My Dead Sister Called at Her Funeral

Su Wantang's phone rang one second before the cremation chamber closed. The caller ID said Sister. Wantang stood in the front row of the farewell hall with Su Qinghe's death certificate still crushed in one hand. Sweat had softened the edge of the paper, but the black seal remained sharp. Time of death: 2:17 a.m., three days ago. The phone rang again. The man reading the eulogy faltered. Behind him, a wall of white lilies surrounded Qinghe's portrait. She was smiling in it, chin lifted, as if death were another bad argument she intended to win. On the third ring, Wantang's stepmother leaned close. "Turn it off," Cheng Manli whispered. Her eyes were swollen, but her makeup was perfect. "Let your sister leave in peace." Wantang did not move. She had called this number forty-seven times since the crash. Each time, a recorded woman had informed her that the subscriber's phone was switched off. Now it was vibrating against her palm. Once. Twice. Like someone knocking from inside a sealed room. Wantang answered. "Hello?" Fabric scraped against a microphone. A woman breathed on the other end, quick and shallow. Then came one word. "Wantang." Feeling vanished from Wantang's fingers. It was Qinghe. Not merely a similar voice. Qinghe always let the end of her sister's name fall instead of rise. The first syllable blurred slightly because of braces she had worn at thirteen, an old habit so subtle that Qinghe herself denied it existed. Wantang knew it existed. She restored damaged voices for courts and police laboratories. She could find a lie hidden under traffic noise or rebuild a syllable from the vibration left on glass. She knew her sister's voice. "Qinghe?" Someone in the hall gasped. Manli stood so abruptly that her chair struck the floor. The voice on the phone sharpened. "Don't let them burn my body." Wantang looked up. Beyond the glass partition, the conveyor belt was moving. The black coffin had already entered the chamber halfway. A crematorium worker's hand hovered over the final control. "Stop!" Wantang ran. Manli caught her sleeve. "What are you doing?" "Stop the machine!" Wantang tore free. Her father rose from the family seats, his face drained of color. "Wantang, come back," Su Bainian ordered. "That is your sister." "That's why I'm opening the coffin." The farewell hall erupted. Relatives shouted. Reporters who had been invited to document the dignified funeral of the Su Medical heiress lifted their phones instead. Wantang reached the control room first and slammed her palm onto the red emergency switch. An alarm cut through the hall. The conveyor stopped. The coffin remained trapped in the mouth of the chamber, its lacquered end protruding like a severed shadow. Two security guards seized Wantang by the shoulders. "Miss Su, step away from the controls." "Listen to the call." She raised her phone. "Just listen." Manli hurried toward her, grief stripped from her face. "Your sister is dead. How much longer are you going to torment her?" Wantang stared at her stepmother. The call had not disconnected. The same alarm sounded on the other end. One short pulse every three seconds. Under it came the shuffle of mourners, the crash of a fallen chair, even Manli's last question, faint but unmistakable. This was not a recording made three days ago. Whoever had called was listening to the funeral in real time. "Where are you?" Wantang asked. Qinghe did not answer. Something clicked near the phone at the other end, like a door opening. Then her sister breathed, "The murderer is behind you." The line went dead. Wantang turned. The rear doors of the hall stood open. Rain hammered the stone steps outside. A man lowered a black umbrella and walked in. Gu Yanzhou. He was the last person known to have met Qinghe before the crash. He was also the chief architect of the Gu Corporation's Echo Project—and the police's only serious suspect until his lawyers dismantled their timeline. No white flower marked his black coat. He carried a slim silver case instead. Manli's voice changed when she saw him. "Who let you in?" Yanzhou ignored her. His gaze passed over Wantang and fixed on the half-swallowed coffin. "So the call got through," he said. Wantang stepped into his path. "You knew she would call?" "I knew someone would try." "Where is my sister?" Only then did he look at her. His expression held no apology and none of the panic a guilty man should have shown. He studied her with cold, careful attention. "Open the coffin first," he said. "Otherwise, you will never know whether the caller was your sister." The guards closed around them. Bainian reached his daughter and lowered his voice. "Enough. Half the board is here. Every financial paper in the city has a reporter in this room. Do you want to turn our family into a circus?" Wantang looked at her father. He had identified Qinghe's body after the crash. He had told Wantang the damage was too severe and forbidden her from seeing it. "One minute," she said. "Let me see her for one minute." "No." The answer came too quickly. Something inside Wantang went still. She twisted away from the guards and grabbed the metal handle at the end of the coffin. Before they could drag her back, Yanzhou placed his silver case on the identification panel. A green light appeared. The cremation chamber unlocked. The worker stared at him. "How do you have system access?" Yanzhou did not answer. He pushed one guard aside and took the handle opposite Wantang. Together, they hauled the coffin back onto the cooling platform. Its lid was locked. Wantang held out her hand. "Tool." No one offered one. Yanzhou opened his case and removed a narrow electronic key. He inserted it beneath the lock. The mechanism beeped. Manli lunged forward. "Don't open it!" She was not reaching for Wantang. She was reaching for Yanzhou's silver case. The guards intercepted her. In the confusion, Wantang lifted the lid. Cold air spilled over her hands. White burial clothes. Fingers folded over a still chest. Qinghe's familiar face. Someone behind Wantang began to cry. Someone else muttered that grief had driven the younger Su daughter insane. Wantang heard none of it. She was staring at the ring on the dead woman's right hand. Old silver. A crooked scratch along one edge. A tiny W engraved inside the band. Wantang had lost that ring two years ago in her audio laboratory. She bent over the coffin and took the woman's cold left hand. The fingertips were soft. Qinghe had played the violin for seventeen years. Thin calluses covered four fingers of her left hand. They had remained even during the years she rarely played. This woman had none. There was only a fresh puncture mark near the base of her thumb. "This isn't Su Qinghe." Silence dropped across the hall. Bainian's lips parted. "What did you say?" Wantang raised the corpse's hand for everyone to see. "This woman is not my sister." Her phone lit again. This time, there was no number. A red countdown filled the screen. 06:59:58 Below it, a message appeared. SEVEN HOURS UNTIL THE SECOND CALL.