The doorbell rang, frantic as a dying person's plea for help.
When no one answered for a long time, the woman began pounding on the door again. Her voice filled the entire corridor, but no one responded.
The sounds coming from the woman's mouth grew increasingly shrill, almost hysterical, as though she had swallowed a mouthful of glass, leaving her throat full of wounds. Scratch marks covered her body, too.
Tang Hanlu covered her mouth. Her mother had told her that a mentally unstable woman lived upstairs. She had never seen the woman, only the flowers she grew on the roof.
Her flowers were vivid and beautiful, their blossoms spread wide, just like her child beneath the tires in a car accident years ago.
Bang, bang, bang!
The woman was strong. She grabbed the door handle and shook it violently, as though the door might fly open at any moment.
Tang Hanlu dared not imagine the scene outside, but images kept forcing their way into her mind: a madwoman with disheveled hair, wearing the clothes her child had worn before dying, her limbs long and thin as she sprawled against the door, desperately pressing her eyeball into the peephole, her long nails clawing at the edges of the door's gap.
Fear was like a black whirlpool. Once a thought arose, it was almost impossible to escape.
Her hands and feet, exposed beyond her pajamas, felt a creeping chill. Even with every light in the apartment on, she felt no sense of safety.
"My child is missing! She disappeared on this floor! Open your doors! I just want to look at the surveillance footage and see where she went!"
"My child is still little. She's only this long. No! She should be this long. I remember she got longer after her