The city was too bright that morning, light cut through the curtains like knives, spilling across the marble floor. Li An hadn't slept; his eyes burned from staring too long at the mirror.
By the time Li Mei left for work, he couldn't stand the walls anymore. He threw on a hoodie, a mask, and slipped out of the penthouse.
He told himself he just needed air. But the truth pressed heavier than that: every reflection he passed shop windows, puddles, chrome car doors, seemed to watch him back.
The Man by the Crosswalk
It started with a glimpse, a man stood at the intersection near Donglin Bridge, head bowed, rain pooling around his shoes though the sky was clear. People walked through him without noticing.
Li An froze.
When the light changed, the man looked up. His eyes were dull silver, unfocused like the world was a radio station he couldn't quite tune into.
"Can you… see me?" he asked.
Li An's throat went dry. "Yes."
The man blinked, startled, and smiled with a kind of tragic relief. "Then I'm not fading yet."
Before Li An could speak again, a bus roared between them and when it passed, the man was gone.
Li An reached his rented art studio by instinct more than intent. It smelled of turpentine and dust. He hadn't been here since before the accident.
The canvases were just where he'd left them, landscapes, portraits, unfinished dreams. But someone had drawn on the largest one while he was gone: faint white strokes forming an outline of a man at a crosswalk.
His hands trembled. He wiped the paint with his sleeve, but the image wouldn't fade, a whisper brushed his ear.
"You can see us now."
He spun. No one. Only the rustle of paper, the hiss of the wind through the vents.
"Ruan Ye?" he called.
Silence.
Then a different voice older, rougher — answered: "Who's that, my name is Fu.
She appeared slowly, like smoke filling the corners. A woman in a grey qipao, her face blurred as if unfinished by memory.
"Who are you?" Li An whispered.
"Someone who hasn't crossed," she said. "There are many of us. The door opened when you survived. He built a bridge you became its other end."
Li An backed up, pulse hammering. "A bridge?"
She tilted her head. "Between the living and the lost. When love breaks the rules, the world cracks a little. You can see through those cracks now."
Her form flickered, voice lowering. "But seeing us isn't the gift you think it is. The longer you look, the thinner your side becomes."
"What does that mean?"
"You'll learn," she murmured, fading. "Ask your lover why he didn't warn you."
Then she was gone, leaving the air colder.
That night, Li An confronted Ruan Ye.
He appeared in the mirror as always, smiling faintly until he saw Li An's expression.
"You saw someone else," Ruan Ye said quietly. "Didn't you?"
Li An nodded. "A woman. She said I'm… connected now. That the bridge goes both ways."
Ruan Ye's smile faltered. "You weren't supposed to see anyone but me."
"Then you knew."
"I hoped it wouldn't happen." He stepped closer, his reflection rippling. "Li An, you're a doorway now. The accident broke something and when I crossed to find you, others followed the light."
Li An swallowed. "You should've told me."
"I was afraid you'd stop remembering me." His voice softened. "If you stop, I disappear."
Li An turned away, tears stinging. "And if I keep remembering, I lose myself."
Ruan Ye didn't answer. His reflection flickered, half-shadow, half-man.
"Every gift cost something," he whispered. "You just haven't learned what yours will take yet."
A week later, Li An ventured into the old quarter near the river, searching for answers. He'd begun to notice them everywhere now faint outlines clinging to doorways, faces in glass, murmurs in alleys.
No one else reacted. He was alone in the noise.
At a narrow stall between antique shops, an old fortune-teller looked up sharply as he passed.
"You shouldn't be here," she said. "Your shadow walks twice."
Li An froze. "You can see it?"
"I can feel it," she said. "The dead love you too much."
He almost laughed. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
"It's a curse," she said simply. "Love is the easiest chain for a spirit to wear."
When he returned home, the mirrors were already fogging though the air was dry. Shapes moved in them faint, patient, watching.
Ruan Ye appeared last, his form clearer than ever. "You went looking for them."
"I needed to know," Li An said. "What I am."
"You're mine," Ruan Ye said softly. "That's enough."
"Don't say that."
"Then what should I say?" He reached toward the glass. "That I'm losing you to them? That every time another ghost touches you, I feel it burn?"
Li An's breath caught. "I didn't ask for this."
"No," Ruan Ye said, voice shaking. "You asked for me. And I came back."
The lights flickered. For a heartbeat, dozens of faces filled the mirror pale, pleading, whispering his name.
Then everything went dark.
The next morning, he woke on the floor, cold and trembling. The apartment was silent again. Only one thing had changed: a faint mark on his wrist the impression of a hand that wasn't his own.
Outside, the city stirred awake. In the glass of the window, he saw them the faint outlines of those waiting beyond sight.
He understood then what the woman in grey had meant.
The bridge didn't end with Ruan Ye. It had only begun.