Eaves

Doctor Lin had lost weight recently. Her cheekbones, once rounded, now felt a bit sharp to the touch. Being a doctor herself, she knew it wasn't just fatigue; it was something weighing on her mind, draining her spirit. What was it? Her child was gone. That past summer, a sudden illness, and they couldn't save him.

With the child gone, the apartment felt empty, and cold. It had been a nice two-bedroom apartment, south-facing, with an old pagoda tree outside the window. In summer, it offered lush green shade; in autumn, its pagoda flowers littered the ground. When he was still around, he liked watching ants move their homes on the windowsill. Doctor Lin stood in the living room. Sunlight streamed in, dust motes dancing in the beams. But his laughter seemed to linger in the corners; she'd turn her head, and there was nothing. This apartment... she couldn't live here anymore.

She found an agent, listed it. Quite a few people came to view it; everyone said the layout was good, plenty of light. Finally, a young couple decided on it. They seemed honest and decent, spoke softly. The price negotiation was straightforward too. Doctor Lin felt a slight sense of relief, thinking she could quickly finalize the paperwork and leave this place of sorrow. She didn't mention the child. Not intentionally hiding it, but she couldn't bring herself to speak of it, like a stone was lodged in her throat. They didn't ask who lived there before or why it was being sold. It was a property sale, after all; people look at the apartment itself.

The contract was signed, the deposit paid. Doctor Lin gave the keys to the agent and moved back into her single dormitory at the hospital. The dorm was small, simple. That was good too; not so much empty space to remind her of the past.

Who would have thought? After less than a month, the young couple came looking for her. Not directly to her, but through the agent, who then came to her. They said the apartment wasn't "clean," that it was a "haunted house."

Doctor Lin was stunned. Haunted house? How could it be a haunted house?

"They say," the young agent looked troubled too, "that they keep hearing a child crying at night, and things fall down on their own... Said they asked around and found out that your family... had something happen."

Doctor Lin's heart skipped a beat, then a chill ran down her spine. It wasn't fear, but a cold disappointment, mixed with an inexplicable sense of absurdity. The child had passed away from illness, peacefully, in her arms. Crying? That was her own crying, waking up at night, muffling her sobs in the quilt. Things falling? She had lived there for so many years, and nothing had ever fallen like that.

"Nonsense." Doctor Lin's voice trembled slightly, but she steadied herself. "They just want to back out of the deal, making excuses."

"But they're threatening to sue you," the agent said, looking worried. "Claiming you withheld crucial information, demanding a refund and compensation for emotional distress."

And so the matter stalled. Doctor Lin was a woman of medicine; she believed in science, relied on evidence. Talk of "not clean" or "haunted houses" sounded like pure fantasy to her. But the other party insisted vehemently, even bringing in a few neighbors as 'witnesses,' who said Doctor Lin had cried every day during that period, and the atmosphere at home wasn't good. A bad atmosphere – what did that have to do with the house being "haunted"? Yet, that's the logic they clung to.

Several attempts at mediation failed. The couple insisted: either refund and compensation, or they'd see her in court. Doctor Lin felt exhausted. She had just lost her child, felt hollowed out, and simply didn't have the energy to argue about such ethereal matters. Court? She, a doctor who wore a white coat to save lives, now had to argue in court about whether there were "ghosts" in an apartment? It was too absurd.

Her colleagues advised her: "Sister Lin, just consider it losing money to avoid trouble. You can't afford the mental drain of fighting them."

She couldn't sleep at night, staring at the pale white halo cast by the hospital streetlights outside her window. She thought of her son's nickname, his soft hair, the look in his eyes before passing. The stone in her heart felt even heavier. She didn't believe in ghosts or spirits, but she wondered... perhaps her son was reluctant to leave, his presence lingering in that apartment, sensed by sensitive people? The thought sent a shiver down her own spine. No, it wasn't like that. It was people's hearts. Sometimes, the human heart is harder to fathom than ghosts or spirits.

In the end, Doctor Lin conceded. She returned the deposit and paid a symbolic amount as "compensation." Not because she admitted the house was "haunted," but because she was tired and didn't want to be entangled anymore. The young couple took the money, showing no triumphant expression. Instead, they looked as if a burden had been lifted, and they left quickly.

The apartment was hers again. She didn't list it again, nor did she go back to see it. Only occasionally, when passing that street, she would subconsciously look up at the window. The curtains were drawn; she couldn't see inside. The leaves of the pagoda tree had turned yellow, falling one by one, carpeting the sidewalk.

One day after work, she ran into an old man collecting scrap at the hospital gate. He was pushing a tricycle piled high with cardboard boxes and old newspapers. The old man was a familiar face in the area; Doctor Lin had seen him before when she used to take her son for walks. Seeing her, the old man stopped, grinned, revealing yellowed teeth.

"Doctor Lin, moved house?"

"Yes." Doctor Lin nodded.

"Nice apartment that one, what a pity." The old man sighed. "Heard folks saying the other day it's haunted?"

Doctor Lin's heart tightened. She didn't speak.

The old man continued, talking partly to himself: "Nonsense! Lived 'round here for decades, nothing like that ever happened. It's people's hearts, tsk tsk... Just the other day, I saw that young fella who bought the place, drinking and bragging at the street corner, said his trick worked wonders, saved him tens of thousands."

Doctor Lin looked up sharply at the old man. In the old man's cloudy eyes, there was a look of understanding and sympathy.

A gust of wind blew past, swirling up a few fallen leaves. Suddenly, Doctor Lin felt that the apartment, everything that had happened under its eaves, was like a Kafkaesque dream – absurd, oppressive, yet pressing down on her heart with undeniable reality. Losing her son was pain; but what followed was a different kind of agony, like being slowly cut by a dull knife, chilling the heart.

She smiled at the old man, a somewhat strained smile. "Yes, people's hearts."

She said no more and turned, walking into the hospital entrance. The white coat felt a little heavy on her shoulders. She still had to see patients, save lives. Life had to go on, even with all the unspoken sorrow and absurdity hidden beneath those eaves. It's just that the apartment, that old pagoda tree, became an unshakeable knot in her heart. Thinking of it occasionally brought a dull ache, like a wound that never fully healed.