I stood outside Evergreen Court and realized I didn't want to go in.
This was her apartment. The one she shared with her husband. The one where he died. Zhang Feng bought it after she went to prison. Three years, and he'd been sleeping in her bed.
Damn, the more I think about it, the creepier it gets. This scum.
Not because I was afraid. Because I knew what I'd find. A man sleeping in a dead woman's life. Eating her food. Breathing her air. Lying in the same bed where her husband died, probably snoring, probably dreaming about nothing at all.
Three years. He had been living here for three years. While Lin Yue rotted in prison and died in an infirmary at twenty-eight.
And now he was upstairs. Sleeping.
I walked through the front door.
---
The lobby was empty. Fluorescent lights flickering.
The elevator opened for no one. I got in anyway. Old habit. Yeah, for the last three years, this is one of those supernatural things I don't get. Every time I get near the elevator, the door suddenly opens.
The fifth floor. The door to apartment 5C.
I walked through it.
---
The apartment was small. One bedroom. One bathroom. A kitchen that hadn't been cleaned in weeks. Dishes in the sink. Takeout containers stacked beside them like evidence no one intended to examine. The trash hadn't been taken out in days. The air was stale. It smelled like sweat and cheap whiskey and something else. Something rotten underneath.
Zhang Feng was asleep on the couch.
The TV was still on. The blue light flickered across his face. A bottle lay on the floor beside him. Cheap whiskey. Plastic. Half empty.
I stood over him.
He didn't look like much. Middle-aged. Soft around the edges. The kind of face that disappears in a crowd. The kind no one remembers after a conversation ends. The kind you could walk past on the street and never think about again.
But he was the one.
He was the reason Lin Yue was dead.
I wanted to kill him.
Not in a courtroom way. Not with arguments and evidence and a jury's verdict. I wanted to put my hands around his throat and squeeze. I wanted to watch his face turn purple. I wanted him to know, in his final seconds, that someone had come for him.
But I couldn't. Damn scum. My hands would go through him. He wouldn't feel a thing. He would just keep sleeping, dreaming whatever dreams let him sleep, while I stood there like an idiot, screaming at nothing.
I hated this. I hated being dead.
---
The air in the room was wrong. Not cold. Not exactly. Just... heavy.
Zhang Feng shifted in his sleep. His hand twitched once. His mouth moved. No sound came out.
Then stilled.
For a moment, I thought he heard me. But no. He was just dreaming. Probably dreaming about money. Or women. Or whatever worthless scum like him dreamed about.
I moved to the bedroom.
It was worse.
Clothes scattered across the floor. Drawers left open. A closet full of expensive suits now hanging untouched, forgotten. The tags still on some of them. He bought them and never wore them. Just wanted to own them. Just wanted to look at them and pretend he was someone else.
And on the nightstand —
A phone. Old model. Charging. Screen dark.
I stepped closer.
This was it. The messages. The threats. The proof. Everything Lin Yue needed — within reach.
I reached for it.
My hand passed through.
I tried again. Focused. Pushed. The way I had learned to push against paper, against pens, against the small things that still listened.
Nothing.
The phone didn't move. Didn't react. Didn't acknowledge me at all.
I tried again. Harder. Everything I had. Everything I had learned in three years of being dead. Everything I had saved for a moment like this.
The cord trembled. The plastic shifted. The phone moved on the nightstand. Just slightly.
Then — nothing.
I staggered back.
The phone didn't move again.
---
I sat on the edge of the bed.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw something. I wanted to punch the wall until my hands bled.
But I couldn't. Because my hands would go through the wall. Because I couldn't bleed anymore. Because I was already dead and apparently death meant being useless forever.
I looked at the phone again. Charging. Waiting. "Come and get me," it said.
No it didn't. Phones don't talk.
Ahahahha. I think I am going crazy.
Three years dead and I still couldn't touch a goddamn phone.
---
In the living room, Zhang Feng stirred.
I went back.
He was sitting up now. Rubbing his face. Looking around slowly, then at his hands.
He stood. Walked to the kitchen. His footsteps were heavy. Slow.
He made coffee. The smell filled the small apartment. He sat at the table.
Halfway through his cup — he stopped.
Slowly — he turned his head. Toward the bedroom. Toward the phone.
His gaze lingered there. Too long.
He was thinking about it. I could see it in his face. The same calculation he had been making for three years. Should he keep it? Should he throw it away? Should he finally look at what was on it?
Then he looked away.
---
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out another phone.
New. Clean. The screen was bright. No cracks. No yellowed plastic.
He unlocked it. Scrolled briefly. His expression didn't change. Whatever he was looking at, it wasn't the old phone. It wasn't the messages. It was something else.
He locked it. Put it away.
Two phones. One from the past. One for the present. He kept them separate. He kept them both.
He finished his coffee. Checked the time. Stood.
Then he walked into the bedroom.
I followed.
He stopped in front of the nightstand. Looked at the old phone.
He picked it up. Held it in his hand.
For a moment — his thumb hovered over the screen.
He almost turned it on.
Almost.
Then he stopped. His jaw tightened. His hand clenched around the phone. His face was the face of a man who had been carrying something for three years and didn't know how to put it down.
"No," he muttered.
He placed it back on the nightstand. More carefully than necessary. Like it mattered. Like it was precious. Like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to something he didn't want to forget.
Then he left the apartment.
---
I followed. Damn, I feel like shit. Following him around like an idiot.
His office was in the business district. Glass walls. Clean lines. A name on the door: Zhang Feng & Associates.
Inside, he was different. Focused. Efficient. Controlled. Calls. Emails. Meetings. A man with structure and routine. The kind of man who never made mistakes. The kind of man no one questioned.
I watched him work. Watched him smile at clients. Watched him shake hands. Watched him be the person he had built himself into after Lin Yue's husband died.
He was good at it. Maybe he had always been good at it. Maybe that was the problem.
---
At noon, he made a call.
His voice was low. Careful. The voice of a man who had practiced saying things without saying anything.
"It's me," he said. "I need to talk."
A pause.
"No. Nothing new."
Another pause.
"I just... found it."
Silence.
"The old phone."
He glanced around the office. Not nervous. Just... checking. The habit of a man who had something to hide.
"I was going to throw it away," he said. "But I couldn't."
Longer pause.
"I know."
His voice dropped even lower.
"But if someone finds it —"
He stopped. Listening.
His face didn't change. But his fingers tightened around the desk. The knuckles went white.
"...Are you sure it's gone?"
Silence.
His expression didn't change. But something behind his eyes shifted. Something that looked like fear.
"Fine," he said.
"Tomorrow. Same place."
He ended the call.
Someone else knew. Still involved and afraid. Someone who had been part of this from the beginning.
---
He left work at six.
The same bus. The same convenience store. The same dinner in front of the same TV.
Routine again. The routine that had kept him safe for three years.
I sat across from him. Watched. Waited.
At 10:52 PM — he fell asleep.
The old phone was back on the nightstand. Charging. Silent. Waiting.
I stood over it.
Focused.
This time — I didn't just reach.
I pushed. Everything I had. Everything I had learned. Everything I had saved.
The cord trembled. The plastic moved. The phone shifted on the nightstand.
Then — it snapped back.
The room dropped in temperature. The air went cold. Something unseen pressed against me. Resistance. Rejection. The living world telling me I didn't belong here.
I staggered back.
The phone didn't move again.
---
In the living room — Zhang Feng stirred.
His eyes opened.
For a second — he looked directly toward the bedroom.
Toward me.
His face was still. His eyes were open. He was looking exactly where I was standing.
Then he frowned. Sat up. Looked around.
Nothing.
He lay back down.
Closed his eyes.
I stood there.
Three years dead. And still — there were things I couldn't touch. Things I couldn't reach. Things I couldn't take.
---
I left the apartment.
The night was cold. The streets were empty. The city was quiet.
Somewhere out there, Lin Yue was waiting. Waiting for me to find a way. Waiting for me to prove what happened. Waiting for someone to finally believe her.
And I had nothing. No evidence. No access. No way to prove the truth.
Not yet.
I looked back at the building. The fifth floor. The dark window. The apartment where a man slept with a phone on his nightstand that held the truth.
Three years of watching. Three years of learning limits.
That wasn't enough anymore.
But what else did I have?
Nothing. I had nothing.
I stood there for a long time. Then I walked back to my office. Sat in my chair. Stared at the wall.
And waited for something to change.
Because waiting was all I could do.