Lin Chun stood in the small lobby clutching her phone, glancing through the sliding door. From where she stood, she could only see a corner of the beauty room—white walls, the edge of a cart, and the foot of one beauty bed. The sheets were white, spotless, and three long strands of hair lay quietly in the center.
She didn't look any longer. She pushed open the glass door and walked out.
The street was already bustling. A breakfast shop had a line stretching out the door, the smell of fried dough sticks mixing with car exhaust. Someone was riding an electric bike dropping their kid off at school, the child in the backseat nodding off with their schoolbag.
Sunlight fell on the street, on Lin Chun's face, warm and cozy—a stark contrast to the ice-cold feeling spreading through her body.
She waited outside the shop for about twenty minutes before Sister Zhao arrived. Sister Zhao was wearing a dark blue dress today, her hair loosely tied up, no makeup on her face. She looked years older than usual. She walked quickly to the shop door, glanced at Lin Chun, said "Follow me," and pushed through the glass door.
Lin Chun followed behind her. Sister Zhao crossed the small lobby, slid open the partition door, and walked straight to the farthest beauty bed. She glanced down at the three strands of hair on the sheets, fell silent for a moment, then looked up at the mirror on the wall. The mirror reflected the two of them, standing one behind the other.
"Sister Zhao," Lin Chun spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. "What's going on?"
Sister Zhao didn't answer. She bent down, picked up the three strands of hair one by one, walked to the window, opened it, and threw the hair outside. Three black long hairs floated in the air for a moment, then disappeared. Then she closed the window, turned around, and sat down on the beauty bed.
"Do you remember the person in white you mentioned yesterday?"
Lin Chun nodded.
"With a dark red border on the sleeve?"
"Yeah."
Sister Zhao took a deep breath, her hands clasped together, her knuckles white from the grip.
"That description matches someone from my memory."
The air in the beauty room seemed to freeze. The humming of the fluorescent light tube became especially clear in that moment.
"Who?"
Sister Zhao was silent for a long while, then looked up at Lin Chun. Her eyes held something complicated.
"The previous owner-daughter."
Lin Chun's heart tightened sharply.
"The previous owner was Mrs. Zhou, Zhou Suhua. When she ran this shop, the name was still 'Liren Beauty Salon.' That was five or six years ago. Zhou Suhua had a daughter—I don't quite remember her name, just that she had the surname Zhou like her mother. Everyone called her Little Zhou. Little Zhou would occasionally come by to help out at the shop. I never met her in person, but people around here talked about her. They said she was very beautiful, with especially long hair that reached her waist."
Sister Zhao paused here, her gaze falling on the mirror on the wall.
"Later, something happened. I'm not sure of the details, but it seemed she contracted some kind of illness and couldn't be saved at the hospital. When she passed, she was wearing a white sleep gown."
Lin Chun's fingers gripped the hem of her work uniform so hard her nails left marks.
"Then... what about the dark red border on the sleeve?"
Sister Zhao shook her head. "I don't know. When Zhou Suhua transferred the shop to me, she didn't mention anything about her daughter. She just told me the mirror needed to be flipped over, said some vague things I didn't pay much attention to at the time."
Lin Chun fell silent. She looked down at her own hands, fingernails digging into the fabric of her work uniform, leaving several imprints. Suddenly she thought of something and looked up. "Sister Zhao, there are two characters written on the back of the mirror."
Sister Zhao's eyebrows rose slightly. "What characters?"
"'Don't look.' And below that, a 'Zheng' character, written somewhat faded."
Sister Zhao's expression changed. Not surprise, but something that looked like she'd been struck. She opened her mouth, and it took her a while to make a sound.
"Zheng?"
"Yes, the 'Zheng' character."
"Then it wasn't written by Zhou Suhua," Sister Zhao's voice dropped. "And it certainly couldn't have been Little Zhou."
"Then who?"
Sister Zhao didn't answer. She stood up and walked to the mirror, grabbed the frame, and tried to flip it over to see the back. She used considerable force; the mirror frame made crackling sounds, but it wouldn't flip.
It wouldn't budge at all.
She tried with both hands, her face flushing red, but the mirror remained completely motionless, as if welded to the wall.
"It could be flipped yesterday," Lin Chun said, her voice hollow. "When I came in this morning, it was already flipped over."
Sister Zhao gave up. She let go and stepped back, staring at the reflections of herself and Lin Chun in the mirror, then suddenly said something, her voice soft, as if talking to herself.
"When Zhou Suhua transferred the shop, she told me one thing. She said this mirror wasn't originally hers. It came with when she took over the shop, left behind by the previous owner. That place was also a beauty salon, called 'Ruyi Beauty Salon.' They didn't last long—less than a year before closing. She didn't go into detail about why, just said things weren't peaceful."
Sister Zhao turned to look at Lin Chun.
"The owner of that previous shop, I think her surname was Zheng."
Lin Chun stood frozen, feeling as if the temperature in the beauty room had suddenly dropped several degrees.
"Which means," her voice was hoarse like sandpaper, "this mirror has been through at least three beauty salons?"
Sister Zhao nodded.
"Each one knew to flip the mirror."
"But nobody knew why."
Sister Zhao nodded again.
The two stood silently in front of the mirror. The humming of the fluorescent light tube filled the silence of the entire beauty room, like an invisible insect chirping from a crack in the wall. The blinds at the air conditioning vent swayed slightly, making a soft click.
Lin Chun suddenly thought of a question, one she should have asked from the start.
"Sister Zhao, who originally installed that mirror?"
Sister Zhao froze for a moment, then shook her head. "I don't know. It was already there when I took over."
"And Zhou Suhua? When she took over?"
"Should have been the same—it was already there."
Lin Chun stared at her own face in the mirror, suddenly feeling like that mirror wasn't a mirror at all. It was more like an old resident that had been there longer than anyone, silently hanging on the wall, watching waves of people come and go, watching owner after owner arrive and leave, watching beautician after beautician work for a while then quit, watching face after face being examined, studied, and judged in front of it.
And it itself, never spoke.
At least not to the living.
That night, Lin Chun wasn't scheduled for the evening shift. Sister Zhao covered for her, telling her to go home and rest early. When she left, Lin Chun stood in the small lobby, peering through the gap in the sliding door at the beauty room.
Sister Zhao was flipping the mirror—this time it budged easily. With one hand, she flipped it over. The mirror surface faced the wall, the grayish-green cardboard backing facing outward.
The words were still there. "Don't look." The "Zheng" character was clearly visible under the fluorescent light, its strokes somewhat twisted, as if the person writing it had been trembling.
Lin Chun turned and pushed open the glass door. The heat from the street hit her in the face, and the cicada chirps were deafening. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop, suddenly feeling like someone was watching her. That feeling came completely without warning, like an icy finger suddenly tapping the back of her neck.
She snapped her head around.
The glass door of Chan Juan Beauty Salon had a layer of semi-transparent sun-proof film on it. From outside, you could only see a blurry silhouette of the interior. Under the sunset's glow, the glass door reflected the street scene—the fruit shop across the way, the parasol tree on the roadside, the electric bike passing by, and herself.
But behind herself, through that semi-transparent film, vaguely standing inside the shop was a human-shaped shadow, white and blurry, completely motionless.
Lin Chun bolted and ran.
She ran all the way back to her rental place, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it, gasping for breath, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it would leap out of her throat. Her roommate Xiao Yang was in the living room eating takeout and watching a drama. She was startled by Lin Chun's entrance and asked what was wrong. Lin Chun said nothing, she'd been running back.
Back in her own room, she sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands were still shaking. She stared at her trembling hands, her mind a chaotic mess, various thoughts buzzing around like flies.
That night, she barely slept at all. She tossed and turned in bed, waking up with a start every time she was about to drift off, feeling like someone was watching her in the room. She turned on her phone flashlight several times and scanned every corner of the room. Every time, it was empty.
But she simply felt that gaze, that kind of gaze that seemed to be coming from all directions simultaneously, with no source to trace, impossible to evade.
The next morning, when she got up, she found a long strand of hair on her pillow.
Black, very long, slightly curled.
She picked up that hair, wrapped it in a tissue, and threw it in the trash can. Then she put on her work uniform and rode a shared bike to Chan Juan Beauty Salon.
Sister Zhao was already in the shop. When she saw Lin Chun, the expression on her face made Lin Chun's heart sink.
"What's wrong?"
Sister Zhao didn't speak, just jerked her chin toward the beauty room.
Lin Chun pushed open the sliding door and walked in. Everything in the beauty room was normal—three beauty beds neatly arranged, the bottles and cans on the carts placed in good order. Beside the farthest bed, the mirror hung with its reflective surface facing outward, facing the beauty bed.
No hair on the bed.
Sister Zhao followed her in and stood beside her, both of them looking at that mirror.
"When I came in this morning, the mirror had flipped back on its own," Sister Zhao said, her voice very calm—too calm. "There was nothing on the bed. But I discovered something."
She walked to the mirror and extended her hand, pointing to the lower right corner of the mirror surface.
Lin Chun leaned in to look. In the lower right corner of the mirror were some very small words, so small you wouldn't notice them unless you got close and looked carefully. The color of those words was very light, grayish-white, as if carved with something sharp, or as if bleeding through from the back of the mirror.
She squinted, identifying the characters one by one.
"Customers who have had facial treatments, please look in the mirror."
The handwriting was crooked, the strokes very thin, broken in places, but every character was legible.
"This sentence has always been there," Sister Zhao said, her fingers gently stroking the mirror surface. "Carved into the mirror. I'd never noticed it before."
Lin Chun stood in front of the mirror, staring at those small words, suddenly feeling the back of her skull go numb. This sentence had always been there. For three years, she had stood in front of this mirror every day, seen her own reflection every day, but she had never noticed such a line of words in the lower right corner.
Sister Zhao withdrew her hand and sat down on the beauty bed. She looked exhausted, with deep dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well either.
"Little Chun, after I went home yesterday, I thought about a lot of things," she began, her voice much slower than usual. "I remembered something else Zhou Suhua said when she transferred the shop. I didn't think much of it at the time, but the more I think about it, the stranger it seems."
"What did she say?"
"She said, 'The mirror doesn't harm people. It's always people who harm people.'"
The beauty room fell quiet for a moment. The cold air from the air conditioning vent made the sliding door sway lightly.
Lin Chun didn't speak.
She thought about the blurry white figure she'd seen in the glass door last night, the long hair on her pillow, the woman in the white sleep gown she'd seen in the mirror that first night, and that woman's sleeve—dark red border.
She also remembered something else. That night, when she saw the woman in the mirror, the woman was already very close to her. Close enough that she could see the black strands of hanging hair gently swaying. And the way those strands swayed wasn't right.
Not wind-blown, not breath-blown either. It was more like something behind the hair was moving, something rhythmically pushing those black strands forward, one thrust after another.
Lin Chun shivered.
"Sister Zhao, I want to ask you a question."
"Go ahead."
"That dark red border on the sleeve," Lin Chun's voice was very low. "What do you think it was?"
Sister Zhao was silent for a long time.
"I used to accompany patients in the hospital," she finally said, her voice somewhat dry. "Seen some things."
She paused, as if choosing her words carefully.
"Some critically ill patients wear the hospital's identification wristbands. Red ones, with name, bed number, and allergy information written on them."
Lin Chun's fingers suddenly clenched tight.
"But those wristbands," Sister Zhao continued slowly, "after a patient passes away, the nurses cut them off. If they forget and it gets sewn into the burial clothes—"
She didn't finish. But Lin Chun had already understood.
The fluorescent light in the beauty room flickered—just for a moment, so brief it was barely noticeable. Lin Chun and Sister Zhao both looked up at the mirror at the same time. The mirror was still the same mirror, reflecting their two tense faces. Everything was normal.
But Lin Chun noticed something. In the mirror, behind her, the sliding door had somehow opened a crack. About ten centimeters wide. Outside was the small lobby, the lights weren't on, pitch black. From that crack of darkness, she couldn't see anything.
But she simply felt something standing behind that crack, watching them.
Lin Chun slowly turned her head.
The sliding door was closed properly. Tight against its frame.
She turned back to look at the mirror—the sliding door in the reflection was also closed.
"Sister Zhao." Lin Chun's voice was barely a whisper.
Sister Zhao followed her gaze to the mirror, saw the closed sliding door reflected there. She said nothing, just stood up, walked to the mirror, grabbed the frame with both hands, and pushed hard.
The mirror flipped over. The mirror surface faced the wall.
A snap—click, the latch engaged.
Sister Zhao turned to look at Lin Chun. The expression on her face had regained her usual sharpness, but something still lingered in her eyes.
"From today, flip the mirror every night. Don't forget."
Lin Chun nodded.
When Sister Zhao walked out of the beauty room, Lin Chun looked back at that flipped-over mirror again. On the grayish-green cardboard backing, the two words were still there. "Don't look." Below, the "Zheng" character hung crookedly there, like a promise that had never been kept.
She suddenly thought of something. Sister Zhao said the owner of the first beauty salon had the surname Zheng. So was the second character that owner's name? No, there was a trace of another character after that, as if it hadn't been finished, or had been erased.
She stared at that faded trace for a long time, suddenly feeling like that unfinished character didn't look like a Chinese character at all.
More like a number.
Lin Chun's pupils contracted sharply.
She turned and strode out of the beauty room, catching up to Sister Zhao in the small lobby.
"Sister Zhao, was there a number after that Zheng character?"
Sister Zhao turned back to look at her, her expression slowly changing.
"What number?"
Lin Chun opened her mouth, but before she could speak, a sound came from inside the beauty room. Very soft, like something falling to the floor.
Both of them turned to look toward the sliding door at the same time.
The sliding door was closed.
But on the frosted glass of the sliding door, vaguely visible was a white, blurry outline.
Standing behind the door, completely motionless.
Sister Zhao reached out and slowly slid the door open a crack. The fluorescent light in the beauty room was still on, everything normal. Nothing on the floor. The mirror was still flipped over, back facing outward.
But on the farthest beauty bed, there was a folded piece of paper. A white sticky note, neatly placed right in the center of the sheets.
Sister Zhao walked over and picked up the note, unfolded it and read it. Lin Chun stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.
On the note was a line of text, written with a black ballpoint pen, the ink looked fresh, as if just written:
"The customer who had the facial treatment last time was not satisfied with the results. Please redo the treatment."
Sister Zhao's hands started trembling. Lin Chun instinctively stepped back, her back hitting the cart, and the bottles and cans on it rattled and shook.
On that beauty bed, beside where the note had been, the wrinkles in the sheets were slowly, inch by inch, disappearing, as if someone was slowly lying down, pressing the sheets flat.
But there was no one there.
Lin Chun and Sister Zhao both saw it—the sheets smoothing themselves out, from the center outward, as if an invisible hand was gradually smoothing the fabric. Then, at the exact center of the bed, a shallow depression appeared, shaped like the back of a head.
Sister Zhao crumpled the note in her fist, her lips pale.
"Get out." She said, her voice very low.
"Sister Zhao—"
"Get out!"
Sister Zhao grabbed Lin Chun's wrist and pulled her toward the door. The two stumbled through the beauty room, slammed the sliding door shut, rushed through the small lobby, and pushed through the glass door onto the street.
The street was still bustling. The breakfast shop's steamer was releasing white steam, the fruit shop was unloading goods, a delivery rider on an electric bike passed right by them and honked. Sunlight fell on their faces, almost making them squint.
Lin Chun turned to look at the glass door of Chan Juan Beauty Salon. Through the semi-transparent sun-proof film, she could see a blurry figure inside the beauty room, slowly, step by step, walking toward the entrance.
Then the figure stopped.
On the glass door, behind her own reflection, a face appeared.
That face was very white, white as paper, with indiscernible features, but the vague outline of a woman. Most distinct were that face's lips—the corners slightly raised, like a satisfied smile.
Like someone who had just had a facial treatment, looked in the mirror, and was satisfied with how beautiful they looked. That kind of satisfied, fulfilled, genuinely joyful smile.
Sister Zhao saw it too. The hand gripping Lin Chun's wrist tightened even more.
"She's smiling at you." Sister Zhao said, her voice shaking.
Lin Chun shook her head, her lips moving several times before she could make a sound.
"Not at me."
Sister Zhao turned to look at her.
Lin Chun's gaze was locked on that face reflected in the glass door, on that satisfied, content, genuinely joyful smile on that face.
"She's looking in the mirror."
The street's sunlight was very bright, painfully bright. That face stayed on the glass door for two or three seconds, then disappeared, as if it had never existed. On the glass door, only the street scene's reflection remained, and across the way a grandmother at the fruit shop was picking a watermelon.
Sister Zhao let go of Lin Chun's wrist. Her fingers had left five red fingerprint marks on Lin Chun's skin.
"We're not opening today." Sister Zhao said, her voice regaining some strength. "You go home and rest. I'll do the same. Tomorrow... we'll talk tomorrow."
Lin Chun didn't move. She stood at the entrance of Chan Juan Beauty Salon, looking through the glass door at the interior. On the tea table in the small lobby, the chrysanthemum tea was still steaming. The cushion on the sofa was slightly askew, the way she'd casually placed it that morning.
Everything was exactly as usual.
But nothing was the same anymore.
She looked down at her own hands. The red marks from Sister Zhao's grip were slowly fading, from red to pink, finally returning to her skin's original color.
But that feeling of being watched didn't fade along with the red marks. It stayed on the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades, in every moment she turned around.
When she rode the shared bike home, she passed a barber shop. There was a large mirror at the barber shop entrance, reflecting her riding past. She glanced at it involuntarily, then slammed on the brakes.
In the mirror, on the seat behind her, sat a person.
White clothes, long black hair falling down to cover their face. Both hands placed properly on their knees, like a passenger catching a ride.
Lin Chun snapped her head back. The back seat was empty. Only her own shadow cast by the noon sun on the ground, shrunk into a tiny clump.
She looked at the barber shop mirror again—in the mirror, there was only her alone, riding the shared bike, stopped in the scorching sun, looking like someone who'd been baked silly by the heat.
Lin Chun slowly turned her head, pedaled again. She didn't look back, didn't look at any more mirrors. She rode in a straight line, through three streets, back to her rental building.
At the building entrance, she stopped to lock her bike and noticed a long strand of hair on the back seat. Black, slightly curled, swaying gently in the wind.
She stared at that hair for a long time, then reached out and picked it off the back seat. The hair felt cold and damp, as if it had been in a refrigerator.
Lin Chun held that strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger, standing at the building entrance, the July sunlight beating down directly on top of her head, hot enough to make anyone dizzy. But she was cold through and through, as if someone had opened a refrigerator door inside her.
She threw the hair into the trash can beside the entrance and went upstairs. With each floor she climbed, she could hear light footsteps on the stairs behind her. Not her own—because she was wearing flat cloth shoes, they wouldn't make such crisp sounds. Those feet were bare, stepping on the cement stairs, patter, patter, patter.
She didn't look back.
She opened her door, walked in, closed it, locked both locks, and hooked the door chain.
Then she stood in the entryway, facing the closed door, waiting.
Patter.
The last footstep stopped outside the door.
Lin Chun held her breath, staring at the door. The door was wooden, painted white, with a utility bill reminder sticker on it. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, almost drowning out all other sounds.
It was quiet for about ten seconds. Then she heard a sound. Very soft, very thin, like someone gently scraping the door with a fingernail, or like someone humming a tune inaudible, in an extremely low voice.
That sound came through from the other side of the door, passing through the wood, through the gap in the door, through the door chain, accurately drilling into her ears.
Lin Chun stood frozen in the entryway, every muscle in her body tense, not daring to move an inch.
The sound continued for about a minute. Then it stopped, replaced by silence—the kind of silence that seemed to have substance, pressing against her eardrums.
After an unknown amount of time, she heard another sound. This time it was knocking—three gentle knocks on the door. Knock, knock, knock.
Like a customer arriving for an appointment.
Knock, knock, knock.
Like someone politely asking to come in.
Knock, knock, knock.
Lin Chun didn't make a sound. She stood in the entryway, staring at the door, watching the gaps around the door frame, the door chain, the peephole.
The knocking stopped.
The silence that followed was different from before—a heavy, textured silence, like a held breath.
Then she heard it. A sound like something being slid under a door. A soft scraping sound, something thin and flexible being pushed through the gap at the bottom of the door.
Lin Chun stared at it.
Slowly, inch by inch, something white slid out from under the door—a piece of paper. White, crisp, with a faint floral scent—an unusual smell in this rental apartment where she'd only ever smelled her own instant noodles and takeout boxes.
The paper slid completely out from under the door and lay still on the floor of the entryway.
Lin Chun stared at it for a long, long time. Then she walked over, crouched down, and picked up the piece of paper with trembling fingers.
It was an appointment card. Pink, with gold foil lettering. On it was printed:
"Chan Juan Beauty Salon
Tomorrow's Appointment
Time: 10:00 AM
Service: Full Facial Treatment"
And at the bottom, in handwriting that looked like it had been written with a trembling hand:
"See you tomorrow. :)"
Lin Chun stared at that emoticon for a long time.
That smiley face, drawn so cheerfully, looked so incongruous on this pink card that had slid out from under her door in the middle of the night.
She crumpled the card in her fist.
And at that moment, she heard it—from outside the door, from the hallway—footsteps. Starting to walk away. Slow, unhurried, unhurried steps, gradually fading into the distance.
Then silence.
True silence this time.
Lin Chun stayed in the entryway until dawn. When the first light of morning came through the window, she finally moved—her legs were numb, her back aching, her whole body stiff.
She stood up, walked to the window, and looked out. The sun was rising. Outside, the neighborhood was slowly waking up—a dog barked somewhere, someone was dragging garbage cans in the hallway, the elevator made its usual rattling sounds going up and down.
Everything seemed normal.
She looked at her own reflection in the window glass. Ordinary face, ordinary expression, dark circles under her eyes from a sleepless night.
Behind her, the crumpled pink card lay on the floor of the entryway.
Lin Chun walked over, picked up the card, and smoothed it out with her fingers. The smiley face :) looked up at her, cheerful and friendly.
She walked to the trash can in the kitchen, opened the lid, and was about to throw the card away when—
She stopped.
She looked at the card again.
Tomorrow's appointment. Time: 10:00 AM.
But it was already morning now. Today's morning. If there was a tomorrow's appointment, then...
The appointment was for tomorrow.
Lin Chun stared at the card. The smiley face stared back.
She slowly lowered her hand.
She didn't throw the card away.
Instead, she walked to her room, changed into her work uniform, picked up her bag, and walked to the door. She unlocked the door chain, unlocked the two locks, and opened the door.
The hallway outside was empty. Completely empty. The fluorescent light at the end of the corridor hummed as usual. Someone's newspaper was lying on the hallway window ledge, undisturbed.
She walked out, closed the door, and locked it.
Then she walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited.
The elevator arrived with a ding. She walked in, pressed the button for the ground floor, and the doors slowly closed.
In the reflection of the elevator's mirrored wall, she saw herself—tired, pale, but still standing.
She looked at her own reflection.
The elevator started descending.
In the mirror, the floor numbers lit up in sequence. 8, 7, 6, 5—
Lin Chun's heart stopped.
In the mirror, she saw something behind herself.
In the mirrored wall of the elevator, reflected behind her—standing in the corner—someone in white. Long black hair hanging down to cover their face.
Standing so close she could almost feel the chill radiating from them.
The elevator continued descending. 4, 3, 2—
Lin Chun didn't turn around.
She kept her eyes on the mirror, on that white figure in the corner of the reflection, on those strands of black hair slowly swaying.
And the swaying was wrong again. Not wind, not breath. Something behind the hair, rhythmically, thrust after thrust, pushing those black strands.
The elevator reached the ground floor with a ding.
The doors opened.
Lin Chun walked out, step by step, through the lobby, out the building entrance, and onto the street.
Sunlight fell on her face. The street was already lively—people going to work, cars honking, a vendor selling breakfast shouting.
She didn't look back.
She walked to the nearest intersection, found a shared bike, and rode toward Chan Juan Beauty Salon.
Behind her, the elevator in her building closed its doors.
And in the mirrored wall of that elevator, standing in the corner, a figure in white slowly faded away.
Lin Chun rode through three streets. At a red light, she stopped and looked at the traffic light pole—the metal surface reflected the street scene, and in that reflection, she saw herself, waiting at the light.
And behind herself—
Nothing.
She waited for the light to turn green, then rode on.
At the entrance to Chan Juan Beauty Salon, she locked her bike and looked up. The glass door was closed, the sun-proof film reflecting the street scene. Through the film, she couldn't see the interior clearly.
She pushed open the door and walked in.
Sister Zhao was standing in the small lobby, a cup of tea in her hand. When she saw Lin Chun, she didn't seem surprised.
"You're early."
"I couldn't sleep."
Sister Zhao put down her tea. "Sit down. Let's talk."
Lin Chun sat on the sofa. Sister Zhao sat across from her, and for a moment neither spoke.
Finally, Sister Zhao broke the silence.
"Last night, did you—"
Before she could finish, the door to the beauty room opened by itself.
The sliding door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing the beauty room behind. The three beds, the carts, the mirror on the wall.
The mirror was facing outward.
The grayish-green cardboard backing that should have been facing out was gone. The mirror surface was fully visible, reflecting the small lobby, reflecting Sister Zhao and Lin Chun sitting face to face.
And in the center of the mirror—
In the lower right corner of the mirror, the words were still there: "Customers who have had facial treatments, please look in the mirror."
Lin Chun's blood ran cold.
"It flipped back," Sister Zhao said, her voice tight. "I flipped it last night before I left. This morning it was like this."
They both stared at the mirror.
Then they saw it.
In the mirror, in the beauty room behind the sliding door, on the farthest beauty bed—someone was lying down.
White clothes, long black hair spread out on the pillow. Eyes closed, expression peaceful, as if sleeping.
But she wasn't sleeping.
Slowly, that figure opened her eyes.
Black eyes, without whites, without pupils—just pure, velvet black. Those black eyes looked out of the mirror, looked directly at Lin Chun and Sister Zhao sitting in the small lobby.
And then that figure smiled.
That smile was the same smile Lin Chun had seen yesterday on the glass door—satisfied, content, genuinely joyful. The smile of someone who had just had a facial treatment, looked in the mirror, and felt beautiful.
The figure in the mirror slowly sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and stood up.
White sleep gown, dark red border on the sleeve.
She walked toward the sliding door. One step, two steps, three steps.
Lin Chun and Sister Zhao sat frozen on the sofa, unable to move, unable to look away, watching that figure in white walk out of the mirror, one step at a time.
The figure walked through the sliding door, through the small lobby, and stopped in front of the glass door.
She reached out and touched the glass.
On the other side of the glass door, the street scene was bright and sunny. But through the glass, the hand that was touching it looked wrong—too white, too cold, like a piece of paper stuck to the glass.
Then that figure in white turned around and looked at Lin Chun again.
Those black eyes—pure, velvet black—looked at Lin Chun with an expression of pure satisfaction.
And Lin Chun finally understood.
This had never been about haunting.
This had never been about revenge or grudges or any of the things ghost stories were supposed to be about.
This was about beauty.
This had always been about beauty.
The woman in white looked at Lin Chun, looked at her tired face, her dark circles, her skin that hadn't been properly taken care of in a long time.
And her expression said everything:
"You're next."
The fluorescent light in the beauty room flickered.
And the mirror—
The mirror slowly, inch by inch, flipped back over.
Grayish-green cardboard backing facing outward.
The words hidden behind: "Don't look."
And below, that "Zheng" character, along with the number that came after it, faded and unclear.
Lin Chun sat on the sofa, her whole body frozen.
Sister Zhao grabbed her hand.
"Little Chun. Little Chun!"
But Lin Chun didn't respond. She was staring at the mirror on the wall, seeing only her own reflection, pale and terrified.
And behind her reflection, reflected in the mirror like a superimposed image—
A figure in white, standing right behind her, close enough to touch.
Eyes black as velvet, smile satisfied and content.
Looking at Lin Chun's reflection with those black eyes.
Looking at Lin Chun's reflection like she was looking at herself in a mirror.
Saying without words:
"See you tomorrow."
Outside, the street was bright and sunny. The breakfast shop's aroma drifted in through the glass door. A child on an electric bike passed by, back from school, sleeping against their father's back.
Everything was normal.
Everything looked so normal.
But Lin Chun knew.
Tomorrow would not be normal.
Tomorrow would not be empty anymore.
And deep in the mirror's reflection, that satisfied smile never faded—persisting in the glass like an invitation that had already been accepted, waiting patiently for the appointed time to arrive.