Chapter 3: The One in the Mirror Doesn’t Blink

It was 2 a.m.

Li Fang sat at his desk. Outside, the rain had started again.

In front of him lay three items: a yellowed ticket stub, an old photograph of Lin Yun, and the photo he’d taken that afternoon of the red dress at the theater gates.

He wasn’t the least bit sleepy. The words from the anonymous letter kept replaying in his head:

“She’s still singing. Her voice never stopped.”

That wasn’t a metaphor.

It was a warning.

He turned on his computer and pulled up the program record from June 5th, 1975 — the night of the fire. The play was Requiem. Lin Yun had played the lead, Marianne. It was her final performance.

But what chilled him most was the last page of the record — it was blank.

No curtain call.

No audience exit.

No lighting log.

As if that night… the performance had never ended.

The next morning, Li Fang drove out of town to the psychiatric hospital, determined to find Assistant Director Zhou — the man who vanished after the fire.

The facility was perched on a foggy hillside. As he entered the reception area, the front desk nurse gave him a look that was… hard to read.

“You’re here for the patient in Room 301, aren’t you?” she said. “No one’s asked about him in years.”

Li Fang nodded.

Room 301 was at the far end of the hall, its window facing the woods. Even before he reached the door, he heard a whisper from within:

“…flames… she smiled… she said she’d finish the play with fire…”

The door creaked open.

Inside, a gaunt man with a head of white hair sat curled in a corner. His face was furrowed beyond age, but his eyes still held a stubborn glint.

Li Fang approached softly. “You’re Zhou… Lin Yun’s friend?”

The man whipped his head around, as startled as a wildcat.

“You mustn’t say her name! She’ll hear you!”

“She… she’s dead.”

“No. She’s still here.” Zhou pointed a trembling finger at the window. “Every night at three, she stares at me from that mirror… she never blinks. She’s in red. Singing that song no one understands—when it ends, she’ll come take me.”

“What song?”

“You don’t get it! She said, ‘The finale isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.’”

“Did you start the fire?” Li Fang pressed.

Zhou went still. Rigid. Silent.

After half a minute, he muttered, “It wasn’t me. I just… saw the flames rise behind her. She stood before the mirror, talking to… someone. Herself, but not.”

“You saw someone in the mirror — different from her?”

“Yes. In the reflection, her eyes… black and bottomless. Her smile — like her face had torn open.”

Li Fang felt his stomach tighten.

“I ran,” Zhou whispered. “Because that night, more than just Lin Yun died. Two others… but the files don’t mention them. I know they were real.”

“Who?”

He began drawing circles on the wall with his finger, mumbling, “The makeup artist… and a backup singer. Both gone. But the troupe left their names off the record.”

“Why?”

“Because… they weren’t from here. She brought them in herself. Said Requiem had to be performed by specific people — or it wouldn’t work.”

“You mean… it was a ritual?”

Zhou suddenly burst into laughter — a rasping, broken sound that echoed like sobs.

“You still think it was just a performance? She was summoning something. That wasn’t theater. It was a sacrifice.”

A chill climbed up Li Fang’s spine.

“If you really want to know,” Zhou hissed, grabbing his sleeve, “go find the mirror in the dressing room. There’s a third version of her… in there.”

Back at the station, Li Fang immediately pulled up the original 1975 fire report.

Just as Zhou had said — the death list included only audience members and Lin Yun. Not a single name from the troupe.

Impossible.

He dug deeper, flipping through a mold-stained troupe register from that year. Two names had been blotted out with thick black ink. Under a lamp, he made out one of them: Wei Yao.

A quick search revealed her record: listed as “missing” on June 6th, 1975. From another province. Occupation: voice actress, troupe member.

Disappearance location: Old Theater.

A heavy weight sank in Li Fang’s chest.

That night, he returned to the theater.

This time, he came prepared — with a high-powered flashlight, a pocket recorder, and a small glass vial containing crushed rice and cinnabar, a folk talisman passed down from his grandfather.

He didn’t believe in such things.

But tonight, he wanted to believe something.

He forced the door open. Rainwater dripped through the broken dome above, ticking against the warped wood floor like the fragmented intro of a forgotten song.

He followed the corridor deep into the back of the building.

The dressing room door stood ajar. On the back, a faded nameplate: Lead Actress.

He kicked it open.

Dust billowed.

The mirror was still there.

A massive full-length dressing mirror, its frame worn with age, gold trim chipped and faded. The glass was tinged yellow — but disturbingly clean.

Li Fang stepped closer.

His own reflection looked back.

But behind him… was not the room he stood in.

Not the overturned chairs or shattered makeup tables.

The mirror showed a pristine stage, glowing under perfect lights. And in the center — a woman in a red dress, her back to him, standing in a spotlight.

She began to turn.

The mirror let out a faint sizzle.

A scorched smell filled the air.

Pop.

His flashlight died.

In the pitch dark, Li Fang heard a low female voice:

“Your turn… to take the final bow.”

End-of-Chapter Hook:

Just before collapsing into unconsciousness, Li Fang’s recorder clicked on automatically, capturing a woman’s voice — not Lin Yun’s, but one so cold it cut to the bone:

“Don’t try to stop her from finishing the song. She’s still looking… for her final audience.”

The timestamp on the recording:

3:00 a.m. sharp.