Chapter 117 The Red Letter 2 And then he was gone.
After thinking for a while, you checked several times to make sure the latch was on, then dragged a chair over to block the door, and even stuffed a towel under the door crack—to block out the sound.
You know what's going to happen, and you don't want to get involved.
After doing all that, you quickly took a shower and snuggled back into your warm bed.
The snow outside the window was falling heavily, and the sound of fireworks continued.
In cities without skyscrapers, fireworks can light up the night sky for everyone.
You're curled up in bed, staring at the ceiling with your eyes open.
I haven't felt sleepy for a long time.
Until you vaguely close your eyes, almost sinking down in that instant—
Thump.
A very soft knock sounded on the door.
It's not violent, nor is it hasty. It's a slow, polite, and exceptionally patient tapping.
Thump. ...Thump.
...thump.
You open your eyes, and your breathing immediately becomes heavy. You begin to pretend to be fast asleep, even your breathing is flawless.
You tell yourself, maybe it's the wind, maybe it's the wood expanding and contracting with temperature changes, the hotel is old, and its bones are just cracking.
But then the sound came again.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Three short, almost resolute beats.
You heard panting.
Then there was a voice outside the door—yes, it was the male guest from across the hall.
His voice was a little hoarse, but you could tell he hadn't drunk much tonight.
"Hey...Are you still awake?...I know you're listening."
He didn't shout. His voice sounded as if he was afraid of waking something.
"I...I don't understand what kind of joke this is...You mean...firelight...the firelight in the letter...is it a fireplace?"
He chuckled.
Thankfully, the noise of the fireworks masked the violent pounding of your heart.
"Hey, we're both from the Flower Country, let's chat..."
Your room is warm, your bed is warm, but you still feel a chill.
You sense something "approaching" from the other side of the door—not him, but something in his words—like a black hand emerging from his throat and slowly sliding in through the crack in the door.
"It's okay. It's fine if you don't open the door."
"I saw it... I saw that it said more than just this sentence... it also said..."
Close your eyes.
I don't want to hear it.
As the fireworks went off, you quickly got up, pulled out your earplugs, covered your ears, took off your pillowcase, wrapped it around your head like a hat, and curled up in the blanket.
Go to sleep.
The sound was blocked.
You don't know if there are still people talking outside the door.
You don't want to know either.
You only have a vague feeling that he is still there.
Even if you can no longer hear him, you can still "feel" him.
He's like a damp breeze, clinging to the outside of your door.
Like frost slowly forming on a door, it waits patiently and silently for you to open the door.
You don't move.
The radiators are burning brightly to regulate the temperature inside the room.
You are asleep.
The next morning, the sun shone brightly.
You are awakened by the sunlight, and the moment you open your eyes, you almost think that last night was just an overly realistic dream.
But you quickly realize that's not the case.
There was a pillowcase lying on the floor—it looked like you'd rubbed off your loosely put-on sleeping cap while you were sleeping.
The chair was still blocking the door, but the towel under the door crack had been pulled away.
You took a moment to calm down before getting up, and the first thing you did was walk to the window and pull back the curtains.
The sun shone brightly, and the streets were clean. Ice flowers clung to the pine trees across the street, and smoke rose from the rooftops.
Downstairs, Martha was shoveling snow.
Her movements were slow yet full of life, with a brand-new black apron wrapped around her cotton coat.
She would occasionally look up at the eaves, then continue sweeping.
You breathed a sigh of relief, but you didn't let your guard down.
Only when you are sure that Martha's movements and expression are no different from usual do you cautiously open the door.
The door hinges clicked softly, and you peeked out into the hallway.
The corridor was deserted.
The air still smelled of ashes from the wood Martha burned last night.
As for the neighbor across the hall…
The gate was tightly shut.
You don't want to know if he's still in the room.
Composing yourself, you adjusted your scarf and quietly walked down the stairs.
When you got down to the first floor, you subconsciously glanced at the mirror at the end of the corridor.
It was supposed to be a full-length mirror that Martha thoughtfully prepared for her guests, but at this moment it was like a standing well—silent as a black hole, absorbing all light and unable to reflect anyone's face.
You walk past it quickly, without looking at it.
Walk through the living room and head towards the dining room.
Breakfast was already laid out. Today's "New Year's breakfast" was specially prepared by Masha and was much more lavish than usual.
On the table were hot milk, butter pancakes, carrot soup, and the old lady's homemade honey sauce. Four or five guests sat in the restaurant, the atmosphere warm and peaceful.
—If you ignore the slurping sounds of eating.
The sound came from the male resident across the hall.
He never used to get up early to eat breakfast, but now he seemed to have been starving for ages, burying his head in his bowl of hot soup.
His spoon scraped against the porcelain bowl with a screeching sound, his head almost buried in the bowl, and he smacked his lips, eating like a pig.
No one spoke. No one tried to stop them.
An old man who particularly liked to point and gesticulate was simply sipping his black tea quietly, leisurely enjoying today's newspaper.
You hesitated for a moment, but then sat down at the other end of the table.
You didn't greet him, nor did you even glance at him.
Picking up the butter knife, she gently spread the butter on the toast, cut it, and chewed, her movements no different from anyone else's.
You also want to finish eating quickly and leave, but you don't want to show it.
Over there, the male guest had another bowl, picked up the spoon and continued eating, his breathing rapid as if he were chasing after some time.
After the meal, you quickly tidied up your cup, got up, and walked through the corridor to find Martha.
She's sitting at the tea table next to the living room, waiting for you, flipping through a thick "Flower Language Beginner's Guide." As you approach, she looks up and smiles at you, a smile just like yesterday.
She said, "Good child, come and help me see the sentence structure for 'request'."
You nodded, feeling a little calmer.
“I also have some questions about the Rose language to ask you.” You smiled at the old man and took out your language book.
Nothing is easier to gain genuine affection than asking someone about their culture and language.
Martha will be a great guardian until you leave the Los Kingdom instance.
I sat with Masha behind the small table at the front desk, the sunlight streaming in from behind, making it warm and cozy.
"Please can be placed before any question to show respect..."
Following your pronunciation, Martha tried her best to repeat after you, reading every word perfectly, but she still got a little distracted.
Just as you were about to continue, a loud thud came from the restaurant as a porcelain bowl slammed onto the table.
The male guest has finished his meal.
You didn't look up, but your ears naturally perked up.
The footsteps were unsteady.
Clack, clack, clack—he stumbled out of the restaurant, as if stepping on some invisible entanglement, his center of gravity swaying from side to side.
He stopped.
His eyes seemed to be glued to you and Martha, and when he tilted his head, they were fixed on you and Martha.
"I remember that street..."
His voice was hoarse, with breathy sounds stronger than normal sounds, as if something was blocking his throat.
That street...that street...
You ignored him, but instinctively gripped your pen tighter.
“That street…” he continued.
Like a cassette tape.
After repeating the same sentence dozens of times, he finally lost his voice, made a gurgling sound, and swallowed the sentence back.
You look at Martha.
She didn't move, nor did she glance at him.
She continued looking down at the dictionary, as if the man in front of you was just a cat meowing as it passed by outside the window, not worth paying special attention to.
She turned to the next page and pointed to the word "requirement".
You can see that her fingertips are thin and dry, with prominent knuckles, and her nails are so short they look like they've been bitten.
Continue your language practice with Martha.
The man nodded, swallowing hard as if pulling a cloth shoe out of the mud.
Yu Guangli stood there for a while, then turned around and went upstairs.
The footsteps began again, clattering and clattering, slowly ascending the steps. The sound was like something was being dragged along.
You finally dared to look up.
Martha was closing her dictionary.
She stood up, expressionless.
"Please follow me," she whispered, using the language of flowers.
You didn't ask, just stand up immediately.
She took a small cloth bag of salt from under the counter, opened the bag, scooped out a pinch, and sprinkled it on your head, shoulders, and chest.
You can smell some spices mixed into the salt, like the scent of burning incense.
After sprinkling the salt, she went straight to the door, opened it, and threw a handful of salt onto the threshold, then continued sprinkling it in circles along the door frame, the door seams, and below the peephole.
She was sprinkling the powder while chanting a mantra.
The vocabulary this time was very simple; you understood it.
It is not a prayer.
It's about counting.
"One, two, three, four, five... six... six..."
Six is an unlucky number.
Your heart skipped a beat, but you dared not ask.
You can see that her sleeve has slipped down a bit, revealing many fine scars on her exposed arm.
It's not a new injury, it's a recurrence of an old one.
Some have turned purple, some look like they've been burned, and some are neatly arranged lines, like numbers stamped on the skin, stamped again and again.
She noticed you were watching and gently pulled her sleeve to cover herself.
But she didn't explain, so you didn't ask.
After sprinkling the salt, Martha straightened up, turned around, and nodded gently at you.
“Keep studying,” she said, her cloudy green eyes fixed on you. “As a good child, you must study hard.”
You understood what she meant.
It doesn't mean "continue learning the language".
Rather, as long as you are still learning, as a student who has stayed in the country, you are still working hard to learn languages and professional courses, so you can maintain the appearance of "life" and keep a safe distance from those "abnormal" things.
You nodded, sat back down at the small table, and opened your notebook.
"I'm tired. You can go home now." Martha pushed up her reading glasses, leaned back in the recliner, and saw her off.
After studying Rosenborg for most of the day, you really do feel sore all over.
Martha kissed your cheek, and you went back to your room.
As you climb the stairs and turn the corner on the second floor, you hear a faint singing voice.
You won't understand the lyrics.
It wasn't the language of flowers, nor the whispers of birds, nor the language of Rose. It was a kind of syllable devoid of meaning, like the unclear pronunciation of a baby, or the clenched teeth of an old man frozen to the bone. The rhythm was stiff, sometimes rapid, sometimes drawn out, like stumbling footsteps on piano keys.
Slow down and hold your breath.
Finally, we saw the source of the sound.
—It was him again.
The male resident across the hall was standing in front of the mirror on the third-floor corner, singing to himself.
His face was pressed against the mirror, with only half of his mouth showing, as if he were trying to squeeze out a lyric from the reflection. His shoulders trembled slightly, as if suppressing some spasmodic emotion.
You quickly walked upstairs.
He didn't make a sound, nor did he meet his gaze.
But you couldn't help but glance at the mirror.
Just one glance.
There is only one person in the mirror—the back of that person's head.
The one in the mirror is turning its head!
Turn from the mirror to your reflection!
You immediately looked away, almost running to pull out your keys, opened your bedroom door, rushed inside, locked and bolted the door, stuffed a towel in it, and then barricaded the doorway with a chair.
Your chest heaved violently, and sweat even seeped out from your back.
You took a breath before remembering the small bundle of hay that Martha had given you that afternoon.
She didn't explain, only saying, "Burn some tonight."
You take out the hay, put it in the small ceramic dish that Martha gave you, and light it.
The flame was a ghostly blue color, and it made a very faint hissing sound when it burned, like the popping of an effervescent tablet.
You stand by the window, inhaling the pungent smell mixed with the aroma of medicine, and slowly calm down.
I didn't go out for the rest of the day.
Until night completely falls. You snuggle in bed, with only a small bedside lamp illuminating the ceiling.
But around midnight, the knocking came again.
Thump thump thump—
It was ringing faster and more urgently than yesterday, the rhythm like someone clenching a fist, almost cracking their knuckles.
You don't move. You can't possibly move.
The sound crept in through the crack in the door:
"Come with me..."
His voice no longer sounds human.
"Come with me—I remember that street…I know where it is…"
You suddenly pulled the blanket over your head and pressed your hands tightly against your ears.
He was still talking outside the door, speaking faster and softer, as if afraid you wouldn't hear him clearly, or as if he was deliberately lowering his voice to make you "closer" to hear him.
"You know...you also know..."
"You told me about the 'rules,' didn't you?"
You grit your teeth, close your eyes, and forcefully bury yourself deep inside the covers.
Then, everything suddenly stopped.
There were no footsteps, no sound of retreating.
It was just—quiet.
You waited motionless for a long time until the heating started clanging again before you dared to slowly crawl out from under the covers.
You bound yourself up with the ghost bride's black hair before you dared to continue sleeping.
Another morning, sunlight streamed in, and frost flowers still clung to the glass.
You open the door and walk out of the room.
The corridor was quiet, and the door opposite was tightly shut. There were no letters, no footprints, and no bloodstains under the door.
You walked downstairs without saying a word.
Martha was awake and sitting by the fireplace, mending her old apron.
She glanced at you but didn't say good morning.
He simply asked in a low voice, "Did you dream about anything today?"
You shake your head.
She nodded and continued sewing.
“Good boy, what are you standing there for? Go eat.” Martha said with a smile.
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Author's note: Hehe
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