What do you think is the most cursed thing in this world?
Antiques? Talismans? Or some consecrated Buddha statue?
If you ask me—none of those.
The most cursed thing is something you look at every day, every single day, but never truly examine.
Like mirrors.
My name is Chen He. I run an antique shop on Sophora Blossom Street. Not big, wedged between a hardware store and a tailor shop. The sign's paint is peeling. Regulars call it "Chen's Secondhand."
Been doing this for over a decade. Handled countless old objects from all sorts of backgrounds. Some things sit in the shop looking ordinary during the day, but at night, in the dark, you feel something's off.
There are unwritten rules passed around in our circle. One specifically for old bronze mirrors:
If you receive an old piece, and hear it make a sound in the middle of the night, put it back on the shelf and flip it upside down for three days.
If it still makes sound after three days, don't sell it. Keep it and deal with it yourself. Any way you want—just don't let it pass through your hands again.
Remember: sealing and burying can only suppress it temporarily, not break it completely. You can hold it down for a while, but not forever. It will find its way back.
This was said to me by my master the year I joined the trade, while he was wiping a cracked Han dynasty mirror. I didn't take it seriously at the time—thought it was like a ghost story to scare kids.
Bronze mirrors—authentic ones from Warring States, Han, Tang dynasties with good condition go to auction. The ones that end up in my small shop are mostly domestic items from Ming, Qing, Republic eras. Corroded so bad you can barely see the patterns, or outright fakes.
Wipe off dust, put them on the shelf, mark them a few hundred yuan, wait for the right person. Making sound at night? Total bullshit.
Until last month, I received a Ming dynasty flower-and-bird patterned bronze mirror.
The seller was a middle-aged woman, simply dressed, face a little pale. She carried a cloth bundle in, placed it on the counter, unwrapped it to reveal the mirror. Not big—palm-width, round, edges carved with entwining lotuses. Back had a magpie on plum branch design. Patina was mature, verdigris natural, clearly a genuine piece. But the mirror surface was dull, clouded, couldn't reflect faces.
"Master, what's this worth?" Her voice was soft, with a hint of tiredness.
I picked it up and weighed it. Heavy. Turned it over to check the back details. The carving wasn't fine, but that old quality can't be faked.
I mentally estimated a price, didn't rush to speak first. "Where did you get this?"
She hesitated a moment. "Found it in the old family house. Been pressed at the bottom of a box for years. No one in the family knows what it's worth. Just sitting there."
I nodded. Heard this kind of story many times—most likely left by elderly relatives, descendants don't recognize the value. Bronze mirrors exist in large quantities, unless they're exceptional pieces, the price won't go high.
I offered three thousand. She didn't bargain. So straightforward it surprised me. After taking the money, she turned to leave, paused at the door, looked back and said, "Master, this mirror... please be careful with it here."
"What?" I looked up at her.
Her lips moved, but in the end she only said, "Nothing, just a casual remark." Then she left.
I wiped the mirror once. The surface was still clouded—couldn't wipe it off. Probably corrosion had penetrated deep. I casually placed it on the middle shelf, among a pile of porcelain bowls and inkstones. Didn't think much of it.
That night, I closed up, sat in the back room looking at account books. My eyelids started drooping, was about to go wash up when suddenly I heard a "ding" from outside.
The sound was light, but exceptionally clear at night—like someone had flicked metal with their nail.
I walked to the outer room, turned on the light. Everything in the shop was as usual. Shelves neat, bottles and jars in their original places.
Following the sound direction, I stopped in front of that Ming bronze mirror. It sat properly on the shelf, face up, clouded—no different from the daytime.
In this business, you can not believe in ghosts, but you must respect the rules. I hesitated for a few seconds, picked up the mirror, flipped it over, face down on the shelf.
Then I found a piece of red string from the counter drawer, tied a knot under the mirror. This is an old folks' tale—after flipping it upside down, tie a string to suppress the qi.
After doing all this, I turned off the light and went back to sleep. Lying in bed, ears perked up listening for a while, no more sounds came from outside.
Next day when I opened up, Old Tang dropped by. Old Tang is the owner of the hardware store next door. Big and burly, loud voice, always comes over to smoke and chat when he's free.
As soon as he walked in, he spotted the upside-down mirror. He came over and asked, "Yo, Boss Chen, what's this about? Mirror displayed upside down?"
I said casually, "Got a new piece, curing it according to the rules for a couple days."
Old Tang laughed. "You antique guys have more rules than screw types in my hardware store."
He lit a cigarette, chatted idly. Said Xiao Liu from the tailor shop next door kept complaining that someone was tapping her shop window at midnight. When she turned on the light, no one was there—scared her so much she dared not man the shop alone anymore.
"You think that's cursed or not?" Old Tang blew a smoke ring. "This Sophora Blossom Street, old houses everywhere, lots of strange things."
I smiled and didn't answer. Old Tang took two more puffs, then suddenly lowered his voice: "Boss Chen, that mirror of yours... I think I've heard someone mention something about it.
Years ago, there was another secondhand dealer on this street. He received a similar bronze mirror. Less than two months later, he moved away in a hurry. Left in such a rush, things in the shop weren't even packed up."
My cigarette paused in my hand. "Who said that?"
Old Tang scratched the back of his head. "The old landlord before my shop, he rambled about it once when drunk. I asked him what happened later. He said he didn't know—that secondhand dealer never came back."
After saying that, he waved his hand. "Bah, I'm just talking nonsense. You're busy."
After he left, I stood behind the counter, staring at that upside-down bronze mirror for a long time. The red string was pressed under it, steady. I pushed this thought to the back of my mind, didn't dwell on it.
First two days were fine. The mirror sat upside down on the shelf, red string pressing it, quiet. Customers came during the day, occasionally asking why the mirror was upside down. I said it's removing rust. No one pursued it.
On the third day, after closing in the evening, I took the mirror down from the shelf. Untied the red string, flipped it over, face up.
When I looked, I froze.
The layer of fog on the mirror surface that I couldn't wipe off before was heavier now—almost like a thin layer of frost.
I stretched a finger and wiped a clear trace through it. The bronze surface below glowed with a dull light.
But in just a blink, that fog rolled back in, covering the area I'd wiped.
This time it covered even thicker, like a breath being exhaled from deep inside the mirror, continuous and unceasing.
My heart skipped a beat. This wasn't right. No matter how bronze rust returns, it wouldn't close over like a living thing.
I flipped the mirror back over, upside down on the shelf, pushed it to the top shelf, blocked it with a blue-and-white porcelain vase. Not selling it. Will lock it in the cabinet tomorrow.
That night I slept, and was woken by a sound in the middle of the night.
"Knock, knock, knock."
Very light, very regular—like someone tapping wood with their knuckles. I opened my eyes, pitch-dark room, sound coming from the outer room.
I got out of bed in the dark, walked barefoot to the outer room, didn't turn on the light. The sound continued—steady, unhurried, like it was waiting for someone.
Following the sound, I reached the shelf, reached up to the top shelf, touched that upside-down bronze mirror. The instant my fingertips touched the bronze surface, the knocking stopped.
Cold. That bronze mirror was ice-cold, stinging to touch—like just fished out of cold water. I gripped it and flipped it over. In the darkness I couldn't see clearly, but the mirror in my palm was getting warm—a warmth seeping from deep within the bronze core.
I quickly stuffed it into the iron cabinet under the counter, "click" locked it.
For the next few days, I completely forgot about this mirror. Stacked account books and miscellaneous items on top of the iron cabinet. Didn't look that way, pretended it didn't exist.
The shop opened normally, receiving and sending customers, buying and selling as usual.
But every night, I could hear faint sounds coming from inside the cabinet. Not wood-knocking anymore—more like nails scratching iron. "Screech—screech—" one sound, pause, then another.
Sound wasn't loud, but it was right under the counter, right behind the curtain separating my bed from the outer room. Heard it crystal clear.
At first I pretended not to hear, covered my head and slept. But for three consecutive nights, that sound punctually rang at midnight, like something inside the cabinet was rummaging around looking for an exit.
Fourth night, I couldn't stand it anymore. Felt under my pillow for the key, squatted in front of the counter, unlocked the iron cabinet.
Opened the cabinet door a crack. Cold air rushed out. I reached in, touched the mirror, and pulled it out.
Outside, moonlight streamed through the window, landing directly on the mirror surface. That night the moonlight was very bright, silver-white. On the bronze mirror, the fog condensed into streaks of watermarks, like someone had written words on it with their hand.
I leaned in to look.
The fog formed a neat line of words on the mirror surface, clear strokes, like written in regular script: **"Look at me."**
Those three words floated in the water vapor, each stroke dripping downward, disappearing at the edge. I stared at those words, suddenly my tongue felt bitter, acid rose in my throat.
My hand shook, mirror nearly slipped out. Lived decades, read all sorts of strange fiction, but when it happens to you personally, it feels completely different.
Every hair on my body stood on end, ears buzzing like something was drilling in.
I didn't look. I flipped the mirror over, placed it face down on the ground, wrapped it three layers in a velvet cloth, then wrapped it again in old newspaper, tied tightly with plastic rope. Then I grabbed a shovel from the backyard, and with that bundle, headed out the door.
About two li west of Sophora Blossom Street, there's a half-demolished wasteland. Grass taller than a person, broken walls and tiles. Even stray cats don't like going there at night.
I picked a dying old locust tree, dug a two-foot-deep hole, threw the bronze mirror bundle in, filled it with soil, tamped it down firmly, and piled several broken bricks on top.
After doing all this, I squatted under the tree, catching my breath for a while. The late April night wind was still a bit cold, making the back of my neck tight. I looked up at the moon, round and hanging in the sky.
Suddenly I felt that moon was also like an eye, staring at me coldly. I rubbed my arms, turned my head and headed home.
That night was finally quiet. The cabinet didn't make sound anymore. I slept through till morning. When I woke up, sunlight was warm on my face. The horror from the night before felt like a dream.
I went to the bathroom to wash up, squeezed toothpaste, looked up at the mirror. The square wall-mounted mirror above the sink had a thin layer of fog on it.
I paused. April, temperatures not low, bathroom doors and windows open, not cold at all.
I wiped the mirror with my hand. The area my finger passed through revealed a clear reflection below—my face, toothpaste foam at the corner of my mouth, expression a bit dazed.
But before I could see clearly, the area I'd wiped, just like the fog on the bronze mirror the night before, slowly closed over again.
The fog rose again.
I frantically wiped the entire mirror, clumsy, dropped the cloth on the ground. The mirror was completely clean, bright enough to see every hair.
I stared at it for five seconds. Sixth second, the edges of the mirror started turning white, a very faint mist spreading from the four corners, center still, edges slowly closing in.
Like someone was blowing on the glass from behind the mirror. Before long, the entire mirror was frosted glass again.
I rushed out of the bathroom to the living room. On the wall hung a full-length mirror—Republic-era rosewood one I'd picked up from the flea market, normally polished bright.
At this moment, the mirror surface was also covered in fog. I turned to the bedroom. The small round mirror on the vanity—foggy.
The ceramic tile surface on the kitchen wall had no fog, but my reflection on it was blurry, like looking through a layer of water.
I stood in the center of the living room, surrounded by fog-covered mirrors on every side. None of them could reflect my face.
I suddenly thought of that woman. The woman who sold me the mirror. She said "be careful." That paleness on her face, that tiredness, and she left so hurriedly—had she also experienced these things?
I grabbed my phone, scrolled through call records. The day she came to sell the mirror, I scanned her WeChat payment. Her profile picture was a white flower, nickname just one character: "Su."
I sent a message: "Sister, where did you get that mirror? Can you tell me?" Message sent, a red exclamation mark popped up. She was no longer my friend. I tried a voice call—number didn't exist.
I squatted on the living room floor, staring blankly at the fog on the full-length mirror.
After about fifteen minutes, the fog slowly dissipated. My face reflected back in the mirror—normal, with dark circles from staying up late and unshaven stubble. Everything returned to normal.
But I dared not look anymore. I turned all the mirrors in my house around. Wall-mounted mirrors taken down and stuffed in cabinets, full-length mirror pushed to the corner facing the wall, round vanity mirror face-down on the desktop.
Then I sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette. My fingers were still shaking.
For the next two days, I lived in dread. During the day when the shop was busy it was better, but once night fell, door closed, sitting alone in the back room, my ears would involuntarily listen for sounds from outside.
The cabinet didn't make sound anymore. The iron cabinet was empty. That mirror was buried in the suburbs. Logically, things should be over.
But the next morning, when I washed my face and forgot the mirror had been taken down, I subconsciously glanced up at the empty hook on the wall. Below the hook, on the tiled wall—my face was reflected.
The tiles were matte, normally not reflective at all. But at that moment, I clearly saw my facial features floating on the tile surface, like a reflection under water. I blinked, and that shadow also blinked.
I blinked again, the shadow followed. Third time, I finished blinking and opened my eyes—the shadow closed its eyes half a beat later. Just half a beat.
I reached out to touch it. Fingertips hit the tile—cold, rough. The shadow was still there, staring at me motionlessly. I taped that tile over with newspaper.
That same afternoon, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. Stainless steel faucet was off, water dripping on the smooth plated surface. I glanced down—my forehead and eyes reflected on the faucet's curved surface.
In those eyes, there was a very faint white fog ring around the pupils, like frost on the iris. I leaned in to look, the fog slowly dispersed, revealing normal eyeballs below.
But the way it dispersed was from the inside out—like something retreating deep into the pupil.
That evening I was organizing shelves in the shop. Picked up a Republic-era white copper ink box to wipe dust. The lid was curved, polished, old but still reflective.
I held it up to the light to wipe, caught the lid surface out of the corner of my eye. A figure was clearly reflected on the copper surface, standing sideways, head bowed.
That shadow floated quietly on the metal surface, no fog, no water marks—just printed there. I froze, flipped the ink box to look at the back, flipped back to look at the lid—the shadow disappeared.
My own face was reflected on the copper surface, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a line.
That was my face. But I wasn't sure what I'd just seen. Because that sideways figure had narrower shoulders than me, posture more like a woman.
I didn't dare think more. Pushed the ink box back to the depths of the shelf.
That evening, Old Tang came by before closing to borrow a wrench. As soon as he walked in, he shouted: "Boss Chen, why does your shop smell damp? Getting damp?"
I didn't have the spirit to answer, just waved him off.
Old Tang took the wrench, reached the door, then turned back with a strange look: "Say, did you look in any mirrors today?"
My eyelid twitched: "Why?"
Old Tang scratched his head: "Nothing really. Just now I passed by your full-length mirror—why is it facing the wall?
I mean, the back of that frame looks like it has some writing. I glanced but didn't see clearly, looked like written in red paint."
My heart raced. That full-length mirror I'd had for two years, never flipped to look at the back. I rushed over, dragged the mirror from the corner, flipped it to the back.
On the rosewood back panel there were carved characters, color darkened, like aged cinnabar lacquer. Crooked small characters: **"Don't look in this mirror."**
Below was another line, smaller, scratched by something, two characters barely legible: **"...already buried."**
It struck me like thunder. This mirror was picked up from the flea market by me. Had the previous owner also buried it? After burying it, what happened? It was dug up again by someone? It flowed into my hands.
And I buried that bronze mirror. On the third morning after, I started seeing changes on every reflective surface in my home.
Tiles, glass, stainless steel cups, phone screens—whenever I look closely, I can see my face underneath those surfaces. Sometimes the expression is wrong, sometimes the movements are half a beat behind.
Those words on the bronze mirror—**"Look at me"**—I didn't look. It won't let me go.
That night I couldn't sleep, got up to drink water. Passing through the living room, that rosewood full-length mirror hung quietly on the wall, mirror surface pitch black.
I stopped in front of it for two seconds, didn't turn on the light, looked at my blurred silhouette by the window's glow. The figure in the mirror stood straight.
I took a step forward. The shadow took a step forward too. Nothing unusual. I turned around and went back to sleep.
On the third day, I couldn't hold on anymore. During the day it was better—with sunlight and customers, those reflective surfaces occasionally showing unusual traces, but if you didn't look carefully, you wouldn't notice.
But at night, with the lights off, all glass and metal surfaces in the room glowed with a faint pale white, like countless closed eyes.
What made my heart race even more was that sometimes, a figure would appear under that white fog. Indistinct, blurry outline, but could tell it was standing sideways, facing me.
When I blinked, it was just my own reflection again, expression tired and pale.
One evening, when I was pulling down the rolling shutter, I caught a figure reflected in the glass showcase out of the corner of my eye.
I thought it was a passerby on the street, turned to look—nothing in the showcase but myself. I continued pulling the shutter, halfway down, caught that blurry figure again out of the corner of my eye.
This time she raised her hand, fingertips pressed against the inside of the glass, like waiting for me to look back at her.
I kept my head down, continued pulling the shutter, but my eyes couldn't help but glance toward the showcase. The figure's outline slowly clarified in the glass—narrow shoulders, hair down, entire face hidden in shadow.
The iron shutter clattered down. I pulled it completely to the bottom, covering the showcase tightly.
That same evening, I was pouring water in the kitchen. Stainless steel kettle on the stove, curved surface smooth. After pouring, I put down the cup, glanced at the kettle's surface—a face floated on it.
My face. But I wasn't smiling. The face on the kettle had the corners of its mouth slightly raised. I froze, cup held in mid-air, stared at the kettle surface for several seconds.
That smile on the face slowly retracted, returning to exactly my current expression—expressionless, lips pressed tight. Like it realized it was discovered.
I stepped back two paces, turned the kettle around, facing the wall.
On the fourth day, I decided to dig it up and look at it one more time face to face. Since I can't escape it, let's see what it actually wants.
The shadows in those reflective planes were getting clearer day by day. Last night I got up to use the bathroom, passed by that full-length mirror pushed to the corner in the living room,
Suddenly heard a faint "crack" from behind the frame—like wood splitting, or like someone knuckle-cracked on the other side of the back panel.
I held my breath. From the rosewood seam around the frame edge, a thin line of white mist seeped out, thin as a hair.
Very quickly, it retracted. But I knew it was drilling in, bit by bit, squeezing from the back of the mirror toward my world.
If I delay any longer, it won't need me to look at it anymore.
That night, I took a flashlight and shovel and went back to that wasteland. The moon was covered by clouds, everything pitch dark.
I found that pile of bricks under the old locust tree, moved them aside, dug half a meter deep. The velvet cloth bundle was still there, wrapping that bronze mirror.
I dug it out, squatted on the ground, held the flashlight in my mouth, unwrapped the packaging layer by layer. Velvet cloth opened, old newspaper torn off, revealing the back of the bronze mirror. Flipped it over.
No fog on the mirror surface anymore. Clean, dark bronze color, reflecting my crouching silhouette.
I held it up, aimed at my own face, flashlight light coming from the side. The mirror showed my eyes, nose, mouth—clearly.
Nothing happened. I held the mirror up to my face for a full two minutes. Mirror was still mirror, reflection was still reflection.
I let out a breath, nearly collapsed to the ground. Maybe it was a coincidence, maybe those rules had long been broken, maybe I was just scaring myself...
I flipped the mirror over to repackage it. When it flipped to the back, flashlight light swept across the mirror edge. I saw a very fine inscription in the entwining lotus pattern on the bronze mirror's edge.
I'd looked several times before and hadn't noticed—probably hidden by corrosion. I leaned in to look.
It was a line of small characters, carved in the crevices of the pattern, like added by someone later. Script was shallow, but distinguishable: **"Those who have looked are already buried."**
I stared at those characters, squatting in the wild. The flashlight light shook a bit. Then I slowly raised my head.
Opposite, on the other side of the locust tree, deep in the wild grass, a figure had appeared at some point. Indistinct, face unclear, outline slender, like a woman. She stood there motionlessly, facing me.
I opened my mouth, no sound came out. That figure raised her hand, slowly, and beckoned me. I glanced down at the bronze mirror in my hand.
On the mirror surface, fog rose again at some point. The fog formed a line of words, shorter than last time—just three characters: **"Whose turn is it?"**
I dropped the mirror and ran. Crawling and scrambling, didn't even grab the shovel. No one chasing behind me, only wind through the wild grass, *rustle rustle rustle rustle*, like many people whispering.
When I ran back to Sophora Blossom Street, I was already gasping for breath. Fell into the shop and bolted the door. Sat on the floor against the door, cold sweat soaked my T-shirt.
Next morning, Old Tang came knocking, to return the wrench he borrowed. I let him in, he looked at me and said, "Why do you look like a ghost?"
I didn't answer, walked behind the counter to pour water. Old Tang placed the wrench on the counter, looked me over twice, and suddenly said: "Hey, that full-length mirror in your shop..."
I spun around. That full-length mirror I'd pushed to the corner had somehow been turned around, mirror surface facing outward. Fog. The entire mirror was covered in thick white fog, thick like winter window glass.
Old Tang stepped closer, tried to blow on it to wipe: "How damp is your place? This mirror is all water..."
**"Don't touch it!"** I shouted. Old Tang's hand stopped mid-air, turned to look at me: "What?" I said: "...don't wipe it."
Old Tang withdrew his hand puzzled, shrugged: "Fine, your mirror your call."
After he left, I stood in front of that full-length mirror. Through the fog covering the entire surface, I could vaguely see the outline of a shadow underneath. That outline wasn't like mine.
I extended my hand, fingertips stopped one centimeter from the mirror surface, didn't dare touch. The fog on the mirror suddenly moved. Like an invisible finger drawing from inside out.
Stroke by stroke, the fog was brushed away, revealing the bronze color underneath. The back of this full-length mirror was rosewood, but the surface itself was a large mirror modified from a bronze mirror.
The fog formed a line of words on the mirror surface. Identical to the ones on the bronze mirror, neat and clear: **"Look at me."**
I stared at those words, entire body cold, tongue starting to feel bitter again. The fog on the mirror moved again, those words slowly dispersed, reforming into new sentences: **"You've looked."** **"My turn."**
I spun around to look behind me. The shop was empty, not a single person.
But the instant I turned my head, a flash caught my eye—the phone screen on the counter, dark, a face reflected on the black screen.
That face was pressed against the inside of the screen, eyes open, corners of the mouth slowly raising.
I grabbed the phone and flipped it face down on the counter. Heart pounding like a drum, vibrating my eardrums.
Old Tang came back again that afternoon. This time he didn't bring tools, clutching a plastic bag, inside was a stack of yellowed papers.
His expression wasn't right. He closed the door first, stepped up to the counter, lowered his voice: "Boss Chen, I went through that pile of junk the old landlord left in my shop at noon, found this thing."
He opened the plastic bag, pulled out a brittle old newspaper. The edition was yellowed, date unclear, but on the lower part of the front page was a small social news piece,
Headline printed: **"Antique Shop Owner Rushed to Hospital Late at Night, Family Claims 'Killed by Mirror Person'."**
I took it and read. The news was short—said an antique shop owner on Sophora Blossom Street received an old bronze mirror half a month ago. After that, he went mad, claiming all mirrors in his home reflected a strange woman's face.
When rushed to hospital, he was raving, repeating "she made me look at her" "after looking, you can't come out."
Three days later, the owner disappeared from the hospital ward. The ward window was locked from inside, and on the bathroom mirror surface, three words were written in fog: **"Whose turn."**
I flipped to the back of the newspaper. At the edge was a line of ballpoint pen writing, hasty, like the old landlord's casual note back then: "That mirror was later dug up from the suburbs by someone, resold through several hands.
I heard it appeared at an antique stall on the neighboring street."
Old Tang looked at me, face pale: "Boss Chen, that mirror you received..."
I didn't let him finish. I folded the newspaper and stuffed it in my pocket, nodded.
That night, I inventoried all the secondhand goods in the shop. I didn't smash that full-length mirror—smashed it uselessly, the mirror is just a carrier.
I pasted a "Temporarily Closed" notice on the door, locked up, planning to move out for a few days.
Before leaving, I stood in the middle of the outer room, looking around this shop I'd guarded for over a decade. The bottles and jars on the shelves glowed with warm light in the moonlight, everything normal.
But my ears caught an extremely faint sound: "Tap."
Coming from under the counter. That iron cabinet, I'd clearly removed the key, lock intact.
"Tap."
Second sound. Like a water drop falling on iron.
I didn't open the cabinet, grabbed my bag and turned to leave.
That night I slept at a nearby express hotel. Woken by guests in the next room in the middle of the night, turned over groggily, opened my eyes, and met a small vanity mirror on the nightstand.
Hotel-supplied, embedded in the lamp base, silver plating, palm-sized.
On that small mirror, a layer of fog had formed.
The fog condensed three characters in the center of the mirror surface, brush strokes familiar enough to make my stomach churn: **"Look at me."**
I flipped that vanity mirror face down on the table, covered with three layers of towels. Then I sat up, leaned against the headboard, looked around the entire room.
TV was black screen. I glanced at it—no fog on the screen, but there was a faint figure sitting cross-legged on it, in exactly the same posture I was in.
I slowly raised my right hand. The figure on the black screen also raised its right hand. I put my hand down. The figure put its hand down. Synchronized. I stared for three seconds, suddenly noticed the figure's head was slightly lower than mine.
Like it was deliberately crouching, looking up at me from deep inside the screen.
Nothing on the window glass, clearly reflecting the room's light. But at the bottom left corner of the glass, a thin curved water mark was winding on its own.
Crawled up from the corner all the way, stopped in the middle of the glass, slowly curved into an arc shape—like a corner of a mouth.
The metal handle on the frosted bathroom door, plating glowing dull. I looked at it from afar, when I withdrew my gaze, out of the corner of my eye I saw something moving on the handle surface.
I looked back again. Inside the plating, a hand was reflected, stretching out from deep within the handle's curved surface, five fingers spread, palm facing outward, like pushing something forward.
That hand didn't stop, floating toward the plating surface inch by inch. I gave a low shout, jumped off the bed, rushed to the bathroom door, pulled the towel from the lamp base and covered the handle.
I backed away, sat back on the bed. Didn't look in any direction anymore. I dialed a number. Old Tang gave it to me during the day—his old landlord's number, who now lives elsewhere.
Rang several times before connecting. An old man's voice asked: "Who's this?"
I identified myself, said I was the current antique shop owner on Sophora Blossom Street, wanted to ask about that mirror. There was a long silence on the other end. Then the old landlord said: "Did you look at it?"
I said: "I did, but nothing happened."
The old landlord gave two dry laughs, voice like sandpaper on wood: "Good you looked. Once you look... it recognizes you. Whoever it recognizes, that person has to find the next one for it. You don't need to do anything, it'll do it for you."
"What does it want?" I asked.
There was another silence. After a long time, the old landlord said: "That mirror, supposedly a Ming dynasty woman cast it herself. Her husband was going to divorce her, she refused, holding the bronze mirror and threw herself into a well.
The well water kept that mirror for hundreds of years, and she was trapped inside the mirror. Can't get out. She seeks living people—just wants to borrow a living person's eyes to look out one more time. Just one look. But the living person who's seen her..."
He stopped.
"What?" I pressed.
"After seeing her, the living person's eyes will carry her shadow. That shadow will grow on its own. When it reaches a certain point, the living person becomes a mirror too."
The phone disconnected.
I sat on the bed, holding the phone, screen automatically extinguished. My face reflected on the pitch-black screen. I stared at it for a long time. Then I blinked. The face in the screen didn't blink with me.
It was looking at me, corners of the mouth slowly raising.
I closed my eyes. But I could feel, in the darkness behind my eyelids, a very thin layer of fog spreading. It had taken root in my eyes.
A scream came from the next room. Then the sound of glass shattering. Someone shouted: "There's someone in the mirror! The mirror..."
I pulled the blanket over my head, covered my ears. But those sounds seeped in, like water, through every crack and crevice.
Finally only one sound remained, very close to me, right at the root of my ear, as light as breathing, saying: **"Your turn."**
I didn't open my eyes.
I dared not.
Because I knew, the moment I open my eyes—no matter what I'm facing—window, water cup, phone screen, or even my own palm—I will see her.
She's in my eyes.
She waited four hundred years, finally found someone to open these eyes for her.
And I can never close them again.