Before my grandfather disappeared, he left me a Property Management Duty Handbook and a bankbook.
On the back of the bankbook, he wrote: Geng'er, someone owes this money. I paid it on their behalf. If you can get it back, that means you've figured out the accounts.
I took over my grandfather's job and became the night-shift security guard at Locust Tree Lane residential complex.
There are no ghost stories about Locust Tree Lane, only rules: Don't use the elevator at night. The clothesline must never be empty. Don't speak when drawing water.
Anyone who breaks the rules will disappear, recorded by the building: their shadow grows shorter, their voice grows fainter, their movements grow half a beat slower.
I can see who has lost a piece of themselves.
Others call me a crackpot. I'm checking the accounts.
Thirty years ago, a well was buried underground, sealing away seven people. Every rule in the building grew from their unresolved affairs of the past.
I settle their accounts and restore the rules. With every debt settled, another ring-shaped mark appears around my wrist.
When I have seven marks, it will be my turn to enter the well.
My grandfather tore out the last three pages of the handbook.
What rules were written on those three pages?
And whose name is the dull thud at the bottom of the well calling once more?
