Before my grandfather died, he left me our old house deep in the mountains, saying it held the roots of our family.
I quit my nine-to-nine-six job and went to open a guesthouse in that godforsaken place. I figured I could always lie flat if I lost everything.
On opening day, a storm washed out the road. Someone knocked on my door in the middle of the night. When I opened it, no one was there, but a tiny, wet footprint had appeared on the threshold.
I stood in the rain with a bowl of plain noodles. “You’ve been hungry for hundreds of years, haven’t you? Come out and eat. Don’t soak my threshold until it rots.”
The old locust tree in the corner shivered, and a half-transparent little ghost emerged, looking at me timidly.
Only later did I learn that the old house stood at the boundary between yin and yang at the thirtieth parallel north. For over a hundred years, it had welcomed wandering souls. And for generations, my ancestors had guarded a secret:
In the mountain to the north, there was a door leading to the realm between yin and yang.
The door had collapsed.
Three thousand seven hundred and forty-two souls were stuck on this side, all waiting at my place for a bowl of noodles.
And my newly hired little helper asked as he carried out a bowl for me:
“Shen Mo, when they finish their noodles, they’ll leave. What about me?”
