You tell me—is there anything more unsettling in this world?
A printed photo. The person in it has their eyes closed. The customer says no reprint needed. Don't ask questions.
Next day the customer comes back, wants to reprint the same one. It comes out with eyes open. He stares at it for ages, asks for yesterday's closed-eye version. You say you deleted it.
That night you dig through the waste pile and find that closed-eye photo. Tucked between scraps, perfectly intact. You dare not throw it away, lock it in a drawer. Next day you open the drawer—only a blank sheet of photo paper.
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My name is Zhou Hai. Thirty-one. I run a print shop on Old City South Street called "Haizi Graphic." It's not big—fifteen or sixteen square meters. A faded lightbox sign hangs above the door, giving off a ghastly white glow at night.
Across the street is a spicy hotpot joint. The smell drifts into my shop all day, long ago got used to it. The work here isn't heavy—students printing homework, elderly folks copying ID cards, occasional resume jobs. Enough to pay the rent, what's left covers meals.
Before opening this shop, I worked for three years under a master named Guan. Old Guan ran a shop in the south part of the city for twenty years. Last year he transferred the shop, went back to his hometown to look after his grandson.
The night he left, we had a drink. He told me many things—which brand of photo paper to buy, how to modify ink cartridges for continuous supply, how to deal with difficult customers.
When the drinks wore on into the late hours, he suddenly lowered his voice: "Haizi, remember this—when you print ID photos and the person's eyes are closed, don't reprint."
I thought he'd had too much to drink.
"If the customer says no reprint, don't say another word. If they don't want it, put that paper away. Don't throw it." Old Guan picked up a peanut and chewed it, eyes looking under the table. "Anyway—don't throw it."
I asked why. He waved me off: "Just remember it."
Later I took over the shop. The first half year was quiet, nothing happened. Old Guan's words gradually pushed to the corner of my mind, filed away with printer manuals and cartridge invoices, never thought about.
That day, around five in the afternoon, the sky was overcast. Locust blossoms had fallen all over the ground from the wind. Few customers. I sat behind the counter scrolling my phone, reading a post about urban legends in print shops.
The post said a shop in the south took a graduation photo order. When printed, all the students' eyes were closed. The shop reprinted—still closed. Later that shop caught fire.
Comments varied—said the paper was damp, or the printer driver had issues. I flipped my phone face down on the counter. Heard the hotpot pot bubbling across the street, and the street cleaner's truck playing "Only Mother is Good in the World" as it turned the corner.
The wind chime tinkled twice. The door pushed open.
A man walked in. Thirtyish, wearing a dark gray jacket, hair a bit messy. He held a USB drive in his hand, walked to the counter, didn't look at me, placed the drive on the countertop.
"Print an ID photo, one-inch, white background."
I said okay, took the drive and plugged it in. Only one photo in the folder. A woman's front-facing portrait, shoulder-length hair, white blouse, expression calm. Her eyes were closed.
I looked up at the man. He stood at the counter, both hands in his jacket pockets, eyes fixed on the price list on the wall. "Your photo has the subject's eyes closed. Want to retake one?"
"No, print it like this."
"ID photos need open eyes. Closed ones won't work."
He looked at me for the first time then, gaze flat: "Just print it."
I didn't say more. The printer hummed to life, that photo of the woman with closed eyes slid slowly out of the output tray. The paper was cool. I picked it up and glanced—details clear, the curve of her lashes natural.
Just those closed eyelids felt off. Couldn't say what was wrong, but you just didn't want to look at it for long.
I handed it over. He took it, looked down at it for a long time. Long enough that I almost asked if he wanted a reprint. Then he folded the photo, tucked it into his jacket inner pocket, and turned to leave.
"The USB drive," I called.
Steps paused. He looked back: "Delete it."
Wind chime tinkled again. Door closed. The cleaner truck's music had faded long ago, only the hotpot pot's bubbling remained. I unplugged the drive, right-clicked, deleted, emptied recycle bin. Glanced at the computer screen—that closed-eye photo had disappeared from the folder.
When the screen went dark, a sudden chill ran up my back. Old Guan's words surfaced: "Don't reprint." I didn't reprint. I printed it as he said. But what if I hadn't? What if I'd told that man I couldn't print this photo when he came to me?
I pushed the thought down, turned off the computer.
That evening while tidying the counter, I felt something by the printer. A one-inch photo, white background, woman, shoulder-length hair, white blouse, eyes closed. Exactly like the one printed in the afternoon. I flipped it over—blank back.
I froze. I'd clearly watched the man fold the photo and tuck it into his jacket pocket. Where did this one come from?
I thought maybe the machine had jammed and spit out another. But thinking about it—the one from the output tray I'd personally handed to the man. This one in my hand was slippery, edges neat, didn't look like it had been stuck in the machine.
I tucked it into the waste paper pile, locked the door and headed home. Streetlights were already on. Locust blossoms were blowing in the wind, a few petals stuck to my coat.
Next morning, right after I rolled up the shutter, my phone rang. Unknown number. I answered. Silence for two seconds, then: "Yesterday's one—print another for me. Same one." The man's voice.
"The negative's been deleted. Didn't you save a backup?"
"I'll send it. Add WeChat."
After hanging up, a WeChat friend request popped up. Avatar was gray, name was a single period. I accepted. He sent a photo. Still that woman, still shoulder-length hair and white blouse. Still eyes closed.
But I stared at it for a long time, feeling something was off. This one was different from yesterday's. Lips slightly tighter. The skin texture at the eye corners seemed different too. I zoomed in for a few seconds, and suddenly my scalp tingled—the woman's face in this photo was a bit thinner than yesterday's.
"You sure you want the closed-eye version?"
"Print it."
I clicked "Print," confirmed. Machine hummed, rollers turned, paper fed in. When it slid out of the output tray, I leaned in to look—the woman's eyes were open.
I froze.
Those eyes on the paper stared straight at the lens, pupils black as two holes—so black you couldn't see the iris, no reflection. I pulled the paper out and held it up to the light. Yes, open.
But I checked the phone again. The thumbnail in the WeChat image still showed closed eyes. I reopened the original image. Still closed.
Printed out with eyes open.
I pulled a blank sheet of paper to cover the photo. My palms were damp. Outside the cleaner truck was playing "Happy Birthday" today, melody cheerful and inappropriate. I stared at the phone screen, then at the corner of photo paper sticking out from under the blank sheet, mind buzzing.
Around three in the afternoon the man came to pick it up. He pushed the door open lightly, wind chime only tinkled once. He walked to the counter, I pushed the photo covered with the blank sheet toward him. He lifted the paper, picked it up and looked. This time he looked even longer. I saw his knuckles whiten on the photo, like squeezing something hard.
Then he said: "Can you return yesterday's closed-eye one?"
"Deleted. You told me to delete it."
He was silent. The air in the shop felt like a layer had been removed. The hotpot smell tasted sickly sweet today. He looked down at that open-eye photo in his hand for a long time, finally tucked it into his jacket inner pocket, said thank you, and left.
Door closed, wind chime swayed. I suddenly noticed two locust petals on the floor by the door. Today wasn't windy, and there were no locust trees on the street. Those two petals were stuck to the inside of the threshold, like they'd fallen from someone when the door opened.
That night I squatted under the counter sorting the waste paper pile. Halfway through the cardboard box of scraps, my fingers touched a glossy surface. I pulled it out—was that closed-eye ID photo.
Tucked between A4 waste papers, perfectly neat. I squatted there for a long time without moving. The woman in the photo had her eyes closed, expression calm enough to make my spine go cold. I flipped it over—blank.
But I remembered clearly—this photo was folded and put in the man's pocket yesterday afternoon.
I stood up and stepped back. Shutter half open, a strip of streetlight seeped through underneath onto the counter. That closed-eye photo lay quietly on the paper, edges flat.
Someone rode past on the street outside, bicycle bell rang twice. Those sounds filtered through the door, like through thick glass, muffled.
I stared at that photo, mind racing. Old Guan said "put it away, don't throw it." But where did this photo come from? The man took one, I saw it with my own eyes. The printer only printed one. So what was this second one?
I dared not throw it away. Afraid it would appear somewhere else tomorrow. Even more afraid to burn it. I locked it in the drawer under the counter. The drawer normally held change and receipts. I moved those aside, put the photo in, snapped the padlock shut, pulled out the key and gripped it in my hand.
The lock was a vintage iron lump. I felt reassured for half a second, then realized—what if this thing could come out without needing the lock opened?
That night I barely slept. The bedside alarm clock reached three, I got up to drink some water. The locust blossom smell seeped through the screen window from outside. Sickly sweet.
First thing next morning, I opened that drawer. Key turned twice, lock popped open.
Inside were only a few receipts and some coins. The photo was gone. At the bottom of the drawer lay a five-inch blank photo paper, white enough to dazzle.
I held that white paper up to the light from the window. Nothing. Surface smooth, no print traces, not even a fingerprint. But what I'd put in was clearly a printed photo of a person.
I stayed mostly behind the counter all day. When printing for customers, I kept staring at the output tray, afraid something would spit out. Fortunately the day was uneventful. Files printed normally—text was text, black was black, white was white.
But near closing time, when I was tidying the desktop, I found that blank photo paper on the counter again. But I'd clearly thrown it into the cardboard box.
It came back on its own. Pale, quiet.
I picked it up and held it up to the light, looking at the back. There was a very faint indentation on the back, like someone had written with a dry ballpoint pen. I turned the paper sideways, using a slant of setting sun to make it out—seemed like two characters. Written very lightly, but the outline was visible.
"Give it back."
I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. Next morning I went out to buy vegetables. Passing the newsstand at the street corner, I pulled out money and the folded photo paper slipped out. I unfolded it—front side up, and there was a new line of text on the white paper. Song font, neat and tidy, like printed.
"She's afraid of the dark."
I gripped that paper standing at the street corner. Morning sun warmed the back of my neck, but my fingertips were cold. The newsstand owner glanced at me, said I looked pale. I said I didn't sleep well. Re-folded the paper and stuffed it back in my pocket, didn't buy vegetables and went back to the shop.
Back at the shop, I pulled down the shutter and turned on the light. Photo paper laid flat on the counter, pressed down by a cup. I sat in the chair thinking about that man, about the face in the photo, about Old Guan's words.
Picked up my phone, sent a message to the man whose WeChat name was "Period": "Brother, who is the woman in the photo to you?"
Read. No reply. I waited ten minutes and sent another: "That closed-eye photo from yesterday—there's something going on. Want to ask you."
Read. Still no reply. I stared at his gray circle avatar, clicked into his Moments—a single horizontal line.
By noon, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it to look. Just one line: "My wife. Passed last year. That closed-eye photo was her last picture."
I said: "Then why print another open-eye version yesterday?"
He replied quickly: "I sent you the closed-eye one. It printed closed-eye on my end."
I gripped the phone, fingers stiff: "It printed open-eye here."
Silence on the other end. A long time. So long I thought he wouldn't reply again. Then the phone vibrated. He said: "That closed-eye photo of yours—you really deleted it?"
I said yes.
He said: "Good. That photo shouldn't be kept."
I asked why. Read, then the other side rejected my message. He blocked me.
I sat behind the counter, phone on the desk. The hotpot smell drifted across the street—today it actually smelled nauseating. I reached for the cup pressing the photo paper, wanted to flip the paper over to look at the back—my hand just touched the cup wall when the light flickered. The fluorescent lamp *buzzed*, went out for half a second then came back on.
I looked down at the paper. That line of Song font "She's afraid of the dark" was still there. Below it was a new line, written in pen, ink bleeding slightly, like freshly written, still damp.
"You're afraid too."
I stepped back, chair leg scraping the floor with a sharp sound. Light flickered again, this time for over a second. When the light came back on, both lines on the paper were gone. Only a blank photo paper remained, pressed down by one corner under the cup.
I picked it up and turned it over and over. Nothing.
That afternoon I didn't open the door again. Sitting in the dark, I went through everything from beginning to end. Man comes, prints closed-eye photo, takes it. Comes again, reprints, gets open-eye photo, takes it. Closed-eye photo appears on its own in the waste pile. Locked up, becomes blank paper. Writing appears on the blank paper. Man blocks me.
All clues tangled together. But suddenly I grasped a thought—he said "that closed-eye photo shouldn't be kept." But when he came the first time, he held the closed-eye negative and asked me to print it.
He wanted that closed-eye photo. Got it. Came back the next day, sent me another closed-eye negative, asked me to print again. But it printed out with eyes open.
The second one he took was open-eyed.
What did he really want—closed-eyed or open-eyed? The first closed-eye photo, he was satisfied. The second time he came—was he asking for the same thing?
I suddenly remembered, he asked me for "yesterday's closed-eye one." I said it was deleted, and he was silent for a long time. His silence meant I'd lost what he wanted.
But what he wanted wasn't the closed-eye photo itself. He wanted the closed-eye state to remain unchanged. I deleted the negative, he couldn't print another closed-eye one. What I printed was open-eyed—I'd altered that "state" of closed eyes.
Old Guan said, don't reprint closed-eye ones. My first closed-eye photo I gave to the man, didn't reprint. But the second closed-eye one, I clicked print, and it came out open-eyed.
What was I afraid of?
I opened my phone, went to that closed-eye photo he'd sent me before blocking. Zoomed in, then zoomed in more. Woman's face filled the screen. Eyes closed, lashes dense, under the skin at the eye corner was a very faint bruise.
Not looking closely you'd think it was a shadow, but at maximum zoom, the color was purple. A little on the cheekbone too, even fainter.
I exited the photo, turned off my phone.
That blank paper on the counter was still lying there. I walked over to pick it up, intending to fold it and put it in the drawer. When my fingertips touched the paper surface, the printer clicked. A small strip of white emerged from the output tray.
I walked over and pulled it out.
It was a one-inch ID photo, white background. Woman's face, shoulder-length hair, white blouse. Eyes open. Pupils black as two holes.
But the four corners of the photo were scorched, edges curled and yellow, emitting a faint burning smell. Like just scraped out of a fire.
I flipped it over to look at the back. There was a line of writing, pen-written, ink bleeding slightly, but I could make out three characters.
"Take me away."
The wind chime tinkled. Nobody pushed the door. The fluorescent lamp went out, the black at both ends suddenly spread, the whole tube turned grayish-white, and with a *crack* a fine split appeared.
The hotpot's bubbling sound was still there, but every other sound on the street seemed to have stopped. The cleaner truck's sound was gone, the cyclist's bell was gone, even the wind was gone.
I clutched that scorched photo in my hand, standing in darkness. Streetlight seeped through the shutter gap at my feet, on the counter. It couldn't reach this photo in my hand. The woman's face on the paper looked very white in the dark, white like the blank photo paper left behind after she disappeared.
Her lips seemed to move. Very slightly. I stared. Her lips moved again. The lip shape was slow, just one word.
I recognized that lip shape.
It was "run."
I turned and pushed open the shutter, rushing out. Sunlight hit my face, burning hot. I stood in the middle of the street gasping for breath, looking back at my shop—the lightbox was still hanging, the steps were still there, the four red characters "Print & Copy" on the door were still intact.
But inside the shop, in that dark area beyond the fluorescent lamp's reach, something was spitting out one photo after another from the printer.
I looked down at that scorched photo in my hand. The woman's face on it, lips stopped moving. Pupils pitch black, no light, no anything visible.
But she should be looking at me.
I clutched the photo, standing in the sun, cold sweat all down my back. The hotpot owner across the street poked his head out, asked what was wrong. I opened my mouth, said nothing.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out to look. A text message, no caller ID. Just one line:
"She's just waiting for someone to close her eyes for her."
I looked up toward the shop. The printer was still spitting out paper. One sheet, then another. White, covering the tray below the output slot.
A few days later, Zhou Hai dared not operate anymore, asked someone to transfer the shop. The new owner called to ask him: should the Canon printer on the counter be kept?
Zhou Hai replied: do whatever you want with it.
That night in his dream, he saw countless one-inch ID photos covering the entire old street.