On my first day in Apartment 204 at Xingfuli, I noticed the fridge door never shut properly.
My roommates all said it was nothing, just wear and tear.
But at two in the morning, someone was humming inside the fridge.
The woman in the wedding dress in the photo had been missing since 2012.
And my sharp-tongued programmer roommate had a folder on his computer named “Niannian.”
He said every heroine in his novels was me.
But he didn’t say anything, and neither did I.
Until the line of people pursuing me stretched all the way to the entrance of the complex
He finally blocked my way. “Gu Niannian, don’t go with anyone else.”
The fridge clicked, and its door swung open again.
It sounded like someone inside was snickering.
