Eyes of the Unseen

I have always believed that every person’s life is a story, and within that long journey, there’s always a period etched deeper than the rest. My story began on an afternoon that seemed utterly ordinary. That day, I boarded the subway home, my body aching, every bone carrying the exhaustion of a long day’s work. Around me were faces just like mine—blank, tired, eyes dull with repetition, minds drifting to the same unchanging dinners, silently counting the endless, looping days as they sat or stood in silence. When I left work, Duan Yan called to say he’d be on a business trip for a week, flying to Shanghai that very evening. He worked in an administrative position, so such a long trip was unusual. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it before. My mother had never truly approved of our marriage. At first, she thought Duan Yan’s city was too far away; later she complained that he wasn’t considerate enough, that I might suffer in silence. But deep down, I always felt those weren’t her real reasons. Duan Yan had solemnly promised my mother he’d take good care of me. Seeing my stubborn insistence on marrying him, she had no choice but to let me go, though it pained her. I followed Duan Yan to the unfamiliar city of Qimo, escaping my mother’s watch like a bird flying free from its cage. He treated me as if I were his most precious treasure—the red mark at the center of an immortal’s brow—and I won’t deny it: I was blissfully, overwhelmingly happy. After our wedding, we rented an old multi-story apartment. It had three bedrooms and two living rooms, spacious and airy, but far too large. Many rooms stood empty, used only for storage, their doors perpetually closed. I’ve always been timid. I hated being alone. Even at night, I wanted him to accompany me to the bathroom. Walking alone past those empty rooms felt like sharp edges pressing against my back; the house was too old, always carrying the breath of history. Duan Yan would shuffle beside me, half closing his tired eyes, arm wrapped around my shoulders as we passed room after room. Standing at the bathroom door, he would ask over and over, “Scaredy-cat, are you done yet?” I’d only be satisfied if he looked straight at me. Usually he’d come over, pinch my nose, pat my back lightly, and say with a smile, “Little one, I’m spoiling you.” The air had a chill to it that day. Downstairs, the world was quiet. A breeze stirred the young trees, making their leaves whisper. I rummaged noisily in my bag for my keys. When I looked up, someone was standing not far away—a person with a black silk scarf covering half their face. I couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Black shirt, black trousers, white shoes. They stood motionless, breathless. I hurried past them, climbed the stairs, unlocked the door. Habit made me lean inside to flick on the switch before entering fully. Light first, then step in. Up on tiptoe, I peeked through the peephole back out. Click. Door closed, deadbolt latched, keys hung from the lock inside—this way the door couldn’t be opened from outside, but if something happened, I could escape easily. I shook my head, laughing at my own cowardice. I crept onto the balcony to peek down. No one was standing below anymore. Duan Yan didn’t call. I threw together a simple meal for myself, kept the lights and TV on, and curled up on the sofa until I drifted off. It was a bright, noisy night. Nothing happened. Early the next morning, I rolled off the sofa, groggy, dragging myself to work. All day I felt like a withered eggplant, barely making it to quitting time, with only one thought left in my head: sleep. Our old neighborhood was quiet, the building a classic two-apartments-per-floor layout where neighbors hardly ever spoke. It felt like no one lived there. I trudged up one flight, then another… five flights in all. Suddenly, I saw someone standing outside my door—the same figure from yesterday: black clothes, black trousers, white shoes. This time it was a woman. Her long black hair hung loose like a waterfall, covering her face. She stood there silently. My heart pounded as I instinctively took two steps back, crossing my arms protectively over my chest. Forcing down my panic, I whispered, “Who… are you looking for?” Her eyes shone unnaturally bright. She stared at me without a word. Her thin blouse and long hair stirred gently, but there was no wind at all. She must be looking for the neighbor across the hall, I told myself, clinging to that thought. Pretending to be calm, I turned to unlock my door—but my hand trembled so badly the key wouldn’t fit. It clattered to the floor. I snatched it up, stumbled inside, closed the door softly without daring to look back. Pressing my back to the door, I held my breath for a long time before I dared glance through the peephole. The hallway outside was empty. Nothing at all. I wanted Duan Yan to come home. Now. Shaking, I dialed his number. If he flew back tonight, I only had to wait two hours. I kept telling myself: there’s nothing to be afraid of. Don’t be afraid. But the call wouldn’t go through. Again and again, the same “unable to connect” tone. I called my best friend, Yan Fei, hoping she’d come over. But she was frantic with her sick child—her son Xiaolong had a fever. Before hanging up, she tried to comfort me. “Don’t scare yourself. Get some sleep. You’ll feel better. By the way, when did you get a cat? It’s so noisy.” A cat? I don’t have a cat, I thought.