Third Floor

The iron door was heavier than it looked.

When Jiang Du pushed it open, the hinge let out a long screech, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. He paused, looked back at the street. The street was empty. Pinkish fog floated under the streetlights, in clumps, wrapping the whole street in the color of cotton candy.

He sidled in.

The stairwell was darker. The sound-activated light was broken; only a green emergency light at the first-floor landing illuminated a patch of peeling wall. Dust lay thick on the floor, with footprints—not many, scattered, going up and down. The footprints weren't fresh; their edges had collapsed, half covered by dust.

He didn't examine the footprints. He was smelling that smell.

Damp, old. Inside the stairwell, the smell was stronger, almost tasteable—bitter at the back of the tongue, like holding a rusty copper coin in the mouth. He recognized it. The woman in his dream this morning had that smell. Wet clothes, stored for a long time, then taken out again.

He started up the stairs.

The concrete steps were chipped; the iron railing was so cold it stung his hand. First floor, second floor. On the second-floor landing, a few cardboard boxes were stacked, soaked through, half-collapsed, revealing moldy old clothes. Third floor.

The third-floor landing was cleaner than the two below. The dust was thinner, the wall more intact. To the left, a door with a faded "福" character pasted upside-down, corners curling. To the right, a closed security door, dark red, dust on the handle.

Directly facing the stairs, a door was ajar.

Jiang Du stood at the landing, looking at that door. A finger-wide strip of dim light leaked through the crack. He counted three seconds, walked over, and pushed the door open with his fingertip.

The door was unlocked.

Inside, it was darker than the stairwell. He felt along the wall for the light switch, clicked it. Nothing. Clicked again. Nothing. The power was off, or the wiring had long been cut. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight.

The beam swept across.

One-bedroom layout. The living room wasn't big; a fabric sofa against the wall, dust on the cover, and on the dust, handprints—not his, smaller, with slender fingers, as if someone had recently wiped it. On the coffee table sat a glass, dry at the bottom, no water stains. On the TV cabinet stood a picture frame, empty, the photo removed, leaving a square patch whiter than the surroundings.

Kitchen on the left; on the stove sat a pot with the lid on. He didn't open it.

He walked further in. Bedroom.

The bedroom door was open. A double bed with pink sheets, blanket neatly folded, two pillows side by side. On the nightstand a desk lamp with a crooked shade. The wardrobe was closed. The curtains were drawn—heavy blackout curtains, blocking all daylight from the window.

The room was very quiet. So quiet he could hear his own blood moving in his ears.

Jiang Du raised his phone, the beam slowly moving across the wall. When it reached the corner, he stopped.

In the corner stood a mirror.

A full-length mirror, wooden frame, the paint peeling on the frame. The mirror faced the wall, covered by a cloth. The cloth was white—originally white, now yellowed, its edges trailing on the floor, dusty.

He stared at the cloth for a long time.

He didn't want to go over. He stood at the door, the flashlight beam hitting the cloth, the weave clearly visible. He could feel the mirror waiting for him. Just like the woman this morning was waiting for him to speak, this mirror was also waiting.

He walked over.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the empty room. He stopped in front of the mirror, reached out, and pinched the corner of the cloth. The fabric was cold, damp, with that peculiar stiffness of cotton that had been stored for a long time.

He pulled. The cloth fell.

The mirror was black. Not the black of no light—it was black from within. The mirror surface was like stagnant water; the flashlight beam hit it and was absorbed, only a dim, greasy reflection floating back.

Jiang Du brought the phone closer.

There was something on the mirror.

At first he thought it was dust or water stains. But no. It was writing. Characters oozing out from inside the mirror, as if someone had dipped a finger in water and written on the back of the glass, the moisture seeping through to the front.

One character after another seeped out.

Zhou.

Tang.

After those two, a pause. Then a few more characters.

2019.

.

8.

.

14.

Third Floor.

Jiang Du stepped back.

The phone light trembled. He gripped it tighter, the beam steadied, shining on the mirror. The line of characters floated clearly on the mirror surface, like blood oozing from a wound, blurry at the edges, clear in the center.

Zhou Tang. 2019.8.14. Third Floor.

He recognized that date. He had searched it this morning. The news said the woman fell from a building on August 14, 2019.

He recognized that name. He had heard it from his own mouth this morning.

He recognized "Third Floor"—he was standing on the third floor right now.

He looked down at the mirror base. The base was wood; on the base a photo was taped with yellowed transparent tape, edges curling. He crouched down, bringing the phone closer.

In the photo was a woman.

Long hair. Light blue dress. A few small flowers embroidered on the collar.

Jiang Du's breath stopped.

It was her.

The woman from his dream, standing at the foot of his bed. Wet hair, light blue dress, embroidered flowers on the collar. Exactly the same. Even the color of the flowers, the position of the embroidery, the shape of the collar—all identical.

The woman in the photo was smiling. Standing in front of some sunflowers, good sunlight, eyes squinting, a wisp of hair blown by the wind. She looked twenty-seven or twenty-eight, young, ordinary, the kind of person you wouldn't glance twice at on the street.

But she was dead.

Dead for seven years.

Jiang Du crouched in front of the mirror base, staring at the photo, not moving for a long time. His mind was chaotic, tangled like the hair strands in that red rain, impossible to untie.

A woman dead seven years entered his dream, borrowed his mouth to say a sentence, brought a rain of blood. Then she led him here, in front of this mirror, to see her name, her death date, the place she died.

Why him?

He had never seen this woman in his life. Never heard her name. When he awakened his ability at twenty-four, she was already dead—August 14, 2019, Zhou Tang fell from the third floor; on the seventh day after her death, he first said "it will hail today," and that afternoon the windows in his office yard shattered.

He calculated. August 14, 2019. The first time he accurately predicted the weather was that summer. He couldn't recall the exact day; it was in his notebook, in the iron box, not with him now.

But this date—August 14, 2019—

He stood up, his legs numb. He pulled out his phone, exited the camera, opened the browser. In the search bar, he didn't hesitate this time; he typed two characters: Zhou Tang.

The results were the same as this morning. Still that news article, "Woman Falls to Death in a Residential Community, Police Rule Out Homicide." He clicked in and read it again. Same few lines, still "a certain residential community," still "ruled out homicide."

But this time, he knew where that "certain residential community" was.

He looked up at the bedroom curtains. Behind the curtains was a balcony. He walked over and pulled the curtains open.

The balcony glass door was unlocked. He pushed it and stepped out. The balcony wasn't big; the railing was iron, rusted. A clothesline hung from the railing, faded, sagging limply. On the floor was a plastic flowerpot, the soil completely dry, a dead twig sticking out.

He looked down.

Third floor. Below was concrete pavement, covered with pink rainwater. Floating in the water was something—strands of hair, fine, black, exactly like the ones on his windowsill this morning.

This is where he fell from. No, she. This is where she fell from.

Jiang Du retreated into the room.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, head down, staring at the floor. The floor was tiled, white with blue borders, dust in the grout. He stared for a long time, so long that the phone screen automatically turned off, the room went dark, leaving only the faint glow from the characters on the mirror.

Zhou Tang. 2019.8.14. Third Floor.

Suddenly he wondered: when did these characters start seeping out? Was it this morning after he spoke? Or earlier? If earlier, how much earlier? Seven years? On the day she died seven years ago, did this mirror start oozing characters?

No one would have seen them. The apartment had been empty for seven years. No one came. The characters seeped for seven years, unseen.

Until today.

Until he came.

He stood up, covered the mirror again with the cloth. He didn't want to see those characters anymore. He needed to leave, to go back, to think this thing through from beginning to end—but he didn't know where to start. He didn't know why he was being drawn in, why that woman sought him out, whether that sentence this morning was his or hers.

All he knew was that from now on, every word he said might no longer be his own.

He walked out of the bedroom, through the living room, to the door. He looked back at the empty apartment: the sofa, coffee table, empty frame, mirror covered with cloth. The look of a place uninhabited for seven years. But not quite—too clean. The dust was fresh; the handprints were fresh. Someone had been here. Someone had come not long ago.

He pulled the door open and stepped out.

The stairwell was still dark. The green emergency light glowed faintly, illuminating a section of wall. He walked toward the stairs; his footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell.

At the stair landing, he heard a sound.

Footsteps. Coming down from above.

He stopped and looked up.

On the fourth-floor landing, someone was coming down.

Jiang Du instinctively moved closer to the wall, making room. The person walked fast, leather shoes tapping on the concrete steps, steady rhythm. Jiang Du didn't see the face clearly, just a silhouette—medium build, wearing a gray jacket, zipped up to the chest.

That person turned at the landing, facing Jiang Du.

Just a moment.

Jiang Du saw the face. Ordinary. Too ordinary. Around forty, square face, thin eyebrows, not large eyes, thin lips. The kind of face that would disappear in a crowd in a second. But in that instant, the person clearly paused—half a beat in his steps, eyes sweeping over Jiang Du's face, then quickly looking away.

Then he lowered his head, quickened his pace, walked past Jiang Du, and went down the stairs.

Tap tap tap. The footsteps faded, growing softer, finally disappearing on the first floor.

Jiang Du stood on the landing, not moving.

He stared at the direction the person had disappeared. His heart was beating slowly, one beat after another, thudding in his chest.

That person had come down from the fourth floor. In this building, no one lived above the third floor—he had seen when he came up that the fourth-floor landing was cluttered with odds and ends, and the door had a seal. That person came from the fourth floor, meaning he had been to the fourth floor. But the fourth floor was sealed.

What was he doing there?

And—why did he pause when he saw Jiang Du?

Jiang Du slowly walked down the stairs. First floor. The iron door was still half-open. He stepped out, stood in the pink fog, and looked back at the building.

Six stories. Gray brick. Peeling paint. Dark entrance.

The windows on every floor were dark, except the third floor—the one he had just left—the curtain wasn't drawn tight, leaving a finger-wide gap. What leaked through the gap wasn't light, but darkness. Yet he felt that behind that gap, something was watching him.

He turned and walked quickly toward the bus stop.

That person's face was etched in his mind. Ordinary, square face, thin eyebrows, thin lips. Gray jacket, zipped to the chest.

He remembered.

He didn't know who that person was, why he came down from the fourth floor, why he appeared in an empty building uninhabited for seven years. But he knew one thing—

That person had also seen him.

And that person didn't want to be seen.

The pink fog hung in the air, clearest under the streetlights. Jiang Du walked in the fog, the sweat on his back cold against his shirt. He put his hands in his pockets and touched the small notebook.

He didn't take it out. He didn't want to write now. He only wanted to leave this place.

But he knew he would come back tomorrow.