The apartment's interior exuded an almost sterile serenity, a carefully curated haven where every detail was orchestrated to shield its occupant from harm; the thick carpeting muffled every step into a whisper, its plush fibers pristine as if untouched by time, while the edges of tables and counters were swathed in layers of protective cloth, their soft wrappings a silent bulwark against accidental injury, transforming the mundane into a fortress of safety. A fruit plate sat prominently on the coffee table, its vibrant array of apples and oranges a splash of color in the otherwise muted space, yet conspicuously absent were any sharp implements—no knives, no forks, not even a butter spreader—each omission a deliberate choice to eliminate risk, crafting an environment where even the smallest threat was banished to ensure the fragile peace of its resident. The room felt less like a home and more like a sanctuary sculpted for someone teetering on the precipice of collapse, its cleanliness a testament to a vigilance born of necessity, the air heavy with the unspoken weight of a household shaped by the demands of protecting a troubled soul from both external dangers and inner demons.
"Doctor Gao, please come in," a woman in a flowing white dress greeted, her voice soft yet imbued with the practiced warmth of someone accustomed to masking exhaustion with courtesy, her appearance meticulously maintained—hair neatly styled, makeup subtle yet precise—belied by the faint creases of worry etched around her eyes, marking her as a woman in her forties who had borne the weight of relentless caregiving. Madam Gu's elegance was a fragile veneer, her poised posture and carefully chosen attire a shield against the chaos that simmered beneath, her welcoming gesture tinged with the hesitance of one guarding a sanctuary from untested intruders, her smile a delicate offering that wavered under the strain of hope perpetually deferred. She ushered Chen Ge and Doctor Gao inside with a grace that felt rehearsed, her eyes flickering briefly over the stranger at Gao's side, assessing his presence with a mother's instinctive caution, her role as Wang Xin's protector shaping every interaction into a delicate negotiation between trust and vigilance.
"Has Wang Xin's condition improved?" Doctor Gao asked, his tone a careful blend of professional inquiry and genuine concern, his eyes searching Madam Gu's face for any glimmer of progress amidst the shadows of her evident fatigue, the question a ritual of hope that sought to pierce the veil of her daughter's persistent affliction. "I've given her the recommended sleeping pills and anti-depressants, but the effect has not been as positive as I hoped," Madam Gu replied, her voice soft but heavy with disappointment, her weak smile faltering as she recounted the litany of failed interventions, each word a confession of her powerlessness against Wang Xin's enigmatic torment. "If anything, her condition hasn't improved, but all the side effects did show themselves—dry heaving, shivering, and shaking hands. She could not even grip the chopsticks during lunch, and the food fell all over the table. Doctor Gao, do you think Wang Xin can still be cured?" Her question trembled with desperation, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she laid bare the toll of her daughter's suffering—meals abandoned in chaos, simple tasks rendered impossible by tremors, the side effects a cruel mockery of the treatments meant to heal, painting a portrait of a young girl ensnared by a malady that defied both medicine and maternal devotion.
"Believe me, she will get better," Doctor Gao assured, his voice a steady beacon in the storm of Madam Gu's doubts, his confidence rooted in years of navigating the complexities of the human psyche, though his furrowed brow betrayed a flicker of uncertainty about the path forward, given Wang Xin's resistance to conventional therapies. His words were a promise forged from experience, a lifeline extended to a mother clinging to hope, yet tempered by the sobering reality that her daughter's condition eluded the grasp of standard interventions, its roots buried in traumas that demanded a deeper reckoning. Madam Gu nodded faintly, her gaze shifting to Chen Ge, who stood quietly behind the doctor, his presence an unexpected variable in the familiar cadence of their consultations. "And this is?" she inquired, her tone laced with cautious curiosity, her eyes narrowing as she assessed the stranger whose arrival disrupted the delicate equilibrium of her home, seeking reassurance from Gao's familiar authority to bridge the gap between suspicion and acceptance.
"My name is Chen Ge," he introduced himself, his voice clear and unadorned, cutting through the pleasantries with an urgency driven by the spectral mission pulsing in his mind, the Pen Spirit's wish a silent imperative that propelled him past formalities to the heart of his purpose. "Can I please meet your daughter?" he pressed, his request direct yet softened by a sincerity that sought to disarm Madam Gu's protective instincts, his eyes meeting hers with a quiet resolve that conveyed the weight of his intent—to reach Wang Xin and unravel the spectral threads binding her to Mu Yang High School's tragedy—without revealing the otherworldly stakes that underpinned his quest. His impatience was tempered by necessity, each moment spent in preamble a delay in confronting the spirit's lingering grief, yet he navigated the interaction with a careful balance of candor and restraint, knowing that trust was the currency that would grant him access to the girl at the heart of his mission.
"This…" Madam Gu faltered, her hand rising to her chest in a reflexive gesture of hesitation, her eyes darting to Doctor Gao for guidance, the unfamiliarity of Chen Ge's presence a ripple in the carefully controlled waters of her household, her maternal instincts warring with the doctor's implicit endorsement. "I will join him," Gao assured, his nod a quiet signal of approval, his presence a stabilizing force that eased her reluctance, allowing her to step aside with a reluctant sigh, her posture softening as she yielded to the physician's authority. "The child is in her bedroom. After having one spoon of lunch, she started wailing," she added, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, heavy with the weight of a mother's helplessness, the image of Wang Xin's distress—a meal abandoned in a torrent of tears—painting a vivid tableau of a girl consumed by an anguish that no amount of care could soothe, her cries a haunting echo of the spectral sorrow Chen Ge sought to resolve.
Madam Gu led them to a door at the apartment's far end, her steps measured and deliberate, as if each movement required a summoning of resolve to confront the pain that lay beyond; she knocked lightly, her knuckles brushing the wood in a prolonged, tentative rhythm, the silence that answered stretching into a void that spoke of Wang Xin's withdrawal from the world. With a gentle twist of the knob, she eased the door open a sliver, the faint creak of hinges piercing the quiet like a mournful sigh, before stepping back with a wordless gesture of surrender, her eyes glistening with unspoken worry as she relinquished the threshold to the visitors. "Let's go in," Doctor Gao said to Chen Ge, his tone firm yet laced with caution, his gaze locking onto his companion's with a warning implicit in its intensity. "Do not say anything to provoke the patient; before you do anything, please discuss it with me," he instructed, his words a safeguard born of professional duty, ensuring that Chen Ge's unorthodox approach would not destabilize the fragile equilibrium of Wang Xin's condition, the room beyond a crucible where care and curiosity would collide in a delicate dance to heal a fractured soul.
"Okay," Chen Ge promised, his vow a solemn commitment as he crossed the threshold into the bedroom, where the air was thick with the same antiseptic calm as the main room, yet intensified by a deeper layer of precaution that bordered on the monastic, every detail engineered to eliminate risk and foster a sterile tranquility. The carpet was even plusher here, a dense barrier that swallowed sound, while the edges of cupboards and tables had been meticulously sanded into smooth curves, banishing any hint of sharpness that might pose a threat. No knives, scissors, or even pens cluttered the space; the windows were fortified with anti-theft netting, their bars a silent testament to the lengths taken to secure the room against self-harm or escape. In place of a traditional bed, two thick mattresses lay side by side on the floor, their surfaces unadorned, blending seamlessly with the room's monochromatic palette of white walls and sparse decor, devoid of personal effects—no photos, no trinkets, nothing to tether the occupant to a past that might ignite further distress, the sterility a canvas of enforced neutrality that felt both protective and oppressive, a sanctuary crafted to contain a soul teetering on the edge of collapse.
Doctor Gao stepped aside, revealing the figure at the heart of Chen Ge's mission: Wang Xin, a slender girl curled on the mattresses, her frame so delicate it seemed to dissolve into the white expanse of her surroundings, her round-collared shirt barely clinging to her translucent skin, which shimmered with an almost ethereal pallor, as if the vitality had been leached from her by years of spectral torment. Her fragility was palpable, each movement slow and deliberate, as if a too-sudden gesture might fracture her like porcelain, yet her presence carried a quiet resilience, a survivor's strength forged in the crucible of Mu Yang High School's tragedy, her existence a testament to the endurance that had carried her through the loss of her peers. Chen Ge had braced for a volatile encounter, expecting a figure consumed by the ravages of mental unrest, but Wang Xin's demeanor was startlingly composed, her reticence a shield rather than a storm, her eyes flickering briefly toward him before dropping, a silent acknowledgment that carried no overt hostility, only a guarded curiosity that invited careful navigation.
Doctor Gao knelt beside the mattresses, lowering himself to meet Wang Xin's gaze at eye level, his posture a deliberate gesture of empathy designed to foster trust, his voice soft and reassuring as he asked, "Wang Xin, does your head still hurt?" The question was gentle, a probe into her condition's current state, honed by years of coaxing fragile patients from their inner fortresses, seeking to gauge the persistence of her physical symptoms amidst the psychological storm. She shook her head faintly, the motion minimal but deliberate, her eyes darting to Chen Ge once more before retreating to the safety of her lowered gaze, her silence a barrier that invited careful approach. "Then, have you been sleeping?" Gao pressed, his voice steady but probing deeper, seeking the root of her persistent distress, but this question struck a nerve, shattering her composure as her hands shot to her hair, fingers clawing with desperate force, yanking strands free in a visceral display of anguish that left black locks tangled between her trembling digits, the act a raw manifestation of the nightmares that plagued her, their spectral weight defying the medications meant to quell them, a silent cry for relief that echoed the Pen Spirit's unresolved grief.
"Still can't sleep, huh?" Doctor Gao murmured, rising with a furrowed brow, his expression a tapestry of concern and frustration, the failure of the prescribed medications—antidepressants and sedatives alike—a stark reminder of the limits of his arsenal against Wang Xin's enigmatic ailment, her symptoms eluding the diagnostic frameworks that had guided his practice for decades. "Neither of the medicines had an effect?" he asked, his voice heavy with the weight of professional defeat, seeking confirmation of the therapeutic impasse that had brought them to this juncture, his gaze lingering on Wang Xin as if searching for a clue hidden in her fragile form, the silence that followed a testament to the depth of her suffering. Chen Ge, sensing the moment's delicate balance, interjected softly, "Doctor Gao, may I speak to her?" His request was measured, respectful of the physician's authority, yet driven by the urgency of his mission, the Pen Spirit's wish a silent pulse urging him to bridge the gap between Wang Xin's torment and the spectral closure she unknowingly held the key to unlocking, his presence a calculated risk in the fragile terrain of her psyche.
"Wang Xin's current condition is considered stable, so go ahead," Gao granted, his approval cautious but permissive, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed Chen Ge's intent, trusting his companion's sincerity while remaining vigilant for any misstep that might destabilize their patient, his role as guardian of her well-being a mantle he bore with unwavering resolve. Chen Ge mirrored Gao's posture, lowering himself to the mattress's edge to meet Wang Xin at her level, his movements deliberate to avoid startling her, his presence a quiet intrusion into her guarded world. She regarded him with a flicker of curiosity, likely mistaking him for another doctor due to his association with Gao, her lack of resistance a small victory in the face of her reticence, her hands tugging at her sleeves to conceal red welts that marred her arms—angry, self-inflicted marks that spoke of frantic scratching in moments of unseen torment, their raw edges a silent cry for relief that Chen Ge recognized as the Pen Spirit's lingering influence, a spectral wound he was now poised to heal, if only he could navigate the fragile terrain of her trust.
Wang Xin's frailty struck Chen Ge like a physical force, her delicate frame evoking the image of a paper kite caught in a tempest, tethered to survival by the thinnest of threads, her translucent skin and hollow eyes suggesting a soul on the brink of being swept away by the dark clouds of her trauma, a single misstep enough to tear her asunder in the storm of her own mind. "Wang Xin," he began softly, his voice a gentle anchor as he drew the mended ballpoint pen from his pocket, its repaired barrel gleaming faintly in the room's muted light, a relic of the Pen Spirit's ritual that pulsed with latent power. "Your friend wants to talk to you, so I brought her with me," he said, the words a deliberate invocation of the spectral bond that tied Wang Xin to Chen Yalin, his tone measured to avoid alarming her while planting the seed of connection, the pen a bridge to the past he hoped would resonate with her fractured psyche.
Wang Xin's eyes flicked to the pen, their gaze lingering for a fleeting moment, but no spark of recognition or emotion crossed her face; instead, she seemed to attempt a smile, perhaps at what she perceived as Chen Ge's attempt at levity, but the effort faltered, her lips trembling as if the act of expression was a burden too heavy to bear, her reticence a wall that guarded the wounds of her past. Doctor Gao, standing vigil at Chen Ge's side, and Madam Gu, lingering near the door with bated breath, exchanged glances of confusion, their expressions a mirror of their bafflement at Chen Ge's cryptic approach, the mention of a "friend" and the pen's significance lost on them, their rational minds unable to grasp the supernatural undercurrent that drove his actions. Undeterred by Wang Xin's muted response, Chen Ge retrieved a piece of white paper from the nearby desk, its surface unblemished and stark, and placed it gently on the mattress before her, his movements deliberate as he positioned the pen above it, preparing to initiate the Pen Spirit game, a ritual that had once summoned chaos in the haunted classroom but now held the promise of closure, if he could coax the spirit's voice to speak through Wang Xin's presence.
Chen Ge angled his body to face Wang Xin directly, shielding his actions from Doctor Gao's scrutiny, his lips moving silently as he mouthed the incantation to invoke the Pen Spirit, each word a whispered thread in the delicate weave of the ritual: "Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit, you are my…" The silent chant was a calculated risk, its cadence familiar yet fraught with the potential to awaken the spectral forces that lingered in Wang Xin's orbit, his eyes locked on hers to gauge her reaction, seeking any sign that the ritual might bridge the gap between her and the entity tied to her past. As his lips formed the words, Wang Xin's attention sharpened, her gaze shifting from the pen to his face, her eyes widening as she read the incantation's silent rhythm, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths before erupting into panic—she flailed her arms, her body recoiling against the wall as if struck by a visceral memory, her movements frantic and desperate, as though the mere echo of the Pen Spirit's summons had unearthed a terror buried deep within her, a haunting reminder of the tragedy that had shattered her world and left her as the sole survivor of Mu Yang High School's cursed cohort.
The sudden eruption of Wang Xin's panic shattered the room's fragile calm, her flailing arms and desperate retreat against the wall igniting an immediate response from Madam Gu, who surged forward with a cry of alarm, her voice piercing the air like a blade: "What are you doing‽" Her protective instincts flared as she rushed into the bedroom, her white dress billowing like a specter of maternal fury, her eyes wide with fear and indignation as she moved to intercept Chen Ge, whose cryptic actions had triggered her daughter's distress. Doctor Gao, equally startled, followed close behind, his professional composure strained by the unexpected escalation, his gaze darting between Wang Xin's trembling form and Chen Ge's resolute stance, his hands raised in a gesture of restraint as he sought to restore order to the chaotic scene. The room, once a sanctuary of enforced tranquility, now pulsed with tension, the air thick with the unspoken clash between rational caution and Chen Ge's unorthodox pursuit of a spectral resolution, the Pen Spirit's mission hanging in the balance as the two adults converged to halt what they perceived as a reckless intrusion into Wang Xin's fragile psyche.
"I'm helping her solve the issue in her heart," Chen Ge declared, his voice steady and unwavering despite the rising tumult, his hand instinctively curling around the ballpoint pen to shield it from Madam Gu's reach, its mended barrel a talisman of his mission to bridge the living and the dead. "No one knew what happened to Wang Xin, but that is the source of her illness! Just give me one minute, I only need one minute!" His plea was fervent, laced with a conviction born of his encounters with the supernatural, his understanding of the Pen Spirit's lingering grief fueling his determination to confront the trauma that tethered Wang Xin to her past. His words were a calculated gamble, appealing to the adults' desperation for a breakthrough while withholding the spectral context that would likely strain their credulity, his eyes meeting theirs with a fierce sincerity that underscored the stakes of his request, the minute he sought a narrow window to summon the spirit and heal a wound that had festered for years in both the living and the dead.
Chen Ge's resolve wavered only briefly as he crouched beside the mattress, the pen clutched tightly in his palm, his initial intent to simply complete the Pen Spirit's mission now deepened by a visceral empathy for Wang Xin's suffering, her frail form and haunted eyes stirring a protective instinct that transcended his original goal. The sight of her torment—her trembling hands, her translucent skin, the welts that marked her arms like scars of an unseen battle—had shifted his purpose from mere task to moral imperative, a need to alleviate her pain intertwining with his duty to the spirit, forging a dual mission to bring closure to both the girl before him and the entity that lingered in her shadow. His fingers tightened around the pen, its weight a reminder of the spectral bridge he aimed to build, his heart heavy with the realization that Wang Xin's salvation might hinge on confronting the very horrors that had shattered her, a delicate dance between healing and harm that demanded his utmost care to navigate without breaking her fragile spirit.
"Why don't we give him a chance?" Doctor Gao interjected, his voice cutting through the charged silence that followed Chen Ge's plea, his tone a careful balance of caution and curiosity, his decision to advocate for Chen Ge born of a professional intuition honed by years of probing the mind's mysteries. "During my sessions with Wang Xin, she has never shown this kind of reaction before. Perhaps this is a good sign," he reasoned, his words directed as much to Madam Gu as to himself, his furrowed brow softening as he considered the possibility that Chen Ge's unorthodox approach might unlock a door that conventional therapies had failed to budge. His trust in Chen Ge, though tentative, was rooted in their prior interactions and the faint hope that this visceral response—Wang Xin's panic, so raw and unprecedented—might signal a breakthrough, a crack in the wall of her trauma that could lead to healing, even if the method defied his clinical framework. His advocacy swayed Madam Gu, her reluctance yielding to a grudging nod, and together they agreed to grant Chen Ge three minutes, retreating to the doorway to watch with bated breath, their skepticism tempered by a desperate hope for their daughter's salvation.
With the adults' reluctant consent secured, Chen Ge rose swiftly to draw the curtains, plunging the room into a dim, intimate gloom that seemed to amplify the weight of his mission, the soft rustle of fabric a prelude to the ritual he was about to undertake. He closed the door with a gentle click, sealing the space into a private sanctum where the boundaries between worlds could blur, his actions deliberate to create an atmosphere conducive to the Pen Spirit's invocation, free from the prying eyes of skeptics who might disrupt the delicate thread of connection he sought to weave. Returning to Wang Xin's side, he knelt once more, his voice a low, soothing anchor as he addressed her: "Wang Xin, your friend has been trying to reach you." He positioned the pen above the paper again, its tip hovering like a divining rod over the blank expanse, and resumed the chant with renewed focus: "Pen Spirit, Pen Spirit, you are my spirit from my previous life, and I am your spirit in this life…" The words were a whispered bridge to the spectral realm, each syllable a step closer to summoning the entity whose grief had entwined itself with Wang Xin's, his eyes locked on hers to gauge the impact of his ritual, seeking to draw the spirit forth in a moment of reckoning that could heal both the living and the dead.
As Chen Ge's chant continued, its cadence a soft rhythm in the hushed room, Wang Xin's fear intensified, her body curling tighter into the corner as if seeking refuge from an unseen storm, the nightmare-like memories that had haunted her for years surging to the surface like specters clawing their way from the grave. Her eyes, wide with terror, flickered between the pen and Chen Ge's lips, as if the ritual's echo had unlocked a floodgate of buried horrors, the trauma of Mu Yang High School's tragedy—Chen Yalin's death, the bus accident, the loss of her peers—resurfacing with a visceral force that threatened to overwhelm her fragile composure. Chen Ge pressed on, his heart heavy with the cruelty of forcing her to confront such pain, yet driven by the conviction that only through this reckoning could the Pen Spirit's wish be fulfilled, the ritual a necessary crucible to forge closure from grief. Then, as if guided by an unseen hand, the pen began to move, its tip tracing delicate arcs across the paper, producing beautiful handwriting that bore no resemblance to Chen Ge's own—a flowing, elegant script that seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the Pen Spirit's voice manifesting in ink as it reached out to the girl it had once called friend.
The words appeared with haunting clarity: "Wang Xin, I really didn't expect that a mindless joke would create such a lasting wound in your heart; you must hate me very much, right?" The message was a spectral confession, its tone heavy with regret, the handwriting unmistakably Chen Yalin's, a ghostly echo of the girl whose death had shattered Wang Xin's world, now reaching across the divide to seek forgiveness for a prank gone tragically awry. Wang Xin froze, her eyes locked on the familiar script, her mind blank as the weight of the message pierced through years of guilt and grief, the words a mirror to the trauma that had haunted her nightmares, rendering her speechless as she grappled with the reality of a friend's voice speaking from beyond the grave. Her stillness was a stark contrast to her earlier panic, her blank stare a testament to the shock of recognition, the Pen Spirit's words stripping away the layers of denial that had shielded her from the truth of Chen Yalin's death, leaving her suspended in a moment of raw, unfiltered reckoning.
The pen continued its dance, the words flowing with a gentle urgency: "You have nothing to do with my death. I merely wanted to scare you when I saw you coming with another friend. Who would have thought the rope would be too tight and the chair would slip?" The confession unfolded like a long-buried secret, each stroke of the pen a release of the guilt that had bound both Wang Xin and the Pen Spirit in a cycle of torment, the truth of Chen Yalin's accidental death—a prank turned fatal—laid bare in the elegant script that filled the page. The words were a plea for absolution, a spectral attempt to free Wang Xin from the weight of misplaced responsibility, the Pen Spirit's voice clarifying that her death was not a consequence of malice but a tragic miscalculation, the rope and chair conspiring in a moment of cruel chance to sever their bond and leave Wang Xin as the sole survivor, haunted by a guilt that was never hers to bear.
"You did nothing wrong; it was a silly prank gone very wrong," the pen concluded, the final words a gentle absolution that hung in the air like a fading echo, the Pen Spirit's message complete as it sought to release Wang Xin from the chains of her trauma, its spectral presence lingering in the ink that now stained the paper with its truth. Wang Xin remained transfixed, her eyes tracing the handwriting as if it were a lifeline, her silence a testament to the seismic shift within her psyche, the words piercing through the fog of her nightmares to offer a clarity she had long been denied. Chen Ge watched her closely, his heart a tumult of hope and apprehension, knowing that this moment—fragile and fraught with the weight of years—held the key to fulfilling the Pen Spirit's wish, the ritual's success hinging on Wang Xin's ability to accept the truth and release the guilt that had tethered her to the spectral echoes of Mu Yang High School, a resolution that could heal both the living and the dead in a single, transformative act.