Have you ever wondered what you would do if something in your home that never spoke suddenly answered you?
I mean, if you had a cat you'd raised for two years, talked to every day, never expecting a real reply — and then one day, it did.
Would you scream and run out?
Or sit there and pretend nothing had happened?
I chose a third option.
I sat on the sofa, stared at the cat, and smiled.
"I've been under too much stress lately," I told it, my voice steadier than I expected. "I'm starting to hallucinate."
The cat ignored me. It lowered its head and licked its paw, just like always, with that "not my problem" expression.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
But that night, I didn't sleep well.
Part One
My name is Su Wan. I'm twenty-six, single, and work as a copywriter at an advertising agency.
To put it nicely, I'm a copywriter.
To put it honestly, I'm a tool who changes whatever the client tells me to change.
The company is in an old office building near the CBD, cheap rent, forty minutes by subway. I rent a one-bedroom apartment in an old neighborhood in the south of the city, twenty-three hundred a month, with a small balcony facing north — freezing in winter.
I have a British Shorthair blue cat, male, two and a half years old. His name is Nian Gao.
I adopted Nian Gao from a rescue platform two years ago. The previous owner said they were allergic and couldn't keep him. I saw the photo and thought he looked round and silly, so I went to pick him up.
On the day I brought him home, he hid in the carrier without making a sound. Once inside, he crawled under the bed and stayed there all day.
Later, he slowly warmed up and turned into a typical British Shorthair: lazy, greedy, inactive. He slept two-thirds of the day and spent the rest waiting to be fed.
Every day when I came home from work, the first thing I did was call him.
"Nian Gao? I'm home."
He would usually wander slowly out from some corner, glance at me, then sit on the floor and wait for me to change my shoes.
I'd squat down, pet his head, and talk to him.
"The client made me revise the draft three times today. So annoying."
"Why don't you answer me?"
It was a joke. I'd been saying it for two years, just like how people say "why don't you talk" to their pets. Meaningless, casual.
Nian Gao never answered. At most, he meowed once and rubbed his head against my finger.
I never thought anything of it.
Until last Wednesday.
I worked overtime until eleven thirty that night. A real estate promotional script. After the fourth version, the client said, "Actually, the first one was better."
I almost smashed my computer.
But I didn't dare. I needed this job. Rent, cat food, medical insurance — all of it.
So I smiled and said, "Sure, no problem." I opened the first version, fixed three typos, and sent it again.
When I left the company, the November night wind cut like a knife. I bought a rice ball, rushed home on the last subway, and arrived after midnight.
Two sensor lights in the stairwell were broken. I climbed the creaking stairs to the fourth floor, took out my key, and opened the door.
The house was dark. Nian Gao didn't come to greet me. Normal — he was probably already asleep.
I turned on the light, changed my shoes, threw my bag on the sofa, and went to heat the rice ball in the kitchen.
The microwave beeped. I walked out with the rice ball and saw Nian Gao squatting next to the coffee table, his eyes glowing green in the light.
I sat down and took a bite. Tasteless.
"I got yelled at by the boss today," I said to him. My voice sounded hollow in the empty room. "Revised drafts all day, only to be told to use the first one. Isn't that infuriating?"
Nian Gao looked at me, motionless.
I reached out and touched his head. His fur was soft, warmer than human skin, comforting to hold.
"Why don't you comfort me?" I said, just like always, casually.
I lowered my head and continued eating.
From the corner of my eye, I saw his shadow.
Under the light, his shadow was not the shape of a cat.
It was the outline of a hunched person.
It stayed for a second, then turned back into a cat.
"Because you deserved it."
The voice came from right in front of me.
Hoarse. Deep. Like a man in his forties. Like an old radio turned up loud, squeezed out of a throat.
I froze with rice still in my mouth.
I didn't look up.
I stared at the rice ball in my hand, the grains, the expiration date printed on the wrapper.
I must have misheard.
Next door was watching TV. Someone upstairs was talking. Old buildings had terrible sound insulation. That was it.
I slowly lifted my head.
Nian Gao was still squatting in the same place, in the same posture, eyes on me.
His mouth was closed.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
I took three deep breaths.
Then I stood up, threw the rest of the rice ball into the trash, and splashed cold water on my face in the bathroom. The water was so cold it made my temples ache. I looked at myself in the mirror — pale face, dark circles under my eyes.
"You're too tired," I told my reflection. "You need to sleep."
I brushed my teeth, turned off the light, and lay in bed.
Nian Gao jumped up and curled into a ball at my feet. His breathing was steady, stomach rising and falling.
I stared at him for a long time.
He made no sound.
"Hallucination," I whispered. "Just a hallucination."
I turned over, wrapped myself tightly in the quilt, and forced my eyes shut.
But that night, I had a dream.
In the dream, a cat sat opposite me, mouth opening and closing, saying something I couldn't hear. I leaned closer.
It suddenly turned its head.
Its eyes were not a cat's slitted pupils.
They were human eyes.
Brown, slightly cloudy, like an old man's.
I woke up in terror.
4:17 a.m.
Nian Gao was not on the bed.
I turned on my phone flashlight and scanned the room.
He was squatting on top of the wardrobe, back to me, completely still.
"Nian Gao?" I called.
He didn't turn around.
Part Two
The next day, I took half a day off and went to the hospital.
Not for the cat. For myself.
I registered for ENT and neurology. My hearing was fine. The doctor asked if I was under a lot of stress and suggested rest, maybe a psychological evaluation if needed.
I took the prescribed vitamin B tablets, stood outside the hospital, and stared blankly.
November sunlight was thin, no warmth on my skin. Ginkgo trees on the roadside were half yellow, leaves blown everywhere by the wind.
I told myself it was just stress. Tight deadlines, overtime every day until after ten, no weekends. Plus mild anxiety. I'd had hallucinations before — hearing my phone ring at midnight, checking and finding nothing; hearing someone call my name in the shower, turning off the water to silence.
This was the same. Just exhaustion. My brain glitched.
I built this mental defense and felt better.
In the afternoon, I went back to work, revised drafts with the client all afternoon, and didn't leave until seven. On the way home, I bought a bag of chicken freeze-dried treats Nian Gao loved, planning to reward him for my paranoia last night.
When I opened the door, Nian Gao jumped off the sofa and rubbed against my leg.
I squatted down and opened the bag. He meowed excitedly at the smell.
"Okay okay, here you go."
I poured a few into his bowl. He ate with loud crunching sounds.
I leaned against the kitchen doorframe and watched him. He seemed completely normal, no abnormalities at all.
"Was that you talking yesterday?" I asked half-jokingly.
He ignored me, continuing to eat.
"If you really can talk, say it again."
He finished the last piece, looked up at me, yawned, and walked away.
I smiled and thought I was overreacting.
That night was normal. I showered, scrolled on my phone, and turned off the light around eleven. Nian Gao jumped onto the bed as usual and slept at my feet.
I was half-asleep, drifting off, when I heard a voice.
Very quiet, like talking to himself.
"Didn't even turn off the light."
My eyes snapped open.
The room was dark. The curtains weren't fully closed, and a strip of streetlight seeped in, falling on the ceiling. I lay still, holding my breath.
The voice came from my feet.
"Comes back so late every day. Doesn't even eat properly."
The quilt by my feet moved. Nian Gao rolled over.
"Doesn't even have a partner."
Every hair on my body stood on end.
This was not a hallucination. I was wide awake. I could feel my heartbeat thudding against my ribs. My palms were sweaty, sticky. I could feel the weight of the quilt.
This was not a hallucination.
The cat was speaking.
In a hoarse, deep voice completely unlike any cat, next to me in bed, like a person, muttering to himself.
It took all my strength not to scream.
I slowly sat up, leaned against the headboard, and pulled the quilt up to my chin. I looked toward my feet.
Nian Gao lay there, head facing me, eyes half-closed. Streetlight didn't reach him; I could only see a blurry outline.
He didn't speak again.
I sat there all night.
Part Three
When dawn came, I made a decision.
I was going to find out what this cat really was.
I didn't go to work. I messaged my team leader saying I was unwell and took the day off. He replied with an "OK" and asked nothing more.
I sat in the living room. Nian Gao slept on the cat tree opposite me, sprawled on his back, belly exposed.
I watched him sleep.
I opened my phone and searched.
First: can cats talk? Lots of videos online of cats saying "hungry," "mom," "no." But those were just coincidental tones. A cat's vocal cords couldn't produce human speech sounds, let alone full sentences.
Then I searched "cat sounds like a person talking." All folk legends and horror stories. Some said old cats could speak. Some said cats were psychic. Some said people who heard cats talk went crazy.
It got more ridiculous.
I closed the browser and changed my approach.
Nian Gao was adopted two years ago. The platform was called "Meow Life Has You," a small rescue with a WeChat official account. I dug up old chat records and found the volunteer who helped me — a girl named Xiao Lu.
I messaged her: "Hi, this is Su Wan who adopted Nian Gao two years ago. I wanted to ask about his previous situation. Is that okay?"
I stared at the chat for ten minutes. No reply.
I flipped through adoption records. Back then, Xiao Lu sent photos and a short introduction: British Shorthair, male, neutered, fully vaccinated, gentle. Previous owner surrendered due to allergies. Seeking adoption.
That was it. I didn't think much at the time; as long as he was healthy, I arranged to pick him up.
Now I reread it and noticed a detail.
It didn't say who the previous owner was, or when he was given up.
I kept scrolling and found an address. I didn't pick him up at a shelter — it was at a neighborhood gate. Xiao Lu drove a white Honda and pulled the carrier from the trunk.
"Food and litter box are inside, from the previous owner," she said. "Message me anytime if you have problems."
I asked: "Why couldn't the owner keep him?"
Xiao Lu said: "Allergies. Raised him for years, just couldn't take it anymore."
I didn't ask further.
Now I remembered — she said "raised for years."
But Nian Gao was only six months old according to the info.
A cat raised for years, only half a year old?
I pulled out his vaccine booklet. Photo of him as a kitten, round face, same as now. Date of birth: March 2022.
I adopted him in November 2023.
According to the booklet, he was only eight months old.
But Xiao Lu said "for years."
Eight months was not years.
Unless the date was fake.
Or she lied.
Or —
My phone buzzed. Xiao Lu replied.
"Nian Gao? What's wrong? Is he okay?"
I typed: "He's fine. I just want to know about his past. You said the owner gave him up due to allergies?"
"Yes."
"What was his name?"
After a while: "Why do you ask?"
"Just curious."
A long pause. So long I thought she wouldn't reply.
Then she sent a voice message.
I played it. Her voice hesitant: "Actually… this adoption was a bit special. Nian Gao's previous owner was surnamed Chen, a middle-aged man who lived alone. He contacted us several times to surrender the cat, but backed out every time we arranged it. The last time, he dropped the cat off at our temporary foster spot and left without saying anything. We tried calling later, but the number was disconnected."
She paused.
"Then… I heard he passed away. Heart attack or something. I don't know the details."
My fingers turned cold.
The voice Nian Gao first used — hoarse, chain-smoking, lonely middle-aged man — exactly how I imagined Chen Jianming.
"What was the man's name?" I typed, hands shaking.
"Chen… let me check the records. Something Ming. Too long ago, changed phones, hard to find."
"Chen Jianming." Another message. "Yes, Chen Jianming. Why are you asking this?"
I didn't reply.
I sat on the sofa, staring at Nian Gao across the room. He'd woken up, licking his paw carefully, smoothing his fur.
I saw a faint gray-brown stain between his claws, like dried dust. I reached to wipe it. He suddenly pulled away, his paw scratching my hand, leaving a shallow mark.
Not painful.
But cold.
Not cat-cold. Metal-cold.
He looked like a normal cat.
A ordinary, round-faced British Shorthair.
But one thing from the chat made my blood run cold.
Xiao Lu said Chen Jianming dropped the cat off, then his phone was disconnected.
Meaning the cat was given up after Chen died.
How did the cat get to the foster home?
Did Chen drop it off before he died?
Or —
Nian Gao stopped licking his paw and turned to look at me.
His eyes were amber under the ceiling light, slits narrowed to thin lines.
He stared for a long time.
Then he opened his mouth and yawned.
No sound.
But I could swear he was smiling.
Part Four
It took me three days to find Chen Jianming's information.
It wasn't hard. Xiao Lu gave me his name. I knew the general area, and found an old address near my place, three subway stops away.
I took half a day off and went to Chen's old neighborhood — red-brick buildings, withered vines, peeling unit doors, old men playing chess in the small garden.
I went to the neighborhood committee.
I lied, saying I was a distant niece, out of touch for years, wanting to ask about him.
The lady was helpful, flipped through files, and told me Chen Jianming had lived there, Building 3, Unit 5, 202 — but he'd been dead for three years.
"Heart attack," she sighed. "Lived alone. No one found him for days. Terrible."
"His cat?" I asked.
She blinked: "What cat?"
"He had a cat."
She thought, shook her head: "No idea. Didn't see any cat when we came to handle things. Probably ran away."
I thanked her and left.
Standing in the neighborhood, I looked up at 202. Windows closed, old curtains, dusty.
Chen had been dead three years.
Nian Gao came to me two years ago.
Meaning the cat was alone for at least a year after Chen died, then sent to the shelter, then adopted by me.
But —
Xiao Lu said Chen "voluntarily brought the cat to the foster home."
If Chen was dead, how?
Unless someone else brought him.
Who?
I stood there thinking until my head hurt. November wind blew into my collar. I shivered and decided to go home.
It was dark when I got back.
I opened the door. Nian Gao didn't come out.
Unusual. Normally he'd appear somewhere to check on me, then go back to sleep. Not today.
"Nian Gao?" I called.
No response.
I changed shoes and searched. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, balcony — nothing.
Finally, I found him in the bedroom closet.
The door was slightly open. I peeked in. He squatted under my hanging clothes, curled into a ball.
"Why are you hiding here?" I pulled the door open and reached for him.
He didn't avoid me, but didn't rub me either. Just squatted there, looking at me.
Then he spoke.
"You went looking for me today."
I froze.
I'd gone to Chen's neighborhood alone, without him. How could he know? Unless he was connected to Chen. Unless he'd been following me.
This time I didn't pretend I didn't hear. I squatted down, eye to eye with him.
"Are you Chen Jianming?" I asked.
Nian Gao didn't answer. He blinked, slowly walked out of the closet, circled my feet, and left the bedroom.
I followed.
He jumped onto the sofa and sat down.
But not like a cat.
Cats sit with front legs straight, hind legs tucked, leaning forward.
He wasn't.
His hind legs stretched out, front paws resting on the cushion, back against the armrest —
just like a person sitting on a sofa watching TV.
I stood in the bedroom doorway, watching him.
He stared at the TV. It was turned off. The black screen reflected the living room, and his silhouette.
"The day he died," he said, "I was right there."
My back pressed against the doorframe, nails digging into my palm.
"He called my name. Then he went quiet."
He turned to look at me.
"I waited two days before someone came."
His tone was calm. Not forced calm — genuine calm. Like talking about something unrelated to him.
"Who…" My throat was dry, sandpaper rough. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head.
The gesture was cat-like.
But paired with that human sitting posture, it was deeply uncanny.
"Who do you think I am?"
"Are you Chen Jianming?"
He neither confirmed nor denied.
"Chen Jianming is dead," I said. "He's been dead three years."
"Does death mean everything ends?"
Coming from a cat, it made my scalp tingle.
I took a deep breath, forcing my voice not to shake: "Then why did you come to me?"
He was silent for a long time.
An ambulance siren passed outside, red and blue flashing across the curtains, then fading away.
"Because you smell like him."
"What?"
"You use the same brand of laundry detergent."
I froze.
Laundry detergent.
I used the cheapest one from the supermarket, "Fresh Floral", blue bottle, nineteen ninety-nine a big bucket. I'd used it for two years, never changed.
"You can smell that?" I asked.
"I can smell it," he said. "You have that smell. He did too."
"So you… chose me after the shelter took you?"
"No choice. They brought you here. You smelled like him."
His voice suddenly dropped, so quiet I almost missed it.
"I thought he came back."
After that, he fell silent.
I walked from the doorway to the sofa and sat down. A cushion separated us.
I stared at my hands. The red marks from my nails still hurt.
"Chen Jianming," I said. "Are you really him?"
He didn't answer.
He shifted back into a normal cat sitting position, front legs straight, leaning forward. Then he yawned, jumped off the sofa, walked to his bowl, and began eating.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Just like any other cat.
Part Five
In the days that followed, I tried to live normally with Nian Gao.
Or rather, I tried to pretend nothing had happened.
I told no one — friends, colleagues, family. How could I? My cat talks, in the voice of a dead middle-aged man? They'd send me to a psychiatrist.
Maybe I should go.
But every time I thought about it, Nian Gao did something that erased the thought.
Like Thursday night. I forgot to take out the trash. The kitchen bag was full, takeout boxes, peels, tissues, starting to sour. I smelled it after showering and decided to do it in the morning.
Then I heard Nian Gao speak in the kitchen.
"The trash stinks."
Quiet, like muttering to himself.
I walked in. He squatted next to the bin, looking at me.
"You didn't take it out yesterday," he said. "You won't tomorrow either."
"I will," I said, then realized I was arguing with a cat. "I'll take it out first thing."
He said nothing and left.
The next morning, I took the trash down on my way out.
Another time, Saturday. I worked from home, revising plans until three in the afternoon. My eyes burned. I lay my head on the desk and dozed off. When I woke up, a blanket was over me.
I didn't remember grabbing one.
I looked around. Nian Gao lay under the chair, eyes closed.
"Did you put this on me?" I asked.
He didn't open his eyes.
"Thank you."
Still no response. But I saw his ear twitch.
I touched the blanket and suddenly remembered what Xiao Lu said — Chen lived alone, was frugal, covered the cat with a blanket in winter to keep him warm.
Nian Gao wasn't acting like a cat.
He was acting like Chen Jianming.
Individually, these things meant nothing. A talking cat was already absurd. But the specific interactions — reminding me to take out trash, covering me with a blanket — made it stranger.
Not scarier. Stranger.
Because if this was just a talking cat, he'd talk about cat things: hungry, can, don't touch my belly.
But he talked about human things.
Trash. Meals. Relationships. Overtime.
Like a person living inside a cat, watching my life.
I started thinking about Chen Jianming.
What kind of person was he?
Middle-aged, alone, had a cat, died of a heart attack, found two days later.
Only the cat was with him when he died.
I pictured it.
Old apartment room.
Man collapsed on the floor.
Blue cat squatting beside him.
He called the cat's name.
Then went silent.
The cat waited.
Waited until his body went cold.
Waited until night turned to day.
Waited until someone knocked.
Two days.
The cat never left.
I don't know if cats feel that way. Probably not. Cats are independent, not as attached as dogs. But this cat stayed.
Then he was given away.
To a shelter.
Then adopted by a girl who used the same laundry detergent.
Then he started talking.
In that man's voice.
I researched everything — cats, the afterlife, spirit possession. All kinds of claims, none convincing.
I went to a pet hospital.
Not for Nian Gao. To check if he was physically abnormal. Full checkup: blood, biochemistry, ultrasound, X-ray. The young vet, Dr. Sun, spoke plainly.
"All normal," she handed me the report. "Healthy cat, just a bit fat. Control his diet."
"His vocal cords? Anything wrong?"
Dr. Sun glanced at me: "Vocal cords? Does he meow weird?"
"No, just… asking."
"Cats can't produce human speech. If you think his voice is strange, record it for me."
"No, it's fine."
I carried Nian Gao out. He lay quietly in my arms, paws on my arm.
On the way back, we passed a supermarket. I bought a new bottle of detergent.
Not the old one. I switched to "Natural Fresh", green bottle, twice the price.
When I got home, I threw the old blue bottle away. I rewashed all my clothes, sheets, sofa covers, curtains.
Nian squatted next to the washing machine, watching me pour the new detergent.
He didn't speak.
From that day on, Nian Gao stopped talking.
One day. Two. Three. A week.
He returned to being a normal cat.
Ate, slept, groomed, rubbed my legs, raced around at five a.m.
No more strange sofa poses.
No more midnight muttering.
No long amber stares.
Everything seemed back to normal.
I should have been happy.
I wasn't.
Because every night, I heard him meowing on the balcony.
Not normal meows.
Normal meows were bright, purposeful — food, door, attention.
Nian Gao's balcony meows were different.
Low, broken, like talking to someone.
Not like.
He was talking to someone.
I tried listening secretly. I tiptoed to the balcony door, peeked through the glass. He squatted on the railing, facing outside, mouth opening and closing.
I couldn't make out the words. Wind scattered them into blurred syllables.
But once, the wind stopped.
I heard three words.
"…came back…"
Still hoarse. Still deep.
But not spoken to the air.
Spoken toward the balcony, toward something invisible in the dark.
I stood behind the glass, heart racing.
I changed the detergent.
The cat stopped talking to me.
But every night, he spoke to the air.
Who was he talking to?
Chen Jianming?
Or — something else.
I suddenly thought: Chen had been dead three years.
Was he the only lonely soul with nowhere to go?
One late night, I couldn't take it anymore.
I pushed open the balcony door and stepped out.
November night wind was cold. My pajamas exposed my arms, goosebumps rising.
Nian Gao turned to look at me.
His eyes glowed green in the dark, unnaturally bright.
"Who are you talking to?" I asked.
He stared, said nothing.
"Nian Gao," I said. "Who are you talking to?"
Wind rose again, clothes on the line flapping loudly.
Nian Gao jumped off the railing, walked past my feet, and went inside.
I followed, closed the door.
He jumped on the bed, curled into his usual spot, and closed his eyes.
I stood by the bed, watching him.
No more sounds.
I lay down, turned off the light. In the dark, I listened.
Cars passing. Construction pounding far away. Water in pipes.
Then I heard it.
From the balcony.
Very low, like someone speaking.
But it wasn't Nian Gao — I could feel his warmth at my feet.
The balcony voice was another.
Muffled through the glass, far away.
I couldn't make out the words.
But I recognized the tone.
Hoarse. Deep. Middle-aged man.
Exactly like Nian Gao used to sound.
I sat up abruptly, staring at the balcony.
Nothing there. Only clothes swaying in the wind, casting shaking shadows.
I looked back at my feet.
Nian Gao was still there. Curled up, breathing steadily, fast asleep.
The balcony voice stopped.
I waited a long time. It didn't return.
The next morning, I checked the balcony.
Nothing. Thin frost on the railing, cold to touch.
I looked down at the flower bed below.
Fourth floor. Hollies, wilted leaves.
I stared for a long time.
Then went inside, dressed, washed, left for work.
At the bottom of the building, I looked up at my balcony.
Fourth floor, north-facing. Clothes hanging, fluttering.
Nian Gao squatted on the railing, facing outward.
He didn't look down at me.
He stared into the distance.
I didn't know what he was looking at.
But I knew he wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at something I couldn't see.
Part Six
Later, eating with colleagues, one asked: "Did you change perfume?"
I said no perfume, just laundry detergent.
"The old one smelled nice. Why switch?"
I ate a piece of braised pork, chewing slowly.
"That smell," I said. "Isn't good anymore."
My colleague didn't ask again.
But that night, I stood outside my door, not opening it immediately.
I pressed my ear against it and listened.
Quiet inside. No meows, no voices.
I relaxed and opened the door.
Nian Gao sat on the floor by the entrance, waiting.
He glanced up at me, then turned and walked away.
When I changed my shoes, I noticed something new on the shoe rack.
A bottle of laundry detergent.
Blue. Nineteen ninety-nine. Fresh Floral.
I didn't buy this.
I picked it up. Fingerprints on the bottle — not mine. Thick, like a middle-aged man's. A faint scratch on the label, exactly like the one on Chen's enamel cup in my dream.
"Nian Gao?" I called.
He poked his head out from the living room, looking at me.
"Where did this come from?"
He didn't answer. Stared three seconds, then pulled his head back.
I put the detergent in the cabinet and didn't use it.
That night, I heard the balcony voice again.
Clearer this time.
Two words.
"…come back…"
Then Nian Gao's low voice, responding.
I lay in bed, icy cold.
I remembered something.
The day Chen died, he called the cat's name.
What was the cat's real name?
The adoption record said Nian Gao. But that was my name.
What did Chen call him?
I scrolled through old photos. A blurry handwritten list from the original owner.
I zoomed in.
One bag of cat food. Litter box. Bowls. Vaccine booklet.
Last line:
Cat's name: Nian Nian.
Nian Nian.
I stared at the characters.
Nian Gao.
Nian Nian.
Similar sounds. Maybe a mishearing. Maybe the rescue miswrote it.
Or maybe not a mistake.
Maybe the cat had been telling people his name all along.
But others only heard meows.
Only I heard his real name.
No.
I didn't hear his name.
I heard the man's voice.
Hoarse, deep, middle-aged.
Calling "come back" from the balcony.
Who was he calling?
I picked up my phone, hesitated, and dialed Xiao Lu.
She answered sleepily.
"Hello?"
"Xiao Lu, it's Su Wan. The one who adopted Nian Gao."
"What's wrong? It's late."
"I need to ask something. Chen Jianming — Nian Gao's original owner. What was the cat's name before?"
Pause.
"Nian Nian," she said. "His name was Nian Nian. Why?"
"Sure?"
"Positive. He told me himself when he dropped him off: 'This cat's name is Nian Nian.' I wrote it on the tag. The adopter thought it was weird and changed it to Nian Gao. Why the sudden question?"
"Nothing. Thanks."
I hung up.
Nian Nian.
His real name was Nian Nian.
Before Chen died, he called: "Nian Nian."
Then went silent.
Now a cat named Nian Nian spoke to the air every night.
Who was he talking to?
Who was he calling back?
I placed my phone on the nightstand and turned to face the wall.
A water stain on the wall, shaped like a cat.
I stared too long.
At its eyes, a faint gray-brown seeped out, like dried tears.
I blinked, and it was gone.
I closed my eyes.
A hoarse, deep voice echoed in my ears.
"Why don't you answer me?"
My eyes snapped open.
Quiet room. Nian Gao purred softly at my feet.
No one spoke.
No one.
I pulled the quilt over my head and shrank inside.
Under the covers, I heard my heartbeat.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And another sound.
From the balcony.
Very soft. Very far.
Like someone knocking.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
No.
Not knocking.
Someone calling my name.
From the balcony.
In that hoarse, deep voice.
"Su Wan."
I didn't answer.
I squeezed the quilt tighter.
I didn't answer.
But I heard Nian Gao move.
He stood at the foot of the bed, stepped over me, and jumped down.
I felt his paws on the quilt.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then the balcony door creaked open.
Nian Gao stepped out.
Wind rushed in, cold, dry November air.
I heard him jump onto the railing.
Then he spoke.
Not to me.
To the outside.
"She's asleep."
The hoarse voice came from the balcony. Not Nian Gao's. Another, farther away.
"I know. I just came to see her."
Nian Gao said: "She changed the detergent."
The voice said: "I know."
Silence.
Nian Gao said: "Don't scare her."
The voice was quiet for a long time.
Then it spoke.
"I'm not scaring her. I just… want someone to talk to."
Wind banged the balcony door.
Nian Gao said: "You should go."
"I know."
"Then why do you keep coming?"
More silence.
So long I thought the voice was gone.
Then I heard it.
Hoarse. Deep. Middle-aged.
With a tone I couldn't describe.
Not anger.
Not sadness.
Not fear.
Loneliness.
A loneliness that didn't fade even after three years dead.
"Because besides this place," the voice said, "I have nowhere else to go."
Nian Gao said nothing.
Wind stopped.
Balcony door still.
I opened my eyes.
Dark room. Balcony door closed, curtains drawn.
Nian Gao curled at my feet, breathing steadily.
As if nothing had happened.
But two wet spots marked my pillow.
I didn't know if they were tears.
I buried my face in the pillow and closed my eyes.
That night, I dreamed.
I stood in an old neighborhood stairwell. One sensor light broken, flickering. I climbed up. Third floor. Fourth. No — I needed the second.
I turned back down.
Unit 202 door was open.
Dark inside. A smell of long-closed rooms, mold, cat food, litter.
I stepped in.
Small living room. pilled sofa cover. Enamel cup on the coffee table, half water, a bug floating on top.
A man on the floor.
Dark blue pajamas, face turned sideways. Fingers curled, like grabbing something.
A cat squatted beside him.
Blue cat, round face, amber eyes.
The cat looked at me.
Opened his mouth.
"Why don't you answer me?"
I woke up.
4:17 a.m.
Nian Gao was not on the bed.
I didn't look for him.
I knew where he was.
I knew who he was talking to.
I just closed my eyes and turned toward the wall.
The water stain was still there. Shaped like a cat.
No.
Not shaped like.
It was a cat.
Leaning back like a person, hind legs stretched out.
I stared for a long time.
Then I heard it.
From the balcony.
A voice. Hoarse. Deep.
One sentence.
"She's asleep."
Another voice.
Softer. Farther.
Said —
"Good night."
I buried my face in the pillow.
This time, I didn't cry.
I just wondered one thing.
Tomorrow night — would I finally answer?
Would I say good night to the voice outside the balcony?