"The world we live in isn't always as solid and clear as we think."

my mother whispered, her voice barely more than a breath against my ear.

"There are forces around us—things we can't see, but they're there. They drift through the places we live, breathe through the trees we pass, and sometimes, they're right next to us when we least expect it."

Her words hung in the air like mist clinging to the ground on a cold morning. I shivered, but not from fear. It was the kind of shiver that came when something ancient brushed past your soul, reminding you of truths older than the stars.

The dim glow of the single lantern flickered gently against the wooden walls of our small home, its light casting long, wavy shadows that danced like spirits performing an unseen ritual. The wind outside howled softly, seeping through the cracks of the old shutters and causing the shadows to shift and sway. I couldn't help but think the wind itself was listening to her tale.

My mother sat on the edge of my bed, her presence both comforting and mysterious, like the ancient stories she always carried in her heart. Her single eye glimmered in the lantern's light—sharp, alive, and filled with the kind of knowledge that made you wonder how much she saw beyond the ordinary world. Her other eye, the one lost long ago, remained hidden beneath a patch of soft cloth. But I often imagined that it could see the spirits she spoke of, a connection between her and the unseen, as if that eye had been gifted to another realm to glimpse its secrets.

I pulled my blanket tighter around me, as if it could shield me from the invisible world her words were revealing. But at the same time, I craved more. The ritual of her nightly stories wasn't just something I enjoyed—it was something I needed. Each tale felt like a piece of wisdom she was passing down, one that might one day save me from making a fatal mistake.

She leaned forward, her breath warm against my cheek, smelling faintly of herbs and the scent of the evening fire. Her voice lowered, soft and deliberate, like a weaver threading together an ancient tapestry. Every word was a stitch that pulled me deeper into a world where spirits could be friends or foes, where unseen forces whispered warnings to those who were willing to listen.

"Do you still remember your cousin, Pin Yee, dear?"

my mother asked softly, her voice carrying that familiar warmth that always came before a story. She leaned in just a little, as if what she was about to share was a secret between the two of us.

"Tonight, I'm going to tell you a story about her."

She let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, her tone shifting into that calm, storytelling rhythm.

"It was Pin Yee's first year living in the university dormitory—a six-bed room where only four students stayed, making it feel cozy during the day but eerily quiet at night. Her bed was tucked near the door, pressed against a wooden cupboard. It often shook whenever the door opened, rattling just enough to remind her how close she was to whatever lay beyond."

She smiled faintly, letting the room settle into the moment. The shadows flickered gently across her face, as if they too were ready to listen.

------

Pin Yee's first year in the university dormitory was supposed to be full of excitement, independence, and the promise of lifelong friendships. The dorm was a six-bed room, but only four students lived there, giving it an air of comfort during the day and unsettling silence at night. Pin Yee's bed, tucked near the door and against an old wooden cupboard, often shook whenever someone opened the door, a reminder of how close she was to the outside world—and perhaps to other things she couldn't see.

Despite warnings from the dorm supervisor about staying up late, Pin Yee and her roommates loved their late-night gatherings. Laughter filled the room as they gossiped, shared snacks, and occasionally dared each other to tell spooky stories. One evening, the second eldest of the group returned to the dorm with bottles of red wine, a gift from her boyfriend. With beer and snacks added to the mix, the room quickly turned into a makeshift party.

As the drinks flowed, their conversations turned carefree and wild. But as the clock inched toward midnight, the mood shifted, as if the room itself was listening, waiting for something to happen. The third roommate, who always had a flair for drama, lowered her voice and leaned in close.

"Have you heard the story about the disfigured girl at our university?"

she asked, her tone sending a ripple of unease through the room. The laughter died down, replaced by the crackle of anticipation.

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Pin Yee raised an eyebrow, sipping from her glass.

"I think I read something about it before I enrolled."

The eldest roommate's eyes widened.

"You mean the story about the two girls who fought over a boy, and one slashed the other with a knife?"

"That's the one."

the third roommate confirmed, her voice dropping further.

"But do you know what happened afterward?"

Without waiting for a response, she continued,

"One of them went insane, and the other went to prison."

Pin Yee shrugged, unimpressed.

"We already know that."

The third roommate leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper.

"But did you hear what happened to the one in prison?"

The room tensed.

"What happened?"

they asked in unison, their voices betraying their unease.

"She died."

A collective gasp filled the air.

"How did she die?"

they asked, their words shaky.

"No one knows for sure."

the girl replied, holding up the bottle of red wine.

"But there's something strange about her. The rumor is that she loved this exact brand of wine. They say, if anyone drinks it while talking about her, she comes back at midnight."

The eldest, who had always been terrified of ghosts, dropped her glass. The red wine spilled across the floor, seeping into the cracks between the wooden planks. Pin Yee grabbed a cloth and tried to clean it up, but the stain was stubborn, spreading like a bloodstain. She sighed and tossed the cloth aside.

"We'll deal with it tomorrow."

The room eventually settled down, and one by one, they climbed into their beds. But as the dormitory fell silent, the true horror began.

Sometime after midnight, Pin Yee awoke to the faint sound of footsteps. Groggy and disoriented, she assumed one of her roommates was heading to the bathroom. But when she opened her eyes, she saw all three of them still lying in their beds, their faces peaceful in the dim light. Her heart skipped a beat.

Suddenly, her bed shook.

She froze, her breath caught in her throat. The door hadn't opened, and the windows were shut tight. The shaking stopped, but before she could convince herself it was her imagination, the bed trembled again—harder this time. Her eyes darted to the door, but it remained closed.

The sound of footsteps filled the room again, slow and deliberate. Someone—or something—was pacing back and forth, circling the beds. The floor creaked beneath the weight of each step. Pin Yee lay perfectly still, her breaths shallow as she listened to the dreadful rhythm.

The footsteps grew faster, as if whatever was pacing had grown impatient. Her body trembled beneath the blanket, but she couldn't summon the courage to move. She dared to open her eyes just a crack and saw the eldest and third roommates awake, their wide eyes reflecting the same terror she felt.

Then it happened.

A cold, clammy hand gripped the edge of her bed.

Pin Yee stifled a scream and shut her eyes tight, her heart thundering against her chest. The hand didn't move, but the footsteps continued, circling faster and faster until they seemed to echo endlessly in her ears. She held her breath, silently praying for the nightmare to end. Eventually, exhaustion overcame her fear, and she slipped into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, their screams echoed through the dormitory. The floor was covered in footprints—dozens of them—circling the room again and again. The stains from the spilled wine had darkened overnight, and the footprints, stamped directly over them, resembled bloody imprints left by something that didn't belong to this world.

Pin Yee and her roommates stared in horror, their minds racing for an explanation, but they all knew the truth. The red wine, the story, the footsteps—it wasn't just coincidence. They had disturbed something, and it had come to remind them that the past, no matter how forgotten, could still return.

From that day on, they never drank in the dorm again. But the memory of that night never left Pin Yee, a lingering reminder of the dangers of inviting the unseen into the world of the living.

"Remember this."

After the story ended, my mother's fingers lightly traced the edge of my blanket, her touch gentle, like the last whisper of a fading breeze. Her voice, steady and calm, carried the weight of generations past.

"Those forces aren't meant to be feared, but they aren't meant to be ignored either."

she said, her words like an ancient lullaby.

"We live side by side with them, in balance. Show them respect, and they will guide you. Mock them, and they will remind you why they've never left."

The shadows flickered again, stretching and curling along the walls as if they were listening, nodding in silent agreement. The room felt alive—not with fear, but with understanding, as though the very air had shifted in response to her words.

Her single eye held me in its gaze, sharp and thoughtful, as though she could see past my wide-eyed stare and into my heart, gauging whether I had truly absorbed the lesson. She lingered for a moment longer, then, satisfied, leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Her lips were warm, grounding me like the earth after a storm.

As she stood and turned toward the door, her silhouette melted into the dim, flickering glow of the lantern. The wooden floor creaked softly beneath her steps, but her presence remained—an invisible thread connecting her wisdom to the space she left behind. Just as she reached the door, she paused, her voice lingering in the air like a protective spell.

"Sleep well, my child. The world is vast, but with respect, you'll always find your way."

The door creaked shut behind her, the sound like the closing of a chapter in an ancient book. I lay there, cocooned in my blanket, the flickering lantern casting faint shadows across the walls. But they no longer frightened me. They weren't ominous shapes lurking in the dark—they were reminders of the hidden world my mother had taught me to respect.

In the stillness of the night, I felt the weight of her lesson settle deep within me, as if the spirits themselves had gently placed it there. And just before sleep claimed me, I could have sworn I heard the faintest whisper of approval drifting from beyond the walls—soft, fleeting, but undeniably real.