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墨書 Inktalez
I really enjoy Thai horror movies, so I decided to study screenwriting in Thailand on my own expense. After six months, I rented a small room off-campus. Another six months later, my girlfriend Nansanen, who shares the same aspirations, moved in with me.
(Hearing this, I couldn't help but curse under my breath; how could she be so shameless!)
Nansanen was studying directing and dreamed of winning the Best Director award at the Oscars. Having dreams is always good, even if I found hers to be quite unrealistic. I often advised her to stay grounded, but she would pout her sexy lips and insist that I help her. At those moments, I felt helpless; after all, I was a screenwriter and a well-known director back home.
(How shameless can one be! This was a line from a note Mooncake had written to me. I nodded firmly.)
Recently, Nansanen said she was going out for inspiration and disappeared in a flash after saying goodbye. I had grown accustomed to her whirlwind lifestyle and continued my scriptwriting every day.
Every night at midnight, I would go to a coffee shop to ponder deeply. It wasn't just because the owner, Shang Da, was my classmate; it was also because the name of the coffee shop suited my taste: Ghost Coffee House.
This coffee shop was quite desolate. I often wondered if there would still be business if I didn't come.
I would sink into the soft sofa, order a rich Royal Copenhagen coffee, and open my laptop to type away at varying speeds.
On a spring night, the rain fell densely yet softly. As I brushed off the droplets from my clothes and entered the coffee shop, I found a woman sitting in my favorite seat. Her face was blurred in the dim light, her features completely obscured, giving off an unsettling vibe.
Frowning, I looked at the waiter. Knowing my relationship with the owner, he didn’t need further explanation and quickly approached me. "Where's Shang Da?" I asked directly.
The waiter hurried over cautiously and whispered, "The boss said he has some matters to attend to these days. Ever since that woman came in, she insisted on sitting there... you know how it is. Business has been slow..."
I sighed. Shang Da was indeed in a dire situation. Just after starting college, he lost both parents in a car accident, leaving him only an old house and a substantial insurance payout. His dream was to become the most famous screenwriter in the world (why does everyone have such unrealistic dreams in college?). But dreams and reality are like parallel train tracks; they never intersect. With his inheritance dwindling and no one appreciating his scripts, he opened a coffee shop to make ends meet.
I grabbed my notebook and found a seat with my back to the woman. The waiter, visibly relieved, hurried over with a cup of Royal Copenhagen that had already been brewed, handing me a small gift box. "The boss said to give this to you when you arrived. He found it at a flea market; I’m sure you’ll like it."
I opened it to find a pure copper belt buckle, showing signs of age with some wear on the edges. The buckle was adorned with intricate engravings of vibrant roses, and nestled among them was a delicate ring. I usually enjoy collecting these little trinkets, so seeing this made me quite happy. I immediately swapped out my old belt buckle for this one.
As I opened my laptop, I was trying to brainstorm a script about "a female sculptor being gnawed to bones by mice," but the unexpected interruption left me restless. Staring at the blank WORD document, I couldn't write a single word.
The computer screen emitted a pale glow, reflecting a face that appeared almost blue under the light—blurry and distorted, it looked extremely unfamiliar. Instinctively, I reached up to touch my face; the figure on the screen mirrored my actions, revealing that it was merely my reflection cast by the light.
Outside, a fine drizzle swept across the glass, creating a soft "pitter-patter" sound as it hit. Water droplets formed strange shapes before being shattered by new raindrops, merging into streaks that slowly trickled down the glass, intertwining like bound spirits in hell desperately trying to break free from their shackles.
The coffee shop played "Unchained Melody," a theme song from the 90s that had once captivated audiences. The Righteous Brothers sang with a hauntingly sorrowful voice, telling a tale of love between realms in their mournful melody.
When I couldn't write anything, I habitually lit a cigarette and gazed out the window. The light clearly projected the interior scene onto the dark glass, making the street view outside fade further into darkness. Light and shadow perfectly composed an odd three-dimensional space that devoured each other recklessly on the glass.
Staring at something for too long can easily cause one's gaze to drift; various lights and shadows blurred my vision and led me to an odd thought:
Am I real now? Or is the reflection of me in the mirror real? As I look at the person in the mirror, is he looking back at me in the same way? Do his thoughts align with mine? If I were to leave, would he remain in that space, coldly observing my world?
Suddenly, I recalled a horror novel I had read about a woman who discovered that her reflection while combing her hair was completely different from her real self. When she screamed in terror, the woman in the mirror pushed aside her long black hair that covered her face, revealing a pale visage and smiling eerily at her.
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