Prologue: The Coffin Shop Owner

In the forgotten corners of the city's edge, where modernization has yet to erase the oldest secrets, stands a coffin shop said to have existed for at least eighty years. The storefront is modest, yet somehow gives the impression of being deeper and more expansive than its actual dimensions would suggest. The ancient sign reads "Chang'an Coffins," with the final character for "shop" having long since faded away, never to be restored—as if this incompleteness were itself a deliberate metaphor.

After midnight, Chang'an Coffin Shop should have been shrouded in silence like the other establishments on the periphery of the city. Yet tonight, a warm amber light spilled from inside, adding an unusual warmth to the deep autumn night.

"Please, come in. The door isn't locked."

A voice called out before the visitor could even knock. The voice was deep and ancient, as if emerging from the depths of the earth, carrying a cadence that didn't belong to the modern world. More peculiarly, the voice seemed not to emanate from inside the shop, but to materialize directly beside the visitor's ear.

The first guest to push open the door was Ms. Lin, a late-night radio host. Her professional training made her exceptionally sensitive to auditory anomalies, yet it also instilled in her a cautious skepticism toward the strange experience she'd just had. Ms. Lin possessed a maturity in her gaze that seemed incongruous with her twenty-something years—the kind of look that comes from long nights facing the solitude of midnight broadcasts.

"Good evening, proprietor," she greeted politely, though her attention was immediately drawn to the shop's interior.

The coffin shop's space was unexpectedly vast. Wooden shelves lining the walls displayed an assortment of items: urns, candles, ceremonial money, and other artifacts whose purposes were difficult to discern. In the center stood three sample coffins, each crafted from different woods with exquisite carvings, each emanating a distinct atmosphere—some solemn and dignified, others classically elegant, and one that evoked an inexplicable sense of disquiet.

"Please, proceed to the courtyard. The other guests have already arrived." The shop owner had somehow appeared behind Ms. Lin, his sudden presence unheralded by any footsteps, as if he had been there all along and had only now chosen to be noticed.

The proprietor appeared to be in his sixties, tall and slender, dressed in a deep gray Chinese changshan. His face, however, was startlingly youthful, his skin like unblemished white jade that time had failed to erode. Most striking were his eyes—so profound they seemed capable of peering into the darkest corners of one's soul, making direct eye contact uncomfortable. His fingers were unnaturally long, each joint clearly defined, and his movements possessed an almost unnatural elegance.

"I don't understand... I was just passing by and noticed the lights were still on..." Ms. Lin was confused, having no recollection of being invited.

"No one comes to Chang'an Coffin Shop by mere coincidence," the proprietor smiled. "Please, follow me. The storytelling night is about to begin."

His voice possessed a peculiar quality—whenever he spoke, there was an almost imperceptible echo, as if another voice repeated his words with a millisecond delay, creating an uncanny "double image" effect. The sound evoked memories of ancient phonograph recordings or echoes traveling across vast distances of time and space.

"Storytelling night?" Ms. Lin repeated with confusion, yet found herself inexplicably compelled to follow the proprietor through a long, narrow corridor.

The corridor walls were lined with photographs from various eras, each depicting a funeral scene. Strangely, regardless of the time period, each photo contained a blurry figure in the corner whose silhouette bore a striking resemblance to the shop owner. Ms. Lin couldn't help but linger on these images, feeling an unease rising from the base of her spine.

Passing through the corridor, they emerged into a secluded courtyard. Unlike the simple, antiquated storefront, the courtyard was spacious and immaculate, with a square central area surrounded by a covered walkway. A crescent moon hung in the night sky, its gentle light falling on an ancient osmanthus tree in the center of the courtyard. Beneath the tree sat a large round table where nine guests were already seated, forming an incomplete circle.

"Our tenth guest has arrived," the proprietor announced, his voice echoing through the courtyard, accompanied by that subtle, eerie delay.

In that moment, Ms. Lin noticed another sound pervading the courtyard—like countless voices whispering at an impossibly low volume, their source impossible to locate, their content indecipherable, yet creating the unsettling sensation of being watched by innumerable eyes. She instinctively scanned her surroundings but saw only the nine other guests and the proprietor.

"Please be seated, Ms. Lin. I know you enjoy collecting stories, especially those you cannot broadcast on your radio show." The proprietor directed her to the last empty seat. "Tonight, I will share some special stories with all of you, spanning ten nights, one story each evening."

Only then did Ms. Lin take note of the other nine guests. They were a diverse group with seemingly nothing in common, yet each carried a palpable sense of isolation.

To her right sat a middle-aged woman with glasses, her temples touched with silver, her gaze sharp. She wrote incessantly in a notebook already filled with dense writing, as if afraid to miss even the smallest detail. Her nameplate read "Researcher Ma," a senior administrator in the police archives.

Next was a young woman with short hair, dressed simply yet wearing a necklace shaped like an antique camera, her fingers unconsciously caressing it as if it were a talisman. Her nameplate read "Ms. Lin," the proprietor of an antique shop specializing in historical artifacts.

Beside her sat an elderly man of about sixty, wearing a neat gray Zhongshan suit, his back ramrod straight, his eyes alert and penetrating, like someone accustomed to observation and vigilance. His nameplate read "Guard Zhao," a retired security officer who now watched over an old mansion on the outskirts of the city.

Next to him was a middle-aged man in an immaculate suit, checking an expensive mechanical watch on his wrist, as if afraid of missing something important. His nameplate read "Traveler Lin," a business manager for an international trading company who frequently journeyed to different regions.

Then came a woman in a white lab coat, her eyes tired yet focused, her fingers long and graceful, occasionally making precise small movements as if performing some invisible surgery. Her nameplate read "Dr. Li," a plastic surgeon who had recently encountered inexplicable medical cases.

Beside her sat an elderly professor with gray hair and eyes slightly clouded from years of overuse, yet still sparkling with wisdom. Before him lay a thick notebook, its cover filled with mathematical formulas. His nameplate read "Professor Zhang," a retired mathematics professor specializing in ancient numerical theories.

Next was a young journalist gripping a voice recorder, his eyes filled with professional skepticism and curiosity. His notebook was covered with connecting lines and question marks, as if trying to link seemingly unrelated events. His nameplate read "Reporter Zhou," a web media journalist who specialized in reporting strange occurrences from society's margins.

Beside him sat a somewhat haggard female graduate student clutching a heavy historical tome, her gaze alternating between confusion and clarity, as if often traversing different trains of thought. Her nameplate read "Graduate Student Wang," a doctoral candidate in history researching the ancient Chang'an civilization.

The final guest was a high school student wearing headphones, his fingers constantly sliding across his phone screen, yet occasionally looking up to scan his surroundings as if searching for something. His nameplate read "Young Huang," an ordinary high school student with an extraordinary interest in supernatural phenomena.

The ten listeners sat in a semicircle, the flickering candlelight reflected in the teacups before them. The walls of this small hall in the coffin shop's courtyard were adorned with various funeral items, and the wooden floor emitted subtle groans with each step, like some unspoken protest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the night is deep, and the time for stories has come..." The proprietor's voice resonated in the amber candlelight. Curiously, his words always seemed to carry that almost imperceptible echo, as if another voice repeated each syllable milliseconds later.

The indistinguishable whispering in the air now seemed more distinct, like countless invisible spectators commenting on the performance about to begin. Ms. Lin noticed others also glancing around uneasily, searching for the source of these sounds, but apart from the ten of them and the proprietor, the courtyard was empty.

"Tonight, I will tell you a story about sound..." the proprietor smiled, his pale fingers lightly tapping the table in a rhythm that precisely formed the pattern "4, 7, 9, 1, 8." "A story about a midnight radio broadcast..."

As he spoke, a drop of wax fell from the candle, congealing on the table's surface into the shape of a slightly frowning face. No one noticed this detail except Ms. Lin in the corner, her fingers unconsciously caressing the antique camera pendant at her neck.

"But before we begin, allow me to explain the rules of our gathering." The proprietor stood up, his shadow stretching unnaturally long in the candlelight. "This is a ten-night storytelling session. Each night, I will share one story about real events that occurred in this city."

His voice grew deeper, the accompanying echo more pronounced, as if another "him" was repeating the same words milliseconds later.

"Some stories you may have heard before, others may be completely unfamiliar. Regardless, I guarantee that each one truly happened." The proprietor scanned the circle, his gaze briefly resting on each listener's face. "The only rule is that once you begin listening, you must hear all ten stories."

"Why?" Reporter Zhou couldn't help asking, his professional habits making it impossible for him to ignore such an ambiguous rule.

The proprietor smiled, revealing teeth that were too perfectly aligned. "Because each story is a fragment of a puzzle. Only by hearing them all can you understand the truth. Like a jigsaw puzzle, missing even one piece prevents you from seeing the complete picture."

As he spoke, the whispering in the courtyard suddenly became clearer for an instant, as if countless invisible spectators were agreeing with his explanation. Several listeners clearly noticed this change, shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

"Any other questions?" The proprietor looked around.

Researcher Ma raised her hand. "Do these stories have anything in common?"

"An astute question." The proprietor nodded slightly. "They occur at different times, in different places, involving different people, and appear completely unrelated on the surface. But I assure you, they are connected more intimately than you can imagine."

He extended his unnaturally long fingers and picked up an ancient-looking white candle from the table. "Let us begin."

When he lit the candle, something strange happened. The flame wasn't the natural orange-yellow of fire, but rather a bluish-white light that illuminated the proprietor's face, making his features appear sharper, his eyes taking on an almost transparent quality in the firelight.

The candle burned with a faint "sizzling" sound that interwove with the indistinguishable whispers in the courtyard, creating an eerie background noise. Even more disturbing, the dripping wax seemed to consciously form patterns on the table's surface—sometimes simple symbols, other times lifelike faces whose eyes appeared to blink as the candlelight flickered.

Young Huang stared at the falling wax, suddenly gasping, "That... that shape..."

The others followed his gaze to see the wax had congealed into the precise numerical sequence "47918."

"Just a coincidence," Professor Zhang pushed his glasses up, though his tone betrayed his uncertainty.

A mysterious smile flitted across the proprietor's face. "In my stories, there are no coincidences, only cause and effect."

He surveyed the ten listeners. "Tonight, who wishes to hear the first story?"

Ms. Lin hesitated before speaking: "Recently, while working at the radio station, I've noticed strange interruptions late at night, like unidentifiable sounds or codes. My colleagues say it's just equipment problems, but I feel... the sound seems to be calling to someone."

"Ah, sound..." The proprietor's eyes flickered. "Sound is the most ancient medium, more primitive than writing, more direct than images. It conveys not just information, but emotions, memories, and even... souls."

His gaze fell on Ms. Lin. "In that case, let me tell you a story about sound, a story about a midnight radio broadcast..."

As he spoke these words, the whispers in the courtyard suddenly ceased, as if all invisible spectators were holding their breath, waiting for the story to begin. The candlelight wavered in the gentle breeze, the wax continuing to drip, forming face after face with slight frowns.

"The protagonist of this story is a young man named Lin Ye, who took over a late-night radio program..."

The proprietor's voice was steady and deep, accompanied by that subtle echo, as if two people were simultaneously telling the same story. As the narrative unfolded, the listeners felt a strange sense of familiarity, as if the characters and events in the story somehow connected to their own lives in subtle ways.

Underlying it all was that persistent sensation—that they weren't merely listening to stories, but being observed by some unseen presence, being judged, being chosen.

And so the story began in the courtyard of Chang'an Coffin Shop. No one noticed that as the proprietor started his narration, the ten nameplates on the table suddenly grew heavier, embedding themselves into the wooden surface like brands. Beneath the table, something unseen was silently growing, climbing toward the ankles of the ten listeners, only to dissipate just before making contact—like a test, or perhaps a rehearsal.

The ten nights of storytelling had only just begun.