You closed a door, then something that shouldn't have been there appeared outside.
You opened a window, then saw a face that shouldn't have been there.
Have you ever thought— the person knocking on your door might have been standing outside for so long that she forgot who she was.
The typhoon started strengthening at four in the afternoon.
I rent a one-bedroom apartment on the top floor of an old residential building. Seventh floor, no elevator. The windows are old aluminum alloy sliding ones, the rubber seals have long gone hard—when wind pours in it *howls*, like someone crying.
I moved out every basin and bucket from the kitchen to catch water leaking in. Rain seeped through the window frame gaps, *drip drip* hitting the enamel basin bottoms, sound crisp yet muffled.
My phone popped up the Meteorological Bureau's red alert—strongest typhoon in a decade making landfall. Local colleagues in my WeChat Moments were posting videos of windows being blown away, someone said the big tree at the community entrance had already fallen, crushing a Wuling Hongguang parked by the road.
I locked all the windows tight, drew the curtains, curled up on the sofa scrolling videos. Signal was up and down, the picture froze on some food blogger gnawing a lamb chop, motionless. I poked the screen twice, just locked the phone. The room dimmed, only the ceiling light in the living room was on, tube aging, light flickering on and off.
*Bang. Bang. Bang.*
I froze for a moment, phone almost dropping to the ground.
Sound came from the door. Not wind—wind is continuous, that *howling* kind. This was broken, three hits, pause, then nothing.
I didn't move. Thoughts raced through my head—who would come visiting at this hour? Delivery? I didn't order anything. Downstairs neighbor? That unit downstairs had been empty for half a year, house vacant the whole time.
*Bang. Bang. Bang.*
Three more hits.
I stood up from the sofa, bare feet on the tile floor a little cold. Walked to the door, pressed my ear against it listening. Stairway was quiet, wind *howling* at the stairwell window, but outside the door no footsteps, no breathing, nothing at all.
I pressed up to the peephole again—it was that old wide-angle lens type, could see most of the stairway. Motion-sensor light was off, stairway pitch black, only a little gray-blue twilight seeping through the small window at the stair corner. No one. Ground outside the door was spotless, not even a flyer.
Maybe wind blew something over to hit the door. I thought that, went back to the sofa kept scrolling. Scrolled about twenty more minutes, after three dancing girl videos and a cat knocking over a water cup, the knocking rang again.
This time more urgent.
*Bang bang bang. Bang bang bang.* Almost no pause between, like someone soaked in rain for a long time, finally noticing someone's inside, knocking desperately.
My spine tightened. Second time. Same rhythm, three hits to a set.
"Who is it?" I yelled toward the door.
Rain too heavy, my voice felt like half of it got swallowed. Outside went quiet for two seconds. Then a voice came through, muffled through the door panel—young girl's voice, a little breathless.
"Let me in to shelter from the rain."
Girl's voice. Typhoon night, a girl saying she wanted to shelter from the rain at the seventh-floor door. This building has seven floors total, I'm the top floor. Where did she come up from? The sixth-floor unit was empty since last year, and below that the fifth floor is a mahjong parlor—on a night like this it would have closed long ago.
"Who are you looking for?" I asked again.
There was silence for a moment on the other side. "I just want to shelter from the rain, I'll leave when it lightens up." The voice softened, with a begging tone, "Please."
My heart softened. I stood at the door for a few seconds, the sound of rain seeping through the window gaps getting louder. Typhoon night locking a girl outside—if something really happened, I couldn't live with myself. Besides, it's just someone sheltering from rain, opening the door to let her stay in the stairwell was fine, she didn't have to come inside.
I unlocked the door, pulled it open a crack.
Wind *whooshed* in, carrying rain splashing on my face, cold and fishy. The stairway motion-sensor light came on, yellowish light illuminated the doorway—empty. No one. A puddle of water on the ground, like someone had just stood there, soles bringing water in, water trail spreading from the stairway entrance all the way to my door, puddle after puddle.
I stuck my head out looking down the stairs. The stairway corner window had been blown open, rain pouring in diagonally, soaking half the stairway. No one. Downstairs was quiet, not even a footstep echo.
"Hello?" I called out.
No one answered.
Another wave of wind poured in, I pulled my head back and shut the door. Doorknob was ice-cold, wet. I looked down and saw a pink bow hair clip hanging on the door's inner handle.
The sheer fabric kind, the little girls often wear, two plastic beads decorating the tail of the bow. The whole clip was soaked, dripping water, droplets falling on the doormat by the door, darkening a small area.
When I opened the door just now there was nothing on the handle. I'm certain.
But it's hanging there now. Like someone had hung it up in the brief moment when I stuck my head out looking downstairs. But I saw absolutely nobody.
I took the clip off, set it on the shoe cabinet. The fabric bow felt cold and soft in my hand, mixed smell of rain and dust. I wiped it with a tissue, the tissue instantly soaked through. The clip was ordinary, the kind you get three for five yuan at street stalls. One bead was loose, almost falling off.
I stared at it for a while, back of my neck tingling. Typhoon night, empty stairway, wet footprints, a vanished girl's voice, and this bow hair clip.
I double-locked the door. Hung the anti-theft chain too. Turned off the living room light, lay down on the peephole looking out. Stairway was dark, motion-sensor light off. That puddle of water was still there, spread wet on the gray concrete floor, like a strangely shaped map.
I looked for another five minutes. Nothing. Stairway perfectly quiet, rain hitting the stairwell window louder then softer. Finally I went back to the bedroom, closed that door too.
Lying in bed listening to the rain and wind, I dozed off. That night I dreamed someone was knocking on the door the whole night. But I couldn't wake up, my body felt like something was pressing it down on the bed.
Next day I was woken by sunlight. Curtains not fully drawn, a thin white line cut straight in through the gap, landing on my pillow. Typhoon had passed, sky was clear like nothing had happened.
I got up to use the bathroom, glanced at the shoe cabinet passing through the living room. That bow hair clip was still there, had dried, pink faded to a slightly weathered water red. Bead had completely fallen off, rolled to the corner of the shoe cabinet.
Cooked and ate a pack of instant noodles, went downstairs to buy cigarettes. Stairway still had residual dampness from yesterday's rain, but the floor was dry. The stairway corner window was closed—someone must have done it. The fifth-floor mahjong parlor door was ajar, clattering mahjong tiles sound drifting out.
Walked to the first floor, unit door wide open, the old locust tree by the entrance had snapped a thick branch, lying across the road, leaves still green, broken end bone-white. Several aunties and uncles clustered around the community bulletin board murmuring.
A new notice was posted on the bulletin board. Pink A4 paper, top line in bold black: "Missing Person Notice." I walked over and glanced, and my feet suddenly froze to the ground.
The girl in the photo had twin pigtails, thin bangs across her forehead, a pink bow hair clip on her left pigtail. Exactly the same as the one on the shoe cabinet. Even the angle of the loose bead was the same—that left bead, tilted slightly downward.
The girl in the photo was smiling, eyes curved, showing two small tiger teeth. Looked about eleven or twelve, round face, very fair skin.
The text said: Name Zhou Xiaoyu, age 12, lost near this community on the afternoon of the 16th. Last seen wearing white T-shirt, blue jeans, twin pigtails, pink bow hair clip. Anyone with information please contact the family.
16th. Yesterday was the 16th. The day the typhoon made landfall.
A mobile number was left below the photo, plus a small line: "The child is introverted and timid, lost on a typhoon day. Family is extremely anxious, kindly people please provide clues."
I stood in front of the bulletin board, summer sun burning on the back of my neck, a little hot. The glass of the bulletin board reflected, I could see my own face in it, expression hard to describe.
The aunties nearby were still chatting: "Such a pity, what was she doing out on a typhoon day." "Heard she got lost in the community, surveillance camera broken for several days." "Don't know if they found her yet."
"When was this posted?" I asked an auntie in a floral shirt next to me.
"This morning, around seven," the auntie looked me up and down, "Which floor are you on?"
"Seventh floor."
"Seventh floor top?" The auntie's eyes changed a little, "That little girl got lost in the community on the afternoon of the 16th. Someone said they saw her going upstairs, heading toward your building."
My heart missed a beat. "Toward our building?"
"Yes." The auntie lowered her voice, "Property management checked the surveillance, but it broke last month. Only an old lady on the first floor said she saw a little girl enter the third unit. Your unit."
Third unit. My unit. Top floor. Seventh floor. The knocking. Girl's voice. Bow hair clip on the doorknob.
My brain *buzzed* for a second. The one knocking last night was her? She went up to the seventh floor, knocked on my door, said she wanted to shelter from the rain. Then what? I opened the door. No one outside.
"Then...did they find her?" I asked.
The auntie shook her head. "Not yet. Her parents are frantic. Last night the typhoon was so bad, where could a twelve-year-old girl go. Some guess she fell into a sewer, property management lifted those manhole covers to check, nothing."
Another auntie with a vegetable basket chimed in: "Strange you say, why would she run up to the top floor?"
"Kid running around."
"But I heard," the basket lady's voice got lower, "her home is on the fifth floor. Across from the mahjong parlor. Fifth floor! Why would she run up to the seventh?"
Fifth floor. The unit across from the mahjong parlor. The unit that moved out last year? No, the one that moved out was the sixth floor. Someone lives on the fifth floor? I never noticed. I barely know anyone in this building, except the mahjong parlor boss who nods occasionally in the stairwell, everyone else is a stranger to me.
"People live on the fifth floor?" I asked.
Both aunties looked at me at the same time. "Of course they do, a family of three, moved in half a year ago," the floral shirt auntie said. "That little girl is their daughter."
Fifth floor. Family of three. Little girl. Lost. Typhoon night went to the top floor. Knocked on my door.
"Her...didn't her parents contact property management? Come upstairs to look?"
"They did, how couldn't they," said the basket lady. "Last night they already called the police, property management led people searching the whole building, every floor checked, including the top-floor rooftop—nothing. Strange isn't it, someone saw her enter the unit, but nobody above or below saw her."
They were still saying something, I didn't catch it. Turned and ran upstairs. Two steps at a time, stopped when I reached the fifth floor. The mahjong parlor door was open a crack, mahjong tiles still clattering inside.
The door opposite was closed, a faded *Fu* character posted on the anti-theft door, a milk box nailed beside the doorframe, box door half-open, inside empty.
I stood in front of that door for two seconds. Inside was very quiet, couldn't hear any sound. Yesterday's typhoon was so bad, the windows on this floor were tightly shut, not a drop of water seeped into the stairway.
But last night when I opened my door, where did that puddle come from? Spread from the seventh-floor stairway entrance all the way to my door. That water trail clearly was brought up from downstairs.
I kept going up. The sixth-floor unit indeed moved out, a few unremoved cardboard boxes piled at the door, covered in a layer of dust. Then the seventh floor. I stopped at my own door.
The clip on the shoe cabinet was still there, pink, fabric, bead fallen off. I picked it up and held it in my palm, fabric had dried out completely, stiff.
In those few seconds when I opened my door last night, what exactly was out there?
I stood at the door for a long time. The stairway motion-sensor light went out then lit up then went out again. No one lives above, mahjong sound and vague voices drifting from downstairs. Everything looked normal. Like any ordinary summer afternoon. But that clip in my palm was icy cold, like it was just pulled out of water.
I took out my phone and dialed the number on the missing person notice. Three rings, connected. A woman's voice on the other end, hoarse, like she'd been crying for a long time.
"Hello?"
"Hello," my throat felt tight, "I saw the missing person notice, about Zhou Xiaoyu."
There was a pause on the other end. "You have clues?"
"Last night... during the typhoon, someone knocked on my door."
She drew in a sharp breath. "What time?"
"I'm not sure, around eight, more or less. A girl's voice, said sheltering from rain."
"Did you open the door?" Her voice suddenly sharpened.
I gripped the clip tighter in my hand. "Yes. No one was outside. But something appeared at the door."
"What?"
I hesitated. "A bow hair clip. Pink."
Suddenly there was silence on the line. After several seconds, the woman's voice changed, hoarse and shaking: "Say it again? What color?"
"Pink. Bow-shaped, fabric, left bead is loose." I looked down at the clip in my palm, "Exactly the same as the one I saw in the photo on the missing notice."
A sound like struggling to breathe came through the phone. Then a man's voice took over: "Hello, I'm Zhou Xiaoyu's father. You said you found a hair clip?"
"Yes, it was hanging on my door handle last night. I opened the door and nobody was outside, but the clip was hanging on the handle."
"Where are you now? We'll come over."
"Seventh floor, third unit."
"Okay, we'll be right there."
After hanging up I squatted down leaning against the doorframe. The stairway motion-sensor light went out again, darkness wrapped around me. The fifth-floor mahjong sound was faint, cicadas chirping outside the window.
Summer noon sunlight poured in from the stairway corner window, cutting a bright trapezoid on the steps. Everything was normal. Normal enough to make my back tingle.
What exactly happened last night?
I stood up, opened my door. The tissue on the shoe cabinet was still there, dry now. The wet mark on the doormat had dried, leaving a faint circle.
I walked in, pulled the door closed behind me. The room looked about the same as last night, the leaking spots had dried, a few water stain marks on the tile floor.
I sat on the sofa. The bow hair clip in my palm I'd held warm. I spread my palm out looking at it, a small patch of dried mud on the fabric, mixed with a very fine grain of white sand.
There's no beach near this community, the nearest beach is twenty kilometers away.
Twenty minutes later someone knocked on the door. This time I lay on the peephole to look. Outside stood a man and a woman. The woman was in her forties, eyes swollen like walnuts. The man was tall and thin, wearing a gray polo shirt, collar crumpled. I opened the door. As soon as it opened the woman grabbed my wrist, strength huge, nails digging into my flesh.
"The clip?"
I handed over the clip. She took one look at it and her whole body went limp, slowly sliding down against the doorframe, her husband caught her. The man stared at the clip for several seconds, his Adam's apple moving up and down.
"It's hers," his voice very soft, "the one on her head."
"When you opened the door last night you didn't see anyone?" The woman suddenly looked up at me, "She didn't come in?"
"No. The doorway was empty."
"Impossible," she stared at me, "Xiaoyu wouldn't run around. She must have had a reason to come upstairs. Why didn't she come in when you opened the door? She couldn't come in?"
"What do you mean she couldn't come in?" I asked.
The man interrupted her, looked at me: "You're certain no one was outside? Did you hear any other sounds?" He pointed at the ground by the door, "For example... water sounds?"
My brain *buzzed*. That word "water sounds" reminded me of last night's puddle. The water that spread from the stairway entrance all the way to my door. Like someone just stood there, soles bringing water in.
"Yes," I said, "the ground was all water. Like someone had just walked in from the rain."
The man and woman exchanged a look. There was something indescribable in that look. Not fear, not sadness. Like... confirming something.
"What else?" the man lowered his voice, "what else did you see?"
"Nothing else." I thought about it, "wait, there was. When I looked downstairs, the stairway corner window was open, rain pouring in."
"Window was open," the man repeated, "the stairway corner window on the seventh floor."
"Yes."
The woman suddenly cried. Tears dropped one by one onto the clip in her hand, soaking the dried fabric surface again.
Her husband put his arm around her shoulders, patted her, then looked at me: "That window, property management says it's locked shut. Yesterday afternoon when they searched the building they wanted to open it to check the outside platform, but it was locked, couldn't open. You're certain you saw it open?"
I opened my mouth. The platform outside the window. There's a narrow cement platform outside the stairway corner window on the seventh floor, about a foot wide, attached to the outer wall. I noticed it the first day I moved in. That window was indeed locked, property management said to prevent people climbing out and getting hurt.
But last night I saw that window wide open, wind pouring rain in, soaking half the stairway.
"...It looked open to me," I said, "wind pouring in from there."
The man went silent for a long time. His wife was sobbing in his arms, the clip deformed in her hands. The stairway motion-sensor light went out again, light slanted out from the door where we three stood, pulling long shadows on the stairs. The shadow of those cardboard boxes on the sixth floor also dragged on the ground, crooked.
"There's a platform outside that window," the man spoke, voice hoarse, "no guardrail outside the platform, just the outer wall. If that window was really open last night and someone crawled out from there..."
He didn't finish. The woman trembled violently in his arms.
I suddenly thought of something. "Did you... when you searched the building last night, did you check the seventh floor?"
"Yes," the man said, "property management led people searching from the first floor all the way to the rooftop, checked every floor. Seventh-floor stairway, corridor, and your unit's doorway—all checked. Nothing."
"What time did you search last night?"
"After ten o'clock. After we reported to police."
After ten. The last time I looked through the peephole was around that time too. That puddle was still outside the door, spread quietly on the gray ground, like a blurry shadow.
"That clip then?" I asked, "did they see a clip on the doorknob when they searched?"
The woman stopped crying, both she and her husband looked at me.
"No," the man said, "they saw nothing."
The hair on my back stood up. The clip hung on my door handle the whole night, from past eight to the next morning. The property management search team passed my door, didn't see it. I lay on the peephole looking out, didn't see it. But when I lowered my head in the morning, there it was, hanging there.
"Then where was it last night?" I heard myself ask.
No one answered. The stairway was perfectly quiet, the fifth-floor mahjong sound had stopped somewhere. Sunlight shone brightly in through the stairway corner window—that window was closed, locked tight.
Outside the glass was the foot-wide cement platform, further out the seventh-floor outer wall, with a few dry ivy vines climbing it. There were faint water stains on the platform, half-dried by the sun.
The stain shape was irregular, but looking carefully you could make it out—two small footprints. Heels toward the window, toes pointing outward.
I stared at those two footprints. The woman stared too. Her husband reached out a hand, slowly pushed that window. Not moving. A small padlock hung on the latch, lock head rusty, looking at that corrosion level it had been hanging there for at least two or three years.
Last night I saw it wide open. Wind pouring in from outside, splashing rain on the stairs. But now it's locked. Locked from the outside.
"That lock..." the woman's voice trembling, "can it be locked from outside?"
No one answered her. Sunlight shone in through the glass, making those two faint water footprints on the platform clearer then lighter. They were evaporating. Just like that puddle outside the door last night, disappearing from this world.
I went back inside, sat on the sofa. Phone screen was lit, showing that missing notice image. The little girl in the photo had twin pigtails, bow hair clip on her left hair, that left bead tilted slightly.
She smiled sweetly, tiger teeth white and small. She lived on the fifth floor, walked into the third unit's entrance three days ago, then no one ever saw her again.
Someone saw her going upstairs. Top floor. Seventh floor. She knocked on my door.
I opened it.
No one outside.
But a clip appeared on the handle.
I picked up my phone and looked at that photo again. The photo had a watermark, auto-generated by a missing person platform, showing the posting time was six PM yesterday.
An hour before the typhoon made landfall. Her disappearance time was two PM yesterday. The 16th on the missing notice was yesterday.
Those two aunties downstairs said "three days ago," did I mishear or did they say it wrong? I remembered, that floral shirt auntie said "that little girl got lost in the community on the afternoon of the 16th," she said "16th," not three days ago. It was the basket auntie who said "three days ago."
Today's the 17th. Yesterday the 16th. Lost for one day.
But when that clip hung on my door handle, the fabric was soaked, water dripping from the bow. Like just pulled out of water. Yesterday's typhoon, getting soaked by rain was normal. But what about the fine sand stuck on it?
I stood up, walked to the door, opened it and glanced down the stairs. The fifth-floor door was open a crack, a man leaned out half his body—the gray polo shirt man from earlier, Zhou Xiaoyu's father. He was saying something to his wife, woman leaning on his shoulder, still sobbing. He saw me and nodded.
"That window," I started, "after you called police last night, did the police come look?"
"They did," he said, "checked the stairway, checked the rooftop, checked that window. It was locked."
"Did they see footprints on the platform outside the window?"
He paused. "What footprints?"
"On the platform, outside the windowsill. Two water footprints."
He let go of his wife, walked to the stairway corner, peered out that window. Sunlight shot through the glass, illuminating the expression on his face clearly. He looked for a long time, slowly turned back.
"No," he said, "nothing outside. Cement platform spotless, not even a single leaf."
I stood at the seventh-floor stairway entrance, looking at him. He stood at the corner between sixth and seventh floors, separated by seven or eight steps looking at me. Motion-sensor light went out then lit up, lit up then went out. Neither of us spoke.
Those two footprints on the platform outside were still clearly in my view just now. Just a few minutes ago, when sunlight slanted past, the water stains were clear. Now he says they're gone. Spotless.
I turned and went back inside, closed the door. The fabric touch of that clip still lingered in my palm, soft and cold. The bead on the shoe cabinet was still there, chubby little plastic bead, I picked it up and pinched it. Ordinary, street stall goods.
I put the bead in the drawer. Thought about it again, took it out. Put it in my pants pocket.
That night I didn't turn off the living room light. All evening, TV was on, volume turned up loud, didn't even know what was playing. I sat on the sofa staring at the door, staring at the peephole. No one knocked. Not a single knock all night.
Next morning when I went downstairs, the missing notice on the bulletin board had been torn off, only four corners of transparent tape marks remaining. The fifth-floor door was closed, a copy of today's newspaper stuffed in the milk box.
I never saw that clip again. No one ever mentioned Zhou Xiaoyu's name again.
Only occasionally late at night, when the wind is strong, I'll suddenly hear three knocks. *Bang, bang, bang.* Pause. Then everything goes quiet. I never got up to look through the peephole. Because I don't know, if I really saw something, whether I could still just close the door like last time.
That clip is still in my drawer now. Pink bow, one bead missing on the left. Occasionally when I open the drawer to get something I'll see it, lying quietly in the corner. Dried up, that grain of sand on the fabric somewhere fell off I don't know when.
Everything's like nothing ever happened. Calm, blazing sun high.
Only one thing I still can't figure out. When I talked to those two aunties downstairs that noon, they said "three days ago." But the missing notice said the 16th. Yesterday. Zhou Xiaoyu was lost for one day. Not three days.
But that plastic bead in my pocket... I looked at it closely later. There was a very faint scratch on it, like something had bumped it. The arc of that scratch was strange, not like it had fallen on the ground. More like... something had bitten it in its mouth.
A little girl's tooth mark.
---
**The Little Girl's Story**
I am Zhou Xiaoyu.
That typhoon afternoon, I was bored stuck at home, heard wind sounds in the stairway, thought about going up to the rooftop to look at the clouds. My home is on the fifth floor, the sixth floor is empty, the seventh floor is the only top floor. I ran up in a hurry, somehow the stairway window was open, that rusty old lock came loose with a light touch that day.
Rain outside was too heavy, wind *whooshed* in suddenly, I lost my footing, half my body slid onto the narrow platform outside the window.
I got stuck there at the window like that—raining on me, wind blowing, shivering cold. Wind and rain seemed like they'd never stop, cold seeping through bone gaps into my body, every minute and second unbearably long.
I counted the wind sounds in the stairway, rain hitting the wall sounds, clinging on for dear life, feeling like I'd been trapped here for countless days and nights, so long I almost forgot what a warm room felt like. I clenched my bow hair clip in my mouth out of fear, the bead getting a faint tooth mark bitten into it, wind from the distant sea blowing fine sand onto my soaked clip.
I saw the warm yellow light seeping from the seventh floor, that little warmth became my only hope. I climbed up with all my strength, raised my hand over and over banging on that door, all I wanted was to get in, to escape this endless wind and rain. But strange things happened—no matter how I knocked, how long I waited, whenever the door crack slightly opened, the ground under my feet would instantly shift. One second I was at the warm stairway entrance, the next I'd plummet back to the cold damp windowsill platform. I tried over and over, could never cross that short inch of distance, could never escape this violent storm.
Now, I'm still trapped in this endless typhoon, over and over, knocking on that door I can never enter.