Waiting

The cruelest part is visiting home.

Each person only gets one chance per month to freely return to the living world. You can touch objects but cannot be seen, make sounds, or leave traces.

I would lie on my former bed.

"Dad, you can throw away that family photo; it's all from when I was a kid, doesn't even look like me. Hey, why don't you go help mom move stuff? She can't do it alone." I just liked watching them like this. I'd occasionally glance at the desk to my right – already covered by my mom with a dust cloth, but I always recalled myself working on creations at home and would smile. "Mom, you don't need to cover it. If you have time, you can read my diary. I never shared it with you."

I watched Mom pack my textbooks into cardboard boxes. Dad stared blankly at my photo. Those words – I always finished saying them before realizing they couldn't hear. After we souls arrive in the death world, the messengers erase the memories of those who clearly witnessed our deaths, so they also forgot my last words, forever living in their own guilt.

How I wanted to hug them, to stroke my mom's white hair, but my fingers passed through their bodies. I wanted to shout, "I'm here!" but they couldn't even hear my breath. Once, I secretly took a pen from the desk and wrote "I love you, I miss you so much" on the calendar. I hid behind the door, as if my body could still be easily discovered, anticipating my parents' reaction. But when they entered the room again, the words were instantly wiped clean.

Every Saturday, I and a group of others were arranged to participate in a waiting ritual – sitting quietly in a white room resembling a school exam hall. Each batch of souls had different ritual times; the messenger on Wednesday, the senior on Thursday. Each time, we had to climb stairs for what felt like forever, seemingly endless, each floor different, trudging on until we arrived, our feet numb. No phones, no books, only rows of metal desks and chairs.

"What are we waiting for?" I asked the administrator.

"For a reply," he answered mechanically.

I didn't understand what he meant.

We weren't allowed to bring anything, couldn't chat. Inside, we could only space out, sit for three full hours, then leave together. The purpose was unclear. Children's laughter came from the next room. Through the glass, I saw a group of teenagers sitting in a classroom. Some played games, some read, drew, chatted together – quite lively. They were infants who died young, judged by the system as "not having experienced enough life," so they enjoyed privileges. And I could only sit.

During those agonizing three hours, it was hard not to think about the meaning of life, regrets before death. But at some point, I'd suddenly realize, without any basis: This world is not the end.

Whether falling down or flying up (migrating), a deeper truth is hidden beyond the "second death" – perhaps a new layer of the world, perhaps utter nothingness.

But such thoughts were useless. Because no matter what, I could never go back.

"Asking the administrator is useless," the senior said when I asked after the ritual why the answer was "waiting for a reply." "The staff only execute procedures. No one knows what this waiting ritual is for."

I stood on the death world's streets, looking at the gray sky. A month passed; I gradually adapted to the rules here – work, socializing, even occasional "home visits." But those unresolved questions were like a thorn, deeply embedded in my consciousness.

Until the Ghost Festival (a kind of traditional Chinese festival) arrived.