I put makeup on dead people.
At 2:40 in the morning, my sister sent her last WeChat message. "Brother, I'm hungry."
"Big bowl!! Add eggs!"
I arrived home carrying wontons, and the lights on the sixth floor went out. The balcony glass cracked into a net, and outside the crack, it was dusk.
The next day, the whole world said I had no sister. She can't be found in the student record, and the class teacher said there is no such person in the class. The name on her test paper is fading.
On the third day, I jumped in from the balcony with a scalpel in hand.
The people there taught me three rules: beads are life, don't go out on a blood-moon night, and don't ask how to get back.
They also told me that everyone whose name was engraved on the wall wanted to go home. From the first to the last, no one ever went back.
I don't care. My sister is still here, I have to get her out.
