Monday morning. The counseling room was quiet enough to hear the second hand tick on the quartz wall clock. Set down my third Americano, wiped down the empty chair.
Three months since opening. Seven clients so far. Insomniacs, anxiety cases, girls fighting with boyfriends.
Forty-five minutes each, three hundred yuan. After rent and utilities, just enough to make the minimum credit card payment. Sister Lin said all new counselors started this way—survive the first year.
That empty chair I bought before opening. Ikea's cheapest white plastic, ninety-nine yuan, stuffed into the trunk with the half-dead potted ivy from the corner.
Thought it might be for family escorts—couldn't have people standing. Turned out no one brought family. Clients were terrified anyone would know they were seeing a therapist.
Chair sat against the wall across from my desk. Stacked with delivery boxes, hung my jacket on it, used it as a step stool to change the light bulb last week.
But today felt different.
Three PM. Seventh client. Zhou Miao, twenty-seven, bank teller, handwriting on her intake form neat as printed.
Chief complaint: "Always feel someone watching me from behind." Two months. Bad enough she couldn't turn her back to the office door.
"What does it feel like exactly?" I sat behind my desk, standard listening posture.
Zhou Miao on the gray fabric client sofa, hands folded on her knees. Her eyes fixed on the wall behind my left ear, never made contact.
"You know when you're in line, you feel the person behind you is too close—breath hitting the back of your neck?"
Her voice dropped. "At work, the wall is behind me. But I always feel someone on the other side watching."
Nodded, wrote "delusional paranoia tendency" in my notebook.
Forty-five minutes passed quickly. Zhou Miao stood to grab her bag, stopped at the door. Turned, glanced at that white plastic chair by the wall, then at me.
"That..." she bit her lip, "can he sit there next time?"
"What?"
"He's been standing behind me too long." Zhou Miao's voice lower, pointed at the empty chair. "During the session, he was right beside you. I was too embarrassed to say."
Took me ten seconds to grasp what she meant. "Ms. Zhou, are you saying..."
"I know you can't see him." She cut me off, calm. "I've seen them since childhood. They don't hurt anyone, just follow.
But this guy's been following me two months. Tiring. Let him sit a while."
She left. Watched her back disappear around the neighborhood corner. That white plastic chair cast a lopsided shadow in the afternoon sun.
Told myself it was classic projection—client externalizing anxiety into a "person behind her." Common in clinical practice.
Next session try the empty chair technique. Have her speak to that "person behind" as if they were sitting there.
But I moved the chair anyway. From against the wall to the right side of my desk, at a forty-five-degree angle to the client sofa.
Don't know why. Maybe that line "he's been standing behind me too long" unsettled me.
As if someone invisible had been standing in my office for two months, while I brewed coffee, took calls, stared at my computer—never offered them a seat.
Wednesday afternoon. Zhou Miao arrived on time. First thing, looked at the chair, let out a long breath.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome." Kept my tone professional, calm. "Shall we begin today's session?"
This time she looked better. Didn't stare at the wall behind my ear. Even made eye contact a few seconds.
Said her sleep improved. That "being watched" feeling at work lessened. "Maybe because he has a place to sit now."
She smiled. "You're a good therapist. Not many would believe this."
Didn't respond. As a therapist, I couldn't reinforce her delusion, nor could I dismiss her subjective experience out of hand.
Just nodded, guided her back to real-life stressors. She was studying for the fund practitioner exam, three hours of studying after work every night. Tired.
Discussed time management techniques. She agreed to break her study sessions into smaller chunks.
Forty-five minutes ended. Zhou Miao left, carefully circled that white plastic chair, like avoiding someone.
"See you next week." Nodded toward the chair first, then at me. "Thank you, Doctor."
Door closed. Sat at my desk writing session notes. Halfway through, thirsty, stood to get water. Paused passing that chair.
Same ninety-nine-yuan Ikea plastic. White cushion, thin layer of dust. Didn't clean it often—no one sat there.
But in the middle of the dust, an imprint. Complete, clear, butt-shaped. Dust pressed down, revealing slightly cleaner plastic underneath.
Edges sharp, like someone sat there just now, full forty-five minutes.
First thought: check the cameras. For safety and supervision, the counseling room had cameras pointed at the desk and sofa. Chair at the edge of the frame, should be visible.
Opened the recording for Wednesday, three PM. Zhou Miao on the sofa talking, me at the desk taking notes—everything normal.
That white chair sat quietly in the upper right corner, empty. Watched the whole recording at 2x, 4x, 8x speed. Nothing touched that chair at any point.
Not Zhou Miao, not me, nothing in the air crossed the frame.
But now I stood in front of it, finger touching the butt imprint. My fingerprint rubbed off a patch of dust, revealing smooth white plastic underneath.
Center slightly depressed, still warm. Like someone just stood up, body heat lingering on the cushion.
Stood there maybe five minutes. Mind racing with explanations: uneven dust, optical illusion from the light, sat there myself two days ago and forgot.
But the rough texture of jeans, two clear finger marks on the backrest—they all told the same story.
Someone sat in that chair. During Zhou Miao's forty-five-minute session. And the camera captured nothing.
That night called my supervisor, Sister Lin. Twenty-three years in practice, seen every weird thing. Listened, then silence.
"Remember the 'field' they taught in training?" Her voice through the phone, electric static. "Some clients have 'people' following them.
Not metaphorical—actual 'people.' You can't see them, but they can see you. Offering a chair is saying 'sit down, don't stand.' It's the rule."
"What rule?"
"The counseling room rule," Sister Lin said. "My master taught me. If a client says save a seat for someone, save it. Don't ask why.
You think you're dealing with one person, but you're dealing with a whole system. Some followers are family, some something else.
They don't hurt you, but ignore them and they make the client uncomfortable. Give them a chair, everyone's at ease."
Held the phone, stood by the counseling room door, looked at that white plastic chair. Streetlight through the window cast a long shadow on the floor.
That shadow lay quietly on the floor, unmoving. Like someone sitting properly in the chair, waiting for the next session to begin.
"Sister Lin," I heard myself say, "if... if something's really sitting in that chair, will it leave?"
Three seconds silence. "Depends if it wants to," she said. "Ask Zhou Miao next time if she still sees it.
If it's still there, treat it as a regular. Doesn't disturb you, doesn't disturb clients, treat it like another potted ivy in the office. By the way, how much was that chair?"
"Ninety-nine."
"Not bad, not expensive. Don't buy an expensive one—if it doesn't leave, you'll lose." Sister Lin laughed, hung up.
Threw the phone on the desk, sat in my office chair. Counseling room quiet as deep sea. Quartz clock ticking, ticking. AC blowing warm air.
That white chair in the corner, clear butt imprint in the dust, finger marks on the backrest—like someone just stood up and steadied themselves.
Stared at it a long time. Saw nothing. No shape, no shadow, no breathing. Just the imprint, like a silent grave marker.
But left the counseling room light on that night. And the next two nights.
Friday afternoon no sessions. Sat at my desk writing case notes, kept glancing at that chair.
Daylight bright, the dust imprint even clearer. Took a damp towel, wiped it. Entire cushion damp, dust and imprint gone on the rag.
White plastic clean and smooth, no trace left.
Then sat behind my desk watching it for two hours. Two hours, it stayed spotless.
Sunlight moved across the window, traced an arc on the seat. Dust settled slowly, thin, even as fine snow. Nothing happened.
Seven PM locked up, went home. Saturday off. Sunday evening came back for a charger I forgot. Living room light on, walked through the hall, pushed open the counseling room door.
That white chair's cushion had a butt imprint again. Dust pressed down, center slightly depressed, edges clear.
Exactly like Wednesday's. Even the two finger marks on the backrest—exactly the same.
Stood in the doorway, throat tight. Wiped it clean last Friday. Saturday and Sunday the room was locked, only I had the key.
Walked over, touched the imprint with a finger. Warm again. Like whoever sat there just left, knew I'd come back tonight, made a point to get up and say hello.
Backed into the hall, gently closed the counseling room door. Stood in the living room, messaged Zhou Miao.
"Ms. Zhou, can we move next Wednesday's session to Monday?"
Ten minutes later: "Sure, Doctor. Also, he said thank you. The chair is quite comfortable."
Stared at that line a long time. Phone screen glowing on my face. Living room quiet enough to hear the fridge hum. Finally replied: "You're welcome. Glad he likes it."
Immediately regretted it. Told a client "glad he likes it"—what professional conduct is that? But hit send anyway. Zhou Miao replied with a smiley face.
Monday morning. Zhou Miao arrived. Wore an off-white sweater, looked better than last week, even light makeup. First thing nodded at the chair, then sat on the sofa.
"He's in a good mood today," Zhou Miao said.
Forced myself not to look at the chair. "Can you... describe him?"
Zhou Miao tilted her head, thought. "Middle-aged man, forties. Dark jacket. Short hair, some gray.
Sits properly, hands on knees." She suddenly laughed. "He's giving me a thumbs up now. Said you're a good person, chair's comfortable."
Cold chill down my back. "Does he speak?"
"Doesn't open his mouth. Just gestures," Zhou Miao said. "Before he was behind me, I always felt cold at the back of my neck. Now he's sitting down, I feel much lighter."
Forty-five minutes, barely spoke. Zhou Miao talked about her study progress, coworker relationships, a guy she'd met on a blind date.
Mm-hm'd my responses, peripheral vision always on that white chair. Sunlight through the window, seat spotless, nothing visible.
But I always felt that thing Zhou Miao described—"middle-aged man in dark jacket"—sitting there, hands on knees, posture straight, listening to us talk.
Occasionally turned his head, looked out the window, or down at his hands. Same posture as me.
Session ended, Zhou Miao stood, waved at the chair. "See you next time." Then turned to me. "Doctor, you'll keep that chair, right?"
"Yes."
"Good." She smiled. "Also, he said you're in the same line of work."
"What?"
"He was a therapist too." Zhou Miao already at the door, winked at me. "Didn't say anything else, just thanked you. Bye!"
Door closed. Sat motionless behind my desk. Thirty seconds later, slowly turned to look at that chair.
Spotless, dust even on the white cushion. But when sunlight hit at a certain angle, saw a faint line in the dust on the seat.
Like someone drew a line with their index finger. Leaned closer—writing. Sloppy strokes, slightly trembling, like whoever wrote it hadn't held a pen in a long time.
"Don't take her appointment next week."
Jumped back three steps, hit the bookshelf, a few books fell on the floor. Stared at that line, breathing fast.
Then realized I leaned too close—my breath had blown away the faint dust marks. Writing gone, seat smooth and even again.
Bent to pick up the books. Abnormal Psychology, Counseling Ethics and Boundaries, Clinical Interview Techniques—gift from Sister Lin.
Stuffed them back, fingers shaking. Grabbed phone to call Sister Lin, put it down. What to say?
The dust on the chair wrote a line telling me not to take Zhou Miao's appointment? Sister Lin would think I lost my mind.
But didn't reply to Zhou Miao's message confirming next week's time.
Tuesday night, insomnia. Tossed and turned, mind racing with that line. Don't take her appointment next week.
Why? Did that "middle-aged man" write it? Why warn me? What's wrong with Zhou Miao's session next week?
Three AM got up, turned on the computer, pulled up Zhou Miao's intake form. Twenty-seven, bank teller, single, lives east of town.
Emergency contact: her mother. Dialed, four rings later answered.
"Hello?" Middle-aged woman's voice, rough from being woken.
"Hi, I'm Zhou Miao's therapist. Sorry for the late call, wanted to check on her recent situation."
"Miao Miao?" Her voice suddenly alert. "What happened to Miao Miao?"
"She's doing well. Just want to confirm her family situation."
"Family situation?" She cut me off. "She lives alone, what family situation? Her dad left five years ago, just us two. Why are you asking?"
Left five years ago. My heart sank. "May I ask... what did her father do?"
"Therapist," she said. "Had his own practice. Then a car accident. Miao Miao just graduated then, took it hard. Doctor, is Miao Miao acting up again? What did she say?"
Said nothing, just routine check-in, reassured her, hung up. Sat in the dark, phone screen lighting my face. Five years ago. Therapist. Car accident.
Opened search engine, typed "therapist car accident five years ago this city."
First result, local news from five years back: "Therapist Zhou lost control, drove into river, foul play ruled out."
Blurry photo attached. Middle-aged man, short hair, some gray, dark jacket.
Same "person" sitting in my chair.
Closed the computer, buried my face in my hands. That white chair in the counseling room, warm butt imprint, two finger marks on the backrest, that line in the dust.
All the pieces fit together, pointing to an answer I couldn't accept.
Zhou Miao's father. Died five years ago. Followed his daughter for five years. I invited him to sit in the chair last week. Now he writes in the dust telling me not to take his daughter's appointment.
Why?
Wednesday morning called Zhou Miao, said something came up, next week's session needs to be rescheduled. She said "mm-hm" on the phone, a little disappointed, but didn't push.
"Also," tried to sound casual, "have you dreamed about your father lately?"
Phone went quiet a few seconds. "Yes." Her voice softer. "Last week. He sat in a white chair, smiled at me. Said one thing."
"What?"
"He said, don't let her come here anymore."
Gripped the phone. "Come where?"
"Come see you," Zhou Miao said. "He said I don't need therapy anymore. He sat in the chair, so everything's fine now. Doctor, what does this dream mean?"
Opened my mouth, nothing came out. Long silence before I said, "Maybe... your father wants you to move forward. Not keep looking back."
Zhou Miao laughed once. "You sound just like him. Okay, I won't come next week. Can we reschedule after my exam?"
"Sure."
Hung up, sat in the counseling room. That white chair across from me, quiet. Sunlight on the cushion, dust even, no writing visible.
No butt imprint, no finger marks, nothing. Like the "person" who sat there for a few days had left. Just like the news said—drove into the river, then disappeared.
But I always felt there was still writing on the seat. Invisible in sunlight, only visible when the light dimmed, when dust settled again. Writing "thank you," or "goodbye," or something else.
Didn't reschedule Zhou Miao after that. She passed the fund practitioner exam, switched to a securities firm's back office, posted a Moments update saying the new office had great views. Liked it, didn't comment.
Kept that white chair. Occasionally new clients asked "why is there an empty chair over there?" I'd say "spare, in case someone needs it."
Said it enough times, I almost believed it myself. Only thing—wiped the cushion every evening before leaving. After wiping, turned to look. White plastic spotless, nothing there. Then turned off the light, locked up, walked to the hall.
Hallway end, elevator, full-length mirror beside it. Passing, peripheral vision always lingered on the mirror a moment longer.
Only me in the mirror, backpack, car keys in hand. But I always felt someone following me.
Not too close, not too far—two steps behind. Not standing, not sitting. Just that distance, following.
Never turned to look.
Some rules you just know. Don't need to see them with your own eyes.