Storming Into The Good Night

In downtown Beijing, the chilly draught marched alongside the rain, which battered the pavement ferociously. The chill seeped through Ling’s coat and into her skin, making her tremble. She stood by the curb, trying to hail a taxi, but failed again and again. Without an umbrella, her coat was soon soaked. Each occupied taxi sped past, windshield wipers working relentlessly, splashing water high into the air. The six o’clock traffic jam became a nightmare for every commuter longing to return home. Ling had just fled the dreary, pointless team meeting. Instead of heading home, she was on her way to the hospital.

Half an hour ago, the hospital called. Her mother had been struck by a car and now was in the ICU. Ling could not forgive herself, for that very morning she had quarreled with her mother about her job and her future marriage. Now she was consumed by guilt. Her mother, raising Ling alone, wished Ling could find a man she could rely on. Yet, Ling scorned romance and had no desire for marriage. She had dated men with impressive university degrees, but they often behaved strangely. One man asked if she was good at housework and caring for children. Another flaunted his bank account, promising that if Ling became his trophy wife, he would give her an allowance. On another occasion, a man pointed out a minor error when splitting the bill. In the back seat of the taxi, Ling regretted the morning’s quarrel with her mother. What if…

After nearly an hour of crawling through the rain, her taxi finally reached the hospital. Through the ICU ward window, she glimpsed her mother, masked and tethered to respiratory machines. Powerless, Ling sank onto a corridor bench, swallowed by silence. After a while, a woman carrying a black tote bag stopped before her and introduced herself as her mother’s insurance agent. She handed Ling an envelope – inside lay a letter, a yellowed newspaper clipping and a photo. Ling read them carefully, then collapsed onto the bench.

Ling was not permitted to enter the ward, and the doctor could only suggest that she wait patiently. At that moment, her team’s chat group lit up repeatedly as colleagues congratulated her boss on becoming director. She alone remained silent. That very morning, she had stormed out of his office.

“Ugly pig,” she cursed her boss silently. His greasy hand had brushed against her breast as she handed him the documents. He didn’t apologize; instead, he smirked and threatened that this was part of her performance assessment. If she wanted a promotion, he warned, she had to be smart enough to follow his rules.

Ignoring his threats about the company’s downsizing, Ling requested a few days off. Hours later, she boarded a plane. Three hours later, the plane descended into Chengdu, where fog and mist veiled the airport in mystery. From there, she embarked on a two-hour bus journey to her final destination – a small town called Hongxi.

On the bus, several passengers stared at Ling as she stepped aboard. They recognized her as an outsider the moment their eyes fell on her. Avoiding their gaze, Ling walked straight to the last row and sank into the corner seat. The bus climbed hills, wound through bends, rumbled through tunnels, and crossed bridges. At last, it pulled into a wide yard – the town’s only bus station.

Stepping out of the bus station, she wandered onto a street where dust swirled behind passing cars. Restaurants stood open, though empty of diners. Along the road, banners proclaimed plans to transform the old town into a tourist attraction. From her online research, Ling knew Hongxi had once thrived as a factory town producing matches. But with matches abandoned, the factories had collapsed into bankruptcy. She kept walking, wheeling her luggage across the bumpy pavement, until she came upon a simple hotel.

After checking in, she went downstairs and roamed around the streets. When she reached the town center, a group of retired women were performing a square dance. One aunt fixed her gaze on Ling, suddenly stopped, and whispered to the woman beside her. In an instant, their faces turned pale with fear, and they scattered in different directions. Ling was bewildered – but her curiosity was stirred even more.

She glanced again at the map glowing on her phone: forty minutes on foot to Mirror Lake. She walked past clothing shops, their bells waiting to chime at the push of a door. January had left the town hollow, stripped of visitors. Outside, mannequins stood bare, their forms brushed by the cold air, sending a chill through her.

The town’s single road carried her past the post office, where a handful of people shuffled mail bags in silence. Ling did not pause; her steps carried her onward until she reached the edge of town, where a large signpost pointed the way to Mirror Lake. She passed a vegetable stall where an old granny sat among heaps of green onions. When the old woman lifted her head, her gaze locked on Ling - her brows furrowed, eyes widened, mouth agape. A bunch of green onions hung suspend in her hand. She froze, motionless, like a statue. Ling felt uneasy. Both the dancing aunts and the old granny had been startled by her presence. Their reactions only deepened her curiosity about the reason why. Ling offered an awkward smile before continuing forward. The road sloped upward, narrowing into a path that visitors could follow toward a small hill. At its summit lay Mirror Lake. Halfway up, Ling was already puffing and huffing. She stopped to rest, realizing that she had not hiked for a year. Even this modest hill left her drained and exhausted. Along the road, a sign warned: “Be careful of the slippery, icy path and the frozen lake. Do not stand on the ice.” Finally, Ling reached the summit and passed through a dim thicket where the lake revealed itself. It lay there like an eye upon the hill – frozen, unblinking, and eternal.

Ling did not dare step onto the ice, but she circled the lake instead. It took her ten minutes to complete a lap. Pulling out the clipping of the old newspaper, she read the headline: “Woman’s Body Found in Mirror Lake.” The incident had occurred in January 1996, when the body was discovered frozen beneath the surface. The article revealed chilling details - construction workers had broken through the ice to extract her remains. Suddenly, the wind picked up, its chill seeping into her bones and heart, making her tremble.

The sun grew bleak, slipping behind the clouds. As the thicket darkened, Ling felt a flicker of fear. She turned back, retracing her steps down the path. When she reached the town’s center, it was around five o’clock in the afternoon, the hour when most people left work. She stood outside the post office, waiting. From the side door, a man wheeled out a bicycle. She checked the photo in her hand and confirmed - it was him. The man stopped, gazing at her from a distance. Ling lifted her hand in a polite wave, a faint grin on her face. In response, the man pushed his bike forward.

Before Ling could introduce herself, the man spoke first.

“You looked too much like my sister,” he muttered. “No… one hundred percent alike.”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Ling apologized. “I only wish to know about her… Qing. My adoptive mother was hit by a car and is now still in coma.”

He did not turn her away, but led her to his home – a modest room on the third floor of the aging family dormitory once built for post office staff. Although it was only a one-bedroom apartment, everything was arranged neatly in its place. He pulled out a chair for Ling, prepared a cup of tea, and then disappeared into the bedroom for a few minutes. He returned with a faded portrait, which he handed to Ling. Though the photo had faded with time, the woman’s beauty still glimmered through the decay. Ling stared at it, now convinced that the resemblance was absolute, one hundred percent identical.

“Forgive me - I haven’t reached out in all these years,” he murmured.

Ling held silence, waiting to hear more.

“Qing - your mother was very beautiful. The instant I saw you, I recognized her in you. She was the prettiest woman in town. Yet she was mute… and from the silence her tragedy began,” he said softly.

“What about my father?” Ling asked.

His fist tightened, his body trembling.

“Your father!” he spat, eyes blazing. “He was the murderer. He killed your mother. And he is still alive.”

Ling listened in silence.

“I cannot tell when the whispers began - that my sister betrayed her husband,” he said bitterly. “You see, a woman too beautiful is rarely blessed.”

After speaking, he cast a brief glance at Ling - but the look unsettled her, leaving her uneasy.

“Your mother was mute, which made marriage difficult for her. No family wanted a mute woman as their daughter-in-law. In the end, the matchmaker found your father, a poor man who worked at the match factory. His family had very little.”

He paused for a moment before continuing.

“Your mother hid her suffering. She always wore long sleeves and trousers. Even in summer, she rarely wore a dress,” he choked up.

“She concealed the bruises on her body. Your father was a cruel man - he struck only the parts that others could not see. When the incident finally occurred, he went to the police, but claimed that your mother had left by on her own.”

“The lake,” her uncle said through clenched teeth. “Her body was thrown into the lake. It lay frozen there until the police finally discovered her.”

Her uncle looked at her. “I wanted to keep this secret from you. I hoped you could live a different life – free from its shadow. But in the end, destiny still brought you here.”

“If my adoptive mother hadn’t had the accident, I would never have known any of this.” Ling murmured.

“People often gossiped about her, obsessed with whether she had truly betrayed your father,” he protested. “But does that really matter? Betrayal or not, it can never justify his monstrous deed.”

“Does the match factory still stand?” Ling asked.

“It lies in ruin,” he explained. “A year after your mother’s death, a fire broke out, consuming the entire factory and the dormitory. No one ever discovered the cause. But whispers spread - that it was your mother’s ghost, returned for revenge.”

He let Ling keep the portrait. “She is where you came from,” he said softly, “but not where you’re going. Remember her.”

She returned to the small hotel room, her mind restless, and decided to visit the ruined match factory at dawn.

The next morning, she rose early. After breakfast, she made her way to the match factory. The factory itself was gone, but ruins lingered behind a patch of woods. Pitch-black brick walls sagged and crumbled, with broken bricks scattered across the ground. Within the walls, what had once been a two-story building had collapsed into a single level - the upper floor reduced to rubble upon the lower one. She stepped carefully across the bricks, shuffling with caution. Weeds had grown as high as her knees, yet among them a broken chair still lay. Ling searched desperately for any trace of her mother. In one corner, three sticks of incense had been pressed into the dirt, with a handful of wildflowers laid beside them. Ling stood bewildered. Someone had just lit the incense - the faint smoke still curled in the air. Suddenly, an old man appeared before her. The moment his eyes fell on her, he shrieked and bolted. “Ghost!” the old man howled as he fled. Ling ran after him, though she had no idea who he was. The old man stumbled over a brick and fell hard to the ground. He stared at Ling, wide with terror.

“Ghost! Qing, are you a ghost?” he cried.

Ling stood before him. “Qing is my mother. I’m not a ghost.”

The man rubbed his eyes, staring at her once more. After a long breath, he sighed.

“Who are you?” Ling asked.

The old man sprawled on the floor. “I’m your mother’s best friend.”

The old man began to tell Ling their story. He too had worked in the match factory, once a colleague of her father. Her mother, though mute, loved to read. One morning, as he passed by their apartment, he saw her absorbed in a novel. The book was worn, its spine loosening with age, so he thought she might welcome more to read. The next morning, he brought her three novels. Yet only days later, he found those same books left outside his door. Confused, he went to her apartment. Through the window, he saw her sitting in silence. He waved, hoping to speak with her, but she drew the curtain shut. Soon, whispers spread through the factory – rumors that her father often beat her mother, and darker gossip that she had betrayed him. And then came the final tragedy, the one Ling already knew.

The old man wept softly, burdened by regret for never helping Ling’s mother.

“I waited in the woods, but she never came. Dawn broke and still she did not appear,” the old man muttered.

Ling’s voice snapped like a whip. “Why didn’t you fight for her?”

“I wanted to,” he confessed, “but I was afraid.”

Ling studied the frail figure before her. Even if her mother had escaped with him, she thought, life would not have been any better. He was a coward.

The truth pressed down on her chest: the killer was not a stranger, but her father. The weight of it stole her breath, leaving her gasping in silence.

She boarded the train, determined to seek answers from her father - the murderer. The city prison lay only twenty minutes away. In the reception room, she finally faced him: her biological father.

He froze beside the chair, his eyes widening. “Ghost!” he yelled. His brows knotted, his face contorted. “Qing, forgive me,” he cried. In panic, he tried to crawl beneath the chair, but it was too small. He crouched behind it instead, clutching the backrest, his face pressed low toward the floor. Moments later, the wardens seized him and dragged him out of the reception room.

Disappointed, Ling left the prison. Her mother had never been given the chance to escape this town. She boarded the train back to Chengdu, her phone carrying the evidence of her boss’s harassment. She was ready to release it - prepared to walk straight into the storm that awaited her.