My name is Song Du. I studied a niche major—Funeral Management and Services. My classmates joked it was the "Dead Man's Major."
What can I say? The industry's stable, easy to find work. No civil service exams, no rat race at big tech firms. You graduate, you've got a job.
I did my senior internship at the city funeral home. Spent half a year there, didn't learn much of anything useful, but I memorized the white ceremony procedures better than multiplication tables.
After graduation, I didn't stay at the funeral home. I went to work at a flower shop called "Anxi Hall" in the southern part of the city. The boss, Old Chen, was in his fifties, thin as a paper scrap, always spoke slowly, always wore a faded navy blue gown.
His shop had been open over twenty years. Sold wreaths, shrouds, paper funerary goods, urns. Also did elegiac couplets and obituaries. I was in charge of manning the shop, moving inventory, writing couplets.
Old Chen was a man of few words, many rules. On my first day, he laid down three.
First: The brush used for writing elegiac couplets must be the one provided by the shop. No buying your own. Second: Completed couplets must be picked up by the customer the same day. Never leave them in the shop overnight.
Third—the one he emphasized most: When writing names on the couplets, if the brush moves on its own, adding a stroke you didn't intend, do NOT erase it. That stroke isn't yours.
I thought he was being superstitious back then, but I nodded and agreed.
People in this line of work tend to be a bit superstitious. I've seen worse. Some of my funeral home colleagues were even more particular—one insisted on entering the mortuary with the left foot first, and if he accidentally stepped in with the right, he'd back out and redo it.
I figured these were just psychological comforts, performances for peace of mind.
Anxi Hall's business was steady enough to pay my salary. Old Chen was often out—said he was picking up stock or making deliveries, but I suspected he was just going home to sleep.
Most of the time, I was alone in the shop, sitting behind the counter scrolling through my phone, standing up to greet customers when they came in.
Days were dull, even boring. Sister Huang from the incense shop next door would drop by occasionally, cracking sunflower seeds while chatting with me. She said she'd worked at the crematorium when she was young, seen all sorts of weird things.
"Xiao Song, don't let Old Chen's quiet demeanor fool you—he's got real skills." Sister Huang leaned against the doorframe, spitting shells everywhere,
"You know what he used to do? He used to perform funeral rites. Then something happened, he quit, and started this flower shop instead."
I asked what happened. Sister Huang waved her hand, said she didn't know. Old Chen never talked about it, she'd only heard rumors. I didn't press—curiosity about others' pasts wasn't my thing.
I came here to work, plain and simple—to make a living, save some money, maybe switch careers later, maybe not. I had no clear plans for the future, just taking it day by day.
It was a rainy afternoon in mid-October. The autumn rain wasn't heavy, just a drizzle that lasted from morning to evening. The whole street was damp, the air smelled of wet earth and burnt paper money.
Days like this usually had no customers. I huddled behind the counter reading a novel, the warm yellow desk lamp making me drowsy.
Around four o'clock, the shop door opened. The wind chime jingled. I looked up and saw a man walk in.
He was in his forties, wearing a black jacket, hair soaked by rain plastered to his forehead. His complexion was terrible—gray and gaunt, sunken eyes like he hadn't slept in days.
He took his time closing his umbrella, leaned it against the door, then stood at the entrance surveying the shop's layout, as if confirming he hadn't walked into the wrong place.
"Hello, what can I help you with?" I stood up, turning off my phone screen.
"Write elegiac couplets." His voice was hoarse. "For my father."
I nodded, pulling out a form from under the counter for him to fill out. He took the pen, bent over the counter to write, moving slowly, pausing every few words as if recalling something.
I took the opportunity to study him more. His black jacket was wet, but the collar of his shirt underneath was dry—meaning he'd just gotten caught in the rain recently.
His leather shoes had mud on them, and yellow petals stuck to the soles—chrysanthemum petals.
He must have just come from a cemetery or the funeral home.
"Done." He pushed the form back.
I looked down. In the deceased's name field was three characters: Zhou Deming. Relationship: father and son. The person ordering the couplets was Zhou Jianguo—himself, presumably.
The handwriting was shaky and uneven, some strokes blurred with ink, as if his hand was trembling.
"When do you need them?" I asked.
"Can you write them now? I'm in a hurry." He glanced outside—the rain was still falling. "I need them tonight. The farewell ceremony is tomorrow morning."
I said sure, told him to wait, then turned and went to the back work area.
Anxi Hall's layout: front was the shop floor with wreath samples and shelves, separated by a cloth curtain from the back, which was my workspace and storage area.
The workbench had a felt cloth spread over it, with several rolled-up blank couplet scrolls standing nearby, ink brushes and inkstones arranged neatly. Above was a fluorescent tube that flickered sometimes—Old Chen said it was a bad connection, never bothered to fix it.
I pulled a blank couplet scroll from the tube, laid it flat on the felt, weighed down the corners with paperweights.
Then I picked up the brush Old Chen had mentioned. The handle was bamboo, used for many years, worn smooth and shiny. It felt warm in my hand, like someone had just been using it.
I didn't think much of it, dipped it in ink, and started writing.
Elegiac couplets follow a fixed format: upper section for the deceased's name and title, middle for the elegiac phrase, lower section for the sender.
Following the form, I wrote the lower section first: "Filial Son Zhou Jianguo with Family Respectfully Presents." That went smoothly. Then the upper section—I dipped the brush and wrote the character "Zhou."
"Zhou" was done, normal.
Next came "De."
The right side of "De" has a "ten" radical on top, a "four" below that, and a "heart" at the bottom.
I wrote the left radical first, then the right side. When I reached the "ten" radical, the brush paused, then moved down to connect with the first vertical stroke of "four."
And that's when the brush moved on its own.
It was the strangest feeling. My hand held the brush, my wrist hovering above the paper, about to continue the stroke—but the brush seemed to be gently pulled by something, the tip veering off, adding an extra horizontal stroke below the horizontal of the "ten" radical.
I froze.
It was such a light movement that you could explain it away—hand tremor, wrist fatigue, brush slipping, uneven paper. But my first thought was: I didn't write that.
My wrist hadn't moved, at least not in that direction. The tip was pulled, like a thin, thin thread was tied to it, someone giving it a little tug from the side.
I looked down at the paper. The character "De" was only half-written. The right side should have the horizontal and vertical of "ten," but now there were two horizontal strokes instead of one.
It looked like a botched character, but on closer inspection, it didn't look like "De" anymore. I stared at that extra stroke for several seconds, my skin crawling.
Then I remembered Old Chen's words.
When writing names on the couplets, if the brush moves on its own, adding a stroke you didn't intend, do NOT erase it. That stroke isn't yours.
Two thoughts crossed my mind. First: What are the odds? Did this actually happen to me?
Second: This is probably just a problem with Old Chen's brush—loose tip or split hairs, acting up occasionally. He's superstitious, made up a whole set of rules about it.
I'd seen plenty of people like that at the funeral home—everything gets blamed on ghosts and spirits.
I glanced back at the cloth curtain. Zhou Jianguo was sitting in the shop area, back to me, looking at his phone. The rain was pattering loudly; he shouldn't be able to hear what was happening back here.
I decided to erase that stroke.
I took a tissue, dampened it slightly, and carefully wiped at the extra horizontal line. The ink on the rice paper wasn't fully dry yet, so it wiped away fairly easily, but left a faint gray mark.
I held it up to the light—didn't look too bad. Once the whole thing was done, it shouldn't be noticeable.
I dipped the brush again and continued writing "De."
This time I was extra careful, wrist tensed, writing stroke by stroke. Left side done, right side "ten" radical done, moving down—again the brush was tugged.
Another horizontal stroke.
Same position, same stroke as before.
My hand stopped. This time, it was definitely not a tremor. My wrist was braced, grip was proper—muscle fatigue couldn't cause this.
And the movement was larger than a tremor, like someone had flicked the brush handle with a finger, making it jump sideways.
I set the brush down, staring at that second extra stroke on the paper. A chill ran down my back.
If "De" had an extra horizontal stroke, it wasn't "De" anymore. What character was it? I ran through the possibilities in my head, couldn't place it.
But the stroke was precise, not random—like it was meant to form something specific.
I picked up the brush a third time. This time I didn't erase the extra stroke. I just kept writing.
Forget it, finish it first.
The remaining strokes flowed smoothly. The character "Ming" after "De" gave no trouble. Upper section done. The elegiac phrase in the middle was a standard one: "Voice and Visage Remain." That also went without a hitch.
When the whole couplet was done, I laid it flat on the workbench to inspect. Aside from that extra horizontal stroke in "De," everything else was normal.
That stroke was embedded in the character—hard to notice at first glance, like the writer had pressed too hard or the brush tip had slipped. But you know it's not yours.
I rolled the couplet up, secured it with a rubber band, lifted the curtain, and walked out.
Zhou Jianguo was still sitting there, head down, hands clasped on his knees. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, eyes unfocused.
"Done. Take a look." I handed him the couplet.
He took it, unfurled it, scanned it quickly. His gaze paused on the "De" character. I noticed, heart tightening—wondering if he'd ask about it.
But he said nothing. Just ran his finger over that spot, then rolled it up again.
"How much?"
"One hundred twenty."
He pulled out his wallet, paid with cash—exactly one hundred twenty, like he'd prepared it in advance. He pushed the change back, said "Keep it," picked up his umbrella leaning by the door, tucked the couplet under his arm, and walked out.
He stopped at the door, turned his head slightly, said something. The rain was loud; I didn't catch it. I stepped forward, asked him to repeat.
"I said," he repeated, voice flat, "It's fine. Just leave it like that."
Then he opened his umbrella and stepped into the rain. The wind chime jingled again, rain splashed through the door gap, dampening a small patch of floor.
I stood behind the counter, watching him walk west along the sidewalk. His black umbrella became smaller and smaller in the gray drizzle, finally turning the corner and disappearing from sight.
I went back to the workbench to clean up. There was still plenty of ink in the inkstone. I washed the brush and hung it on the rack. While washing, I noticed a faint crack on the handle—didn't think it was there before.
Was I imagining things? I ran my thumb over it twice, dismissed it.
After cleaning up, I forgot about it.
Old Chen came back that evening to get some things. I mentioned in passing that I'd written a couplet that afternoon, and the brush seemed to have a problem—it had added an extra stroke when writing "De." Old Chen was rummaging through a drawer; he stopped, turned to look at me.
"You erased it?"
His tone was flat, but his eyes suddenly sharpened, like something had pricked him.
"Uh... I did." I felt guilty. "What you said, I thought it was just the tip being loose..."
Old Chen said nothing, stared at me for about three or four seconds. The fluorescent tube flickered. For a moment, his expression looked terrifying, but quickly returned to his usual slow, calm self.
He turned back to rummaging, pulled out a brown paper envelope, tucked it under his arm.
"Erased is erased." He said, walking toward the door. "Just do as I say next time."
He left. The wind chime jingled, then silence.
I closed the shop late that night, around nine o'clock. The rain had stopped, the wet pavement reflecting the streetlights.
I rode my electric scooter back to my rental apartment. Passed a barbecue stall on the way, stopped to buy a few skewers of lamb for dinner. The vendor was a friendly Northeastern guy who liked to chat—gave me an extra kidney skewer, asked why I was leaving work so late.
I said a customer needed a couplet done urgently. He flipped the skewers, said people in your line of work have it tough too. I said it was okay, better than delivering food.
Got home, took a shower, lay in bed, scrolled through my phone for a bit, then fell asleep. Slept through the night without dreams.
The next morning, I woke up lying on my back staring at the ceiling. Then I reached for my phone on the nightstand—habit.
I didn't touch it.
I turned my head. The phone wasn't on the nightstand.
I sat up, searched under the pillow, in the blankets, between the mattress and bed frame—nothing. I got out of bed and went to the living room.
My place was an old one-bedroom apartment. The living room was so small it only fit a dining table. My phone was on the table, screen face down in the exact center.
I froze. I always put my phone on the nightstand before bed—a habit I'd had for at least five or six years, never changed.
I don't sleepwalk. I couldn't have gotten up and moved it to the table.
I picked up the phone. No new messages, battery at sixty-something percent. Unlocked it—the screen showed the novel page I'd been reading before bed last night, unchanged.
I stood in the living room, phone in hand, a strange, unsettling feeling in my chest. But the morning sun was good, streaming through the window, warming the floor.
I told myself maybe I was just too tired last night, set the phone on the table without realizing it.
These things happen, right?
After washing up and changing clothes, I rode to the shop. When I pulled out my keys at Anxi Hall's door, I noticed a note taped to the door with clear tape, one corner fluttering in the wind.
I thought it was a flyer, tore it off to throw away. Then I saw it—my name written on it.
Song Du.
Just those two characters, written with a brush, ink dark and thick. The paper was plain white, torn from something, edges ragged.
I stood at the door holding the note. The street was quiet in the morning—Sister Huang's incense shop wasn't open yet, but the breakfast stall across the street was, steam rising from the bamboo steamers.
I looked both ways—no suspicious people around. Maybe a prank, maybe Old Chen had stuck it there last night when he left, though I couldn't imagine why he'd put my name on the door.
I crumpled the note and tossed it in the trash can by the door, then unlocked and went inside.
The lights—I'd definitely turned them off last night. Now they were on.
The fluorescent tube hummed, casting a sickly pale light over the shop. I stood at the door, hand still on the handle, body frozen.
The shop looked the same as when I left—wreaths leaning against the wall, urn samples lined up in the glass cabinet, the lucky cat on the counter still waving mechanically.
But something was different.
Above my work area—there hung that couplet.
It was nailed directly above my usual writing workbench, secured with two thumbtacks on the wall.
White paper, black ink, perfectly neat. Last night I watched Zhou Jianguo walk out of this shop with that couplet under his arm, into the rain. It shouldn't be here.
But it was.
I walked slowly over, lifting the cloth curtain. The fluorescent tube flickered, flickered again.
The workbench was clean—felt spread neatly, paperweights in the corner, brush hanging on the rack. Everything as I'd left it. Only that couplet added to the wall.
I stepped closer to look.
The upper section had the deceased's name: Zhou Deming. But that "De" character—was no longer how I'd written it.
The extra horizontal stroke was still there, but the entire character's strokes seemed to have shifted, like the ink had spread on its own, rearranging into another shape.
I stared at that character for a long time. Suddenly it didn't look like "De" anymore. It looked like a character I was struggling to recognize.
I stepped back, gaze sweeping the entire couplet, then stopping at the lower section.
The lower section should have read: "Filial Son Zhou Jianguo with Family Respectfully Presents." Now that line had changed.
The ink was still there, but the strokes had twisted. The three characters "Zhou Jianguo" had been shredded, spread apart, then re-formed into two new characters.
Song Du.
My name.
I stood there, staring at the couplet on the wall. The fluorescent tube hummed above, flickered—off, then on again.
I felt a chill rise from my feet, crawling up my spine, stopping at the back of my neck—like a cold hand pressing lightly there.
I remembered Old Chen's words from yesterday. He said if the brush writes a stroke on its own, don't erase it—it's not yours. But I erased it. Twice.
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
I pulled it out. A text message, from an unknown number. Just one line:
"Your name looks nice written like that."
I spun around. The cloth curtain swished behind me. The shop was empty. Sunlight streamed through the glass door, the breakfast stall across the street still steaming.
The lucky cat waved at me once, its mechanical joints clicking softly.
No one was there.
I looked down at my phone, about to call the number back. My finger hadn't even pressed the screen when it flickered—the messaging app closed automatically.
The icons on my home screen disappeared one by one, like someone was wiping them away with a finger, until only two characters remained in the center of the black screen.
Song Du.
Then the screen went completely dark. Pressing the power button did nothing—it was like the phone had frozen.
I slammed the phone on the counter. It lit up again, normal boot screen, all icons back, wallpaper the same landscape photo I'd set. Everything normal.
Except—my inbox no longer had that message.
I stood behind the counter, took about five minutes to calm myself down.
Deep breaths, rational explanations. Maybe Old Chen had retrieved the couplet—though I had no idea how he'd gotten it from Zhou Jianguo, or why he'd hung it on the wall.
The note on the door could have been his too—maybe he needed to find me, left a message this way. That text could have been a spam message, automatically deleted by security software.
None of these explanations held water, but together they managed to restore a modicum of sanity.
I called Old Chen. Rang seven or eight times—no answer. Called again—still no answer.
Old Chen never answered his phone much. Said he got too many business calls, couldn't tell customers from telemarketers, so he just ignored them all, calling back only when he recognized the number.
I put the phone back in my pocket, decided to take down the couplet first.
I went into the work area, stepped onto a chair to pull out the thumbtacks. My hand stopped halfway.
Next to my name "Song Du" on the couplet, a new line of small characters had appeared. Not printed, not typed—written with a brush, ink still wet, glistening under the fluorescent light. The line read:
"Born July 12, 1999"
My birthday. Exactly right.
I nearly fell off the chair.
After getting down, I stood at the workbench for a full two minutes, unmoving. The fluorescent tube still flickered, bright then dim, making the couplet on the wall look like it was breathing.
I stared at that newly appeared line. The ink was drying little by little, changing from glossy black to matte dark gray.
As it dried, the edges of the characters shrank inward slightly, like something alive in the ink was burrowing into the paper fibers.
I reached out and touched the last stroke of the "Song" character. My fingertip picked up a bit of ink—cold, not the cold of water, but the metallic cold of something taken out of a refrigerator.
I pulled my finger back, wiped it on my pants.
I figured Old Chen would come to the shop today. When he arrived, I'd ask him directly—what's with this brush, why did the couplet come back, who put that note on the door.
I took the couplet off the wall, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the bottom drawer of the counter. That drawer held miscellaneous items—old ledgers, expired price lists, a few broken ballpoint pens.
I pressed the couplet under everything else, closed the drawer, and locked it. Then I went to the door, pulled down the rolling shutter halfway, and hung a "Temporarily Closed" sign.
Done with that, I sat on the swivel chair behind the counter, waiting for Old Chen.
But I didn't wait for Old Chen. I waited for Sister Huang.
Around ten o'clock, Sister Huang pushed open the door. The wind chime jingled. She ducked under the half-closed shutter, holding a cup of soy milk, chewing something.
She saw me sitting behind the counter, froze.
"Hey, why's the shutter halfway down in broad daylight? Thought no one was here." She swallowed. "Where's Old Chen?"
"Not here." I said.
Sister Huang made an "oh" sound, wandered around the shop, looking left and right, then leaned against the counter, setting her soy milk down.
"You look terrible, Xiao Song." She tilted her head at me. "What's wrong? Didn't sleep well?"
"Fine." I didn't want to talk.
Sister Huang meant well, but she was a chatterbox. If she sensed something was off, she'd dig for details for half an hour. I wasn't in the mood.
But she'd already noticed. She stared at me for a few seconds, gaze shifting from my face to the cloth curtain behind me, to the counter drawer, then to my hand holding the phone.
My hand was shaking. The tremor was small but constant, like muscles contracting uncontrollably.
"What's wrong with your hand?" Sister Huang asked. Her tone changed—no longer casual. "Shaking like that. Are you okay?"
I looked at my hand. It was shaking. I set the phone down, pressed my other hand against my wrist to steady it. Didn't work—it shook harder.
Sister Huang stopped talking. She picked up her soy milk from the counter, stepped back.
"Did you use Old Chen's brush yesterday?" She asked.
That made me look up at her.
"How did you know?"
Sister Huang's expression changed. It was a strange change—not fear, not surprise, but a "I knew it" look, like she'd been waiting for this day.
"You erased it?" She asked again.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Sister Huang didn't need an answer—she read it from my face.
She took a deep breath, set her soy milk on a nearby shelf, wiped her hands on her apron.
"Didn't Old Chen tell you? That brush isn't just any brush—it can't be erased."
"He told me." My voice was dry. "I didn't take it seriously."
"You didn't take it seriously." Sister Huang repeated, tone like she was saying "You're done." She walked toward the door, then stopped, turned back to me. "That couplet—whose name is on it now?"
"The deceased is Zhou Deming."
"No, I'm asking whose name is on it now."
I was silent.
Sister Huang understood my silence. Her lips tightened into a line, expression complicated—sympathy mixed with something else.
"Call Old Chen right now." She said. "Keep calling until he picks up. Don't touch anything in the shop until he gets here."
"What do you—"
"Just do as I say!" She suddenly raised her voice, startling me.
She realized she'd overreacted, softened her tone, lowered her voice. "Xiao Song, I'm not trying to scare you. No one on this street talks about that brush.
Old Chen quit doing funeral rites and opened this flower shop because of that brush. Do you understand?"
I didn't. But Sister Huang said that and left—walked fast, the wind chime jangling behind her. She practically ran across the street back to her shop, then pulled down the shutter with a crash.
Her incense shop never closed during the day.
I was alone in Anxi Hall. The fluorescent tube hummed above, the lucky cat's mechanical paw clicked back and forth. I picked up my phone, started dialing Old Chen's number over and over.
Ring, ring, ring—no answer.
On the fifth call, it went through.
"Hello?" Old Chen's voice came through the receiver—hoarse, low, like he'd just woken up.
"Old Chen! Where are you? You have to come to the shop right away." I spoke quickly, almost rushing. "About that brush yesterday—I erased the stroke, then—"
"I know." Old Chen interrupted me, voice unnervingly calm. "I can't come right now. Listen to me—before it gets dark tonight, you have to leave this shop."
"What?"
"Just do as I say. Before dark, lock the door and go home. Come back tomorrow morning." Old Chen paused. "Don't stay here overnight."
"What about the couplet? It came back, and the name on it changed to mine—"
Silence on the other end. I thought the call had dropped, pulled the phone away to check—still connected.
"Old Chen?"
"Song Du." Old Chen said my name, voice slowing down, like he was choosing each word carefully. "Go to the bottom drawer of the counter right now. Check if that couplet is still there."
I froze. I'd just locked that drawer myself—key was in my pocket. I bent down, unlocked it, moved aside the items on top—
The drawer was empty.
That couplet was gone.
My blood seemed to freeze in that instant.
I knelt behind the counter, key in hand, staring at the empty bottom of the drawer. A few paper fibers still clung to it—proof something had been there not long ago.
"Gone." I said into the phone, voice tight.
Old Chen said nothing. I heard him take a deep, long sigh.
"Now look up."
I held the phone, slowly raised my head.
That couplet was facing me—hanging on the wall directly above the counter. Not above my work area in the back, but here in the shop front—the wall customers see as soon as they walk in.
It was nailed there neatly, like a framed artwork. White paper, black ink, solemn and proper.
My name was on it.
The birthday line was still there, and a new line had appeared next to it. The ink was drying under the fluorescent light, stroke by stroke emerging on the paper—
Like an invisible person was holding that brush, writing right in front of me.
Appearing one digit at a time.
"October 17, 2024."
Today.
I stared at that date, watching the final stroke fall. The ink glinted once, then dried completely.
The phone slipped from my hand, hitting the floor, screen facing up, still connected. Old Chen's voice came through the receiver—far away, muffled, like through water.
"Song Du? Song Du! Are you still there? What do you see?"
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The couplet hung quietly on the wall. The fluorescent tube flickered—off, plunging the shop into darkness, then on again.
In that moment of darkness, I saw something.
In the reflection of the glass counter—someone stood behind me.
A blurry, black shadow, standing less than a step away. No face, no details—just a human silhouette, standing there quietly, as if looking at the couplet on the wall.
The light came back on. I spun around—nothing. The shop was empty. The lucky cat still waved, the wind chime hung motionless.
I knelt down to pick up the phone. Old Chen was still calling my name. I pressed the phone to my ear, hearing myself say something in a voice that didn't sound like mine.
"It's behind me."
Silence on the other end. Then Old Chen said something, so soft I could barely hear it—but I caught every word.
"Don't look back." He said. "From now on, no matter what you hear, what you feel—don't look back."
I held the phone, frozen in place. Nothing was behind me, I could feel—or rather, I couldn't feel anything.
Silence.
Then I heard a sound.
Very close, right behind my right ear—so close it felt like someone had pressed their lips against it. A breath—light, slow, steady. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale—
Perfectly matching my own breathing rhythm, like it was mimicking me.
I stood there, back muscles rigid, phone slippery with sweat in my hand. The breathing continued for about ten seconds, then stopped.
In its place—words.
"Thank you for your name."
The voice didn't enter through my ears. It was written directly into my mind—every character crystal clear. No emotion, no tone, flat—like someone reading a line of text.
After it said that, the "silence" behind me suddenly broke.
Airflow resumed, temperature returned, the sound of cars passing on the street outside came back—like noise-canceling headphones being removed, the world flooding back in.
I gasped, doubling over, hands on my knees. Cold sweat dripped from my temples onto the floor—tap, tap, tap.
Old Chen hadn't hung up on the other end. He kept calling my name, over and over.
"I'm here." I finally answered, voice raw like sandpaper. "It spoke."
Old Chen paused.
"What did it say?"
"Thank you for your name."
A sound came from the other end—like Old Chen setting the phone down, or his hand trembling, the receiver hitting something.
After a long moment, his voice came back—completely different from before. No longer calm, no longer steady, but carrying an emotion I'd never heard from him.
Fear.
"Song Du," he said, "Lock the door right now, don't take anything, leave immediately. Don't ride your scooter, don't take a taxi—walk home.
Take crowded streets, well-lit streets—no alleyways. When you get home, lock the door from the inside, close all curtains, don't open for anyone who knocks."
"Then what?"
"Then wait for me." He said. "I'll be back before tonight. Until then—be careful."
"Careful of what?"
Old Chen didn't answer. The call disconnected.
I stuffed the phone in my pocket, took a deep breath, forced myself not to look at the couplet on the wall, turned and walked toward the door. But at the door—I couldn't help it. I glanced back.
The couplet was still there—white paper, black ink, crystal clear.
But below that date, another line had appeared. Very small, written at the very bottom, like a signature on a couplet. Only four characters:
"Bon Voyage."
I pushed open the door and ran out. The October sun blazed in my face—warm, real. People on the street, cars, the smell of oil smoke from the breakfast stall across the way—all the normal world.
I stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop, breathing in the outside air deeply, feeling that cold, stagnant air in my lungs finally expelled.
I did as Old Chen said—no scooter, walked home. Anxi Hall was about two kilometers from my place. Normally a ten-minute ride, half an hour on foot.
I took the busiest route, along the main road, surrounded by people—workers, shoppers, parents with kids.
Every few steps I looked back. Behind me was always a busy street, no black shadow following.
But I kept feeling a chill at the back of my neck—like something was watching me from somewhere I couldn't see.
When I got home, I locked the door from the inside, drew all curtains, turned on every light in the apartment.
I sat on the living room sofa, staring at the front door, motionless. Phone charging, volume turned up—Old Chen said he'd call.
Time passed minute by minute. Outside, the sky began to darken. Autumn days are short; the sun sets around five thirty.
Through a gap in the curtains, I watched the last orange light fade from the horizon. Dusk pressed in from the east, like a gray veil over the city.
Then my phone rang.
It was Old Chen.
"I'm here." He said. "At the shop. Come over now."
"But you said leave before dark—it's dark now."
"Things have changed." Old Chen said, voice exhausted. "Just come. I have something to show you. Call me when you get to the door, I'll come out."
I wanted to ask more, but he hung up again. Old Chen was like that—always spoke in halves, never explained the why.
I put on my coat, hesitated, then grabbed a fruit knife from the kitchen and slipped it in my pocket. Didn't know if it would help, but better to have something than nothing.
I took a taxi to Anxi Hall. By the time I arrived, it was completely dark. Most shops on this street were closed—only Anxi Hall's lights were on.
White fluorescent light spilled through the glass door onto the sidewalk—pale, ghostly.
I stood across the street and called Old Chen. Rang twice—he answered.
"Here? Wait, I'll open the door."
I saw Old Chen's figure walk out from inside. Through the glass, his movements were slow—still wearing that navy blue gown. He reached the door, pulled out keys, unlocked it, waved me over.
I crossed the street. As I approached the door, I saw that couplet was still hanging on the wall—the one customers see first when they walk in.
The characters were clearly visible under the fluorescent light: my name, my birthday, today's date, and the four characters "Bon Voyage."
Old Chen stood by the counter, looking terrible—bags under his eyes even heavier than usual, like he hadn't slept in days. In his hand was an old notebook, brown paper cover, edges frayed.
"Come sit." He pointed at the chair in front of the counter.
I went in and sat down. Old Chen placed the notebook on the counter, opened it.
Inside were handwritten notes—dense, some pages with photos or notes taped to them. The paper was yellowed, edges curled—looked like it had been around for years.
"What is this?"
"Notes from when I did funeral rites." Old Chen sat on the swivel chair behind the counter, turned the notebook toward me. "Look at this page."
He pointed to a page with a black-and-white photo taped to it—the brush I used. Below the photo was a passage of text, handwriting messy. I squinted to read it.
"This brush obtained from Qiandongnan, made by an old craftsman. Handle: bamboo from a hundred-year-old coffin. Brush hairs: hemp used for corpse wrapping. This brush writes names that bridge the living and dead.
When writing the deceased's name, if the brush adds a stroke of its own—it is the unfulfilled wish of the dead, made manifest. Do NOT erase, or—"
The rest was blurred by ink, illegible.
"Or what?" I asked.
Old Chen didn't answer directly. He flipped to another page—a newspaper clipping, yellowed and brittle, dated July, thirteen years ago.
Headline: "South City Flower Shop Owner Dies Mysteriously, Cause Unknown."
The brief article said the previous owner of Anxi Hall—a man surnamed Lin—was found dead in the shop's work area one morning, a completed elegiac couplet spread before him.
The name on the couplet was his own. Forensics determined heart failure, time of death around eleven the previous night.
"The previous owner." Old Chen said. "My senior brother. That brush was originally his."
I stared at the clipping, feeling the fruit knife in my pocket digging into my thigh.
"He erased that stroke." Old Chen said. "Just like you."
I looked up at him.
"Old Chen—do you know that customer, Zhou Jianguo?"
Old Chen's expression looked strange under the fluorescent light. He didn't answer right away, but pulled a folded sheet of paper from the notebook, unfolded it, and pushed it toward me.
It was a copy of an obituary. Deceased: Zhou Deming, died three days ago, aged sixty-seven. The obituary clearly stated Zhou Deming had one son, Zhou Jianguo, a doctor at the First People's Hospital.
But next to the date, there was a handwritten note in Old Chen's handwriting: "Zhou Jianguo was stabbed by a patient's family two days ago due to a medical dispute, died yesterday afternoon after rescue failed."
I stared at those words, read them three times.
"Zhou Jianguo is dead?"
"Yesterday afternoon." Old Chen said. "His father Zhou Deming died three days ago, he died two days ago. Father and son, one after the other."
Something exploded in my mind. The man who came to the shop yesterday afternoon to pick up the couplet—who was he?
"Are you sure he's dead?"
"Positive. He ordered the couplet five days ago, was still alive then. Then the incident happened—I thought the order was canceled, didn't think much of it." Old Chen's voice was heavy. "Until you told me yesterday that a Mr. Zhou came to pick up the couplet."
I felt dizzy, something sour churning in my stomach, rising toward my throat.
Yesterday afternoon at four o'clock—that man in the black jacket, hair soaked by rain, gray complexion. He walked in, filled out the form, paid, talked. Everything was so real.
The chrysanthemum petals on his shoes, his trembling hand when writing, that line—"It's fine. Just leave it like that."
"Then who did I see yesterday?"
Old Chen didn't answer. He closed the brown notebook, hands clasped on top of it—knuckles thick, skin rough like old bark.
"Not everyone who comes to a flower shop is alive." He said. "Some don't know they're dead. Some know but aren't ready. And some—"
He paused, gaze moving past me to the couplet on the wall.
"Come looking for a replacement."
The fluorescent tube flickered again. The lucky cat's mechanical joint clicked once, then stopped—stuck. The shop suddenly went terrifyingly quiet, even the distant sound of cars fading away.
Then I heard a sound.
From the work area in the back—very soft, the sound of a brush writing on paper. Tip gliding across the surface, rustling, dense—like silkworms eating mulberry leaves.
Old Chen's face turned white. He stood up abruptly, chair toppling backward with a thud. He ran around the counter toward the work area, pulled back the cloth curtain—and froze.
I stood up, walked over, stood behind him looking in.
On the workbench lay a brand-new blank couplet. That brush hovered in mid-air—no hand holding it, just floating there on its own, tip moving across the paper, writing neat, precise characters.
Ink seeped from the tip—no dipping, it produced ink on its own, like the handle held an endless supply.
It was writing the upper section. The deceased's name.
"Song Du."
My name.
Old Chen reacted faster than me—he shoved me backward, then lunged forward, reaching for the brush.
But before his fingers could touch the handle, he recoiled as if electrocuted, stumbling back several steps, crashing into the shelf behind him. Funeral paper money and incense sticks fell to the floor with a clatter.
"It won't let me touch it." He gritted his teeth, right hand red at the tiger's mouth, like burned by something.
The brush kept writing. Finished the upper section, moved to the elegiac phrase. This time it wasn't "Voice and Visage Remain"—four characters I'd never seen before.
"Your Time Has Come."
Then it paused, as if thinking. The tip trembled slightly in the air. A drop of ink fell from it, hitting the rice paper, spreading into a small black blot. Then it continued—writing the lower section.
I didn't need to look to know whose name it was writing.
That "person" who came yesterday to pick up the couplet—he wrote his own name, but not with his own hand. The brush wrote it for him. Now whose name was the brush writing under mine?
The thing that breathed behind me.
The faceless shadow that said "Thank you for your name."
The lower section was done. The brush gently settled onto the rack—graceful, natural, like a calligrapher completing a work and setting down the brush.
Then it was still. An ordinary brush—bamboo handle shiny with use, tip still damp with ink—hanging quietly on the rack.
I looked at the new couplet on the workbench—white paper, black ink, still wet. Upper section: my name. Middle: "Your Time Has Come." Lower section: three characters.
Zhou Deming!
The old man who died three days ago.
When Old Chen saw that name, his face completely changed. His lips trembled, and he squeezed out words from his throat, voice so hoarse it sounded like something had ground it down.
"He wasn't looking for a replacement." Old Chen said, voice shaking. "He was finishing his son's last order.
Zhou Jianguo took his father's couplet order before he died, didn't get to finish it. After he died, he didn't know he was dead—still came to pick it up.
He wrote your name on it—not to take your life. He made a mistake. He thought you were—"
"Thought I was what?"
Old Chen didn't finish. He stared at the couplet on the wall, then at the new one on the workbench, suddenly turned and went to the counter, pulled out his brown notebook, flipped quickly to a page.
He looked at it for a few seconds, then handed it to me.
That page had a yellowed photo taped to it—two young men. One I recognized: Old Chen when he was younger, hair still black, no wrinkles.
The other was a few years older, thin, wearing black-rimmed glasses, looking gentle.
"This is my senior brother, Old Lin." Old Chen pointed at the man with glasses. "The one who died in the shop thirteen years ago."
I looked down at the photo. Old Lin's face was ordinary—the kind that blends into a crowd.
But I noticed his eyes—even in this old photo, they held an indescribable weariness, like he'd seen too many things he shouldn't have.
"He used that brush for over ten years, never had a problem." Old Chen said. "Then one day, he wrote a couplet for a young man.
The young man died in a car accident, barely twenty. Halfway through writing, the brush moved on its own, added a stroke. He erased it."
"Then what?"
"Then that night, the young man's couplet had Old Lin's name on it. The next day—he was dead." Old Chen closed the notebook. "Forensics said heart failure, but I know better. He was taken."
"Taken by whom?"
Old Chen looked at me. That look held many things, but most of all was an emotion I couldn't name—like guilt, like fear.
"That brush chooses its owner." He said. "It writes someone's name, and that person must go. But only if someone erases that stroke that shouldn't be erased.
That stroke is its test—seeing if you'll follow the rules. You erased it—told it you didn't accept what it wrote. So it showed you—whether it can write your name or not."
I understood. But I had one more question.
"What about Zhou Jianguo? When he came to pick up the couplet, he'd been dead for two days. Didn't he know?"
Old Chen shook his head.
"Some people die without realizing it. They live in their last memory, repeating the same thing over and over. Zhou Jianguo's last memory was coming to pick up his father's couplet.
So he came, picked it up, then realized the name on it was wrong. He saw your name written there."
"So he brought it back?"
"Right. But he didn't know he was dead—couldn't communicate with you directly.
All he could do was hang the couplet back up, stick your name on the door, try to warn you.
" Old Chen's voice grew quieter. "But he didn't know—every time he touched that couplet, another line would appear. Birthday, death date, elegiac phrase. Until it's full. When it's full—"
He stopped, gaze shifting to the couplet on the wall.
I looked too.
And I saw it.
At the very bottom of that couplet, next to "Bon Voyage," the final signature had appeared. The characters were tiny—written with the finest tip of the brush, impossible to read from a distance.
I stepped closer to look.
The line read: "Filial Son Zhou Jianguo on behalf of Father Zhou Deming Respectfully Presents."
What did that mean?
I turned to ask Old Chen—but before I could speak, all the lights in the shop went out.
Fluorescent tube, counter lamp, sign lightbox, even the red bulb in the lucky cat's base—all extinguished at the same moment.
Darkness poured over me like cold water, swallowing Old Chen and me. I couldn't see anything.
"Old Chen?"
No answer.
I reached forward, touching the cold glass countertop. I followed it toward where Old Chen had been standing, fingers brushing his gown sleeve—coarse cloth texture, then up.
My hand passed through the gown. Nothing.
The sleeve was empty. Like Old Chen's body had vanished in the darkness, leaving only an empty garment draped over the chair.
"Old Chen!"
I yelled—voice echoing in the dark shop, no response.
I pulled out my phone to turn on the flashlight—but the screen went black again, only two characters in the center: Song Du. Pressing it did nothing, like this phone no longer belonged to me.
Then, in the pitch-black darkness, I heard a voice.
From behind me—very close, so close I could feel the breath on the back of my neck.
"Don't be afraid."
It was Zhou Jianguo's voice. The man from yesterday afternoon—gray face, sitting in front of the counter, saying "It's fine. Just leave it like that."
"I just wanted my father's couplet to look nice."
His voice was soft, carrying an indescribable guilt—like a worker who'd messed up a job, carefully explaining to the customer.
"I didn't know it would write your name. I really didn't."
In the darkness, I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was cold—not icy, but the cold of autumn morning dew, a little damp.
It patted me gently twice, like comforting me.
"When I find my father, I'll give your name back."
The hand withdrew.
The lights came on.
The fluorescent tube hummed twice, flickering back to life, pale light flooding the shop. The lucky cat's red bulb lit up, mechanical paw resuming its click-clack.
The desk lamp on the counter glowed warm yellow. Everything was back to normal.
The shop was empty—only me.
Old Chen was gone. His navy blue gown lay draped over the chair by the counter, empty sleeves hanging on either side, like he'd evaporated right out of it.
His reading glasses lay on the floor beside the chair, lenses dusted with a fine layer of gray.
In the work area, the brush hung quietly on the rack. Two couplets lay spread on the workbench—one taken down from the wall, one just written by the brush itself.
Both had my name on them.
But the content had changed.
The one from the wall—its signature had changed from "Filial Son Zhou Jianguo on behalf of Father Zhou Deming Respectfully Presents" to blank. Those characters were gone, like erased, leaving only faint ink traces.
And the newly written one—the four characters "Your Time Has Come" had disappeared, replaced by four ordinary characters: "Voice and Visage Remain."
Like someone had corrected everything while I wasn't looking. Or like the brush had finally realized—it had written the wrong person's name.
I stood in the empty shop, staring at the two couplets. An absurd thought crossed my mind.
Zhou Jianguo hadn't come to harm me. He just wanted to finish one last thing after death—make his father's couplet look nice. He erased that stroke that shouldn't be erased—not on purpose, because he didn't know the rules.
Then the brush started writing his name. But he was already dead—you can't write a dead person's name twice. So the brush looked up, found the next person who'd handled this couplet.
Me.
And Old Chen? Where did Old Chen go?
I remembered his words: "Not everyone who comes to a flower shop is alive." When he said that, his gaze had moved past me to the wall behind the couplet.
Now I realized—he wasn't looking at the couplet. He was looking at something on that wall behind it, something he recognized.
I walked to that wall, reached out and touched it. Ordinary white paint, yellowed in places, slightly warm from the fluorescent light.
Nothing special. But I noticed a thin crack at the base of the wall—like something had scratched it, extending down into the floor.
I reached into my pocket for my phone to take a photo—but my fingers touched something else.
A piece of paper.
I pulled it out—a folded note, slipped into my pocket somehow. I unfolded it. Old Chen's handwriting, done in ballpoint pen, messy and hurried.
"Xiao Song, I'm going to find Old Lin. I've been afraid to go all these years, but today I have to. The shop is yours now. Remember—the brush chooses its owner. Now it chooses you.
From now on, when writing couplets, if the brush moves on its own—don't erase."
"Oh, and about Zhou Jianguo's payment—can't refund it. He gave ghost money."
I flipped the note over. On the back was another line, even smaller—added after the front was filled:
"Tell Sister Huang—the incense she lent me last time was wrong. It's Great Compassion Mantra, not Rebirth Mantra. She's been burning Great Compassion Mantra for the dead for three months."
I held the note, standing under Anxi Hall's pale fluorescent light. I wanted to laugh—but before my lips could curve, my eyes burned.
The wind chime on the door jingled.
I looked up sharply—glass door empty. Night was thick outside. The street lamp across the way glowed yellow. A stray cat emerged from behind the trash can, sauntered across the road.
The wind chime jingled again.
This time I saw it—it was the wind. The rolling shutter at the entrance swayed slightly, wind blowing through the gap and moving the chime's string.
No one was there.
I checked my watch—8:43 PM. I'd been standing in the shop all night, but it felt like only minutes had passed.
Time here seemed different—stretched by something, or compressed.
I folded Old Chen's note and put it in my wallet. Picked up the keys from the counter, turned off all the lights in the shop.
The moment the fluorescent tube went dark, I heard a soft sound from the work area—like the brush swaying gently on the rack, brushing against the inkstone beside it.
I didn't look back.
My hand was steady as I locked up. Pulled down the rolling shutter, secured the ground lock, flipped the "Temporarily Closed" sign to "Resting."
Then I crossed the street to the 24-hour convenience store across the way, bought a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
I don't smoke—but tonight I wanted one.
The convenience store's white light was harsh. The cashier was scrolling on his phone, the freezer's compressor humming.
I stood at the store entrance, tore open the cigarette pack, pulled one out and lit it. The first drag made me cough and tear up. The second was better. By the third, I felt nothing.
Smoke rose slowly under the streetlight, blending into the night.
I looked back at Anxi Hall across the street. Dark, just like all the other closed shops on this street.
But I knew those two couplets still lay on the workbench—ink probably dry by now. When I open the shop tomorrow morning, I wonder if they'll still be there.
Maybe Zhou Jianguo has found his father, swapped the names back.
Maybe not.
I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up normally—all icons on the home screen.
In my messages, yesterday's "Your name looks nice written like that" had reappeared, sender number showing as invalid. I thought about it, didn't delete it.
Some things—keeping them is a comfort.
I stubbed out the cigarette, about to walk home, when my phone vibrated. New message.
I looked down.
From Old Chen.
"Tell Sister Huang—Great Compassion Mantra isn't bad either. Just slower at delivering souls."
I stared at that message for ten full seconds, then called back. Rang twice—connected. But no sound on the other end, only a strange rustling—like a brush writing on paper.
Then Old Chen's voice came through—far, far away, like speaking from the end of a very long corridor.
"Oh right, forgot to tell you—there's a pack of cigarettes in my gown pocket. Keep it for me. I'll smoke it when I get back."
The call ended.
I held the phone, standing on the street at midnight. Beside me was the 24-hour convenience store's bright light. Across the street was Anxi Hall's dark storefront.
Wind blew, carrying the chill of autumn and the faint smell of burnt paper money from somewhere far away.
I remembered something Old Chen often said: "Do this job long enough, you learn—living people have rules, dead people have more."
I didn't understand before.
Now I'm starting to.