from the shaft. So thick. So foul. I nearly vomited on the spot. Impossible to describe. Not just rot. Moisture. Earth. Rust. And something else. Something sweet and cloying. Like spoiled meat.
I grabbed the flashlight. Pointed it down.
The shaft. Maybe three or four meters deep. Vines and trash tangled on the walls. Black water pooled at the bottom. Things floating on the surface.
I squinted. Focused the beam.
Hair.
Clumps of black hair. Floating on the black water. So thick they almost covered the entire surface.
Then, at the edge of the flashlight's circle—something else.
A hand.
A very small hand. Reaching up from the black water. Fingers spread. Like trying to grab hold of something.
The flashlight flickered.
The hand moved.
Reaching toward me.
---
Behind me. Rustling in the weeds. The sound rushed in from every direction. Closer. Denser. Like countless small hands pushing through the undergrowth. Crawling toward me.
I whipped around.
Shapes in the darkness. Emerging from the grass. Metal boxes. Hundreds. Thousands. All identical. Glinting dark red under the moonlight. Every lid open. Every box holding black hair.
The closest box caught the moonlight. Lit up for a split second.
I saw the pattern on its lid. The ring inside a ring. And suddenly I understood what it meant.
A manhole cover.
Seen from directly above.
---
I looked down from that angle. Into the shaft.
The small hand was gone.
Something rose beneath the black water. Closer. Clearer. Breaking the surface. Tilting upward. Toward the mouth of the shaft. Toward the moonlight. Toward me.
A face.
No features.
Blank skin. Only shallow depressions. Like an unfinished porcelain doll.
It had no mouth.
But I heard a voice.
From underground. From the water. From the metal boxes. From the yellowed map in my pocket. From my own clenched fist. All at once—
"Big brother."
"You finally came."
"Give me back my hair."
---
I crouched by the shaft. The flashlight was dead. Darkness thick as poured ink. Nothing but a gray smear of moonlight overhead.
The small hand rose from the black water. Five fingers spread. Motionless in the air. Then the faceless head surfaced—not floating. Lifting straight up. Like something beneath the water was holding it.
I'd forgotten how to be scared. At the extreme edge of fear, the brain stops working. I just knelt there at the shaft's rim. Hands braced on the ground. Staring at that face. No mouth. Yet a voice crawled up from the bottom. Through the water. Through the earth. Straight into my ears.
"Big brother. Give me back my hair."
I froze. Instinctively felt my pockets. Empty. Those metal boxes. That hair. I hadn't brought a single one. They were all piled outside my apartment door. A dozen or so.
"I… I didn't bring them." My voice. Hoarse. Not mine.
Silence from the shaft. The small hand slowly withdrew into the black water. The face sank halfway. Only the forehead showing. Like it was watching me. Waiting.
Then I heard crying.
Muffled. Mouth covered. Like a child locked deep, deep underground. Wanting to cry. Too afraid to make a sound. The noise came from everywhere at once. From the abandoned dorms. From the cracked concrete. From behind every ivy-choked wall.
I leaned over the shaft. Mind blank. Don't know what came over me. I shouted down: "I'll bring the hair back. Tomorrow."
The crying stopped.
The wind stopped. The insects stopped. The world hit pause.
The water stirred. The small hand rose again. Not reaching this time. The pinky was extended. The other four fingers curled in. A pinky promise gesture.
I stared at that hand for a long moment. Then raised my right hand. Facing the shaft. Extended my own pinky.
"Pinky swear," I said.
The hand sank back into the black water. The shaft went still. Surface calm. Hair floating motionless. Like nothing had ever moved.
---
I pushed myself up. Knees caked in mud and gravel. Picked up my phone off the ground. Tapped the flashlight. Flickered twice. Still worked. I followed the beam. Through waist-high weeds. Through the dark, hollow dorm buildings. Onto the main road.
The ride-hailing app showed zero cars nearby. I walked along the empty suburban highway for about forty minutes before flagging down a passing taxi. The driver was a guy in his fifties. Saw me covered in mud. Face pale. Thought I'd been robbed. Kept insisting on taking me to the police station. I said no. Just take me back to the east side.
Got home past three in the morning.
---
The pile of packages was still by the door. I crouched down. Opened them one by one. Took out every metal box. Thirteen in total. Lined them up on the floor. Opened each.
Every lock of hair was different. Length. Texture. Some glossy black. Some dry and yellowed. Some with follicles at the roots. Some torn out by force. I gathered all the hair. Combined it into a single bundle. Tied it with red string.
Thirteen metal boxes. All into a canvas bag.
---
Near dawn. I left the apartment. First stop: the delivery station. Roll-up door still shut. Sat on the steps. Waited maybe twenty minutes. Sister Wang arrived. Saw me on the stoop. Canvas bag by my side. Looking like I'd crawled out of a landfill. She froze for a good few seconds.
"You—"
"I found her," I said.
Sister Wang's hand jerked. Keys fell. She bent down. Picked them up. Fingers trembling so hard it took several tries to fit the key in the lock. Rolled the door up. We went in. Her in front. Me behind.
"Where?" She turned.
"Behind the textile factory dorms. There's a well."
The blood drained from Sister Wang's face. Mouth opened. No sound. Finally: "How did you know?"
I pulled the yellowed map from my pocket. Handed it to her. She unfolded it. Saw the crooked handwriting. The tears came. She recognized that writing. No mother could fail to recognize her own daughter's hand. No matter how strange it had become.
"Call the police," I said. "Now."
She nodded. Pulled out her phone. Typed 1-1-0. Stopped. Looked up at me. Eyes so bloodshot they looked ready to bleed.
"What do we tell them?"
That was the problem. I couldn't exactly say a pile of self-delivering hair packages led me to a well.
We spent five minutes in the station putting a story together. Here's what we came up with: I was sorting packages when I found a six-month-old unclaimed parcel. Recipient info was unclear. I followed the return address on the label to the old textile factory dorms. Was walking around. Noticed an abandoned well. Smelled something off. Felt something was wrong. Called the police.
The story had holes. But at least it sounded human.
---
The police arrived past seven. Two squad cars. One crime scene van. I led them through the weeds. Around the back of the last building. Pointed at the shaft. A young officer shined his flashlight down. His face changed instantly. Turned. Gestured to his colleagues. Voice low. "There's something down there."
The rest comes back to me in fragments.
They found Susu's body. The news reports said she'd been down there since January. The forensics team estimated the well shaft was three-point-eight meters deep. She'd fallen—or been thrown—into the water. The autopsy found head trauma. A depressed fracture on the back of the skull. The coroner said it was likely a blunt-force impact. Probably died on contact. Or was unconscious before she hit the water. Either way. She never got out.
The suspect was caught three days later. A woman. Lived alone in a building not far from the textile factory. No job. No family. Comprehensive psychiatric evaluation diagnosed her with severe delusional disorder. Neighbors said she'd always been "off." Walked around the neighborhood talking to herself. Would stare at children at the playground for hours. When the police searched her apartment, they found seventeen metal boxes in a wardrobe. Brand new. And a map in the nightstand drawer—the same city map. The textile factory dorms circled. Right next to the circle: a name. "Susu."
The police asked me if I knew how seventeen metal boxes ended up in Susu's hair packages. I said no. Not technically a lie. I still don't know.
---
The next month. November.
I'd quit the delivery station. Gone back to school. The case was officially closed. Susu's body was cremated after the investigation and her ashes were buried in a cemetery in the eastern suburbs. Sister Wang moved away. I sent her a message once. She didn't reply. The old woman at No. 159—I don't know what happened to her. No one talked about it anymore.
I figured this was where the story ended. I was wrong.
One night. Past midnight. Half-asleep. Felt a tickle on the back of my neck. Reached up to scratch it. Something came away in my fingers.
Thread.
No. Hair.
A single strand. Long. Black. Wrapped around the base of my ring finger. Tight. Like someone had tied it there while I slept. I pulled it off. Sat up. Turned on the light. Examined it under the lamp.
A tiny white dot at the root. A follicle.
The hair was not mine.
I sat up in bed. Turned on every light. Lifted my pillow.
Something underneath.
A red jewelry box. Palm-sized. Velvet worn pale. Exactly like the one I'd seen at No. 159. In the old woman's apartment.
I opened it.
A lock of hair. Tied with red string. White follicle at the root.
At the bottom of the box. A small slip of paper. Folded twice. I unfolded it. Two words. Crooked handwriting. A child's hand.
"Thank you."
---
I sat on the edge of my bed, holding that piece of paper, until the sun came up.
Not scared. Something more complicated than fear. I thought about the well. The small hand reaching out of the black water. The extended pinky. We made a pinky promise. I gave her back her hair. She said thank you.
She'd been trapped at the bottom of that well for over half a year. No one heard her. She used the only thing she could reach. Her own hair. Pulled it out. Strand by strand. Packed it in metal boxes. Mailed them to the delivery station. She found me.
I don't know why she chose me. Maybe it was random. Maybe because I worked at the station. Maybe just because I was the one who opened that half-year-old package. None of that matters anymore.
What matters is: someone finally found her.
---
The next morning. I asked for the day off. Took the bus to the west side. The old textile factory dorms were entirely cordoned off. Demolition scheduled. New residential development planned. The well had been filled in. Concrete poured over it. A warning sign installed.
I buried the red jewelry box under a paper mulberry tree next to the concrete. Dug a shallow hole. Placed the box in. Covered it with dirt. Set a stone on top.
Stood up. Dusted off my hands.
It was a nice day. November sun, warm against my skin. In the distance, excavator engines rumbled from the construction site. Nearby, sparrows hopped through the grass. Everything moved forward. Everything looked the same as before.
I turned to leave. Wind passed through the branches of the mulberry tree. Leaves rustled for a moment.
A soft sound. But I heard it clearly.
Not the wind.
Laughter.