The Locked Stall

The old library in the east end of the city had seen some years. Its dusty grey brick walls and tall windows exuded a quietness, but also a stubborn sense of being out of step with the times. Most people who came here were familiar faces: retired old gentlemen and ladies seeking a quiet spot to read the newspaper; students preparing for exams, hunkered down all day; and idlers like me, with nowhere else to go, who came here pretending to still be seeking knowledge, but really just killing time, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window.

Everything about the library was fine, except for the women's restroom, which was a bit strange. Not haunted, mind you, but the innermost stall – its door was always locked. No matter when you went, whether it was early morning right after opening or late afternoon just before closing, that pale green wooden door, adorned with a small plastic sign reading "In Use," stayed shut. The lock, an old-fashioned turn-bolt type, always showed its red dot firmly nestled in the green circle from the outside, telling you: someone's inside, or perhaps, you're simply not allowed in.

At first, nobody paid it much mind. Nature calls, and if it was occupied, you'd just wait or use one of the other two stalls. But as time went on, everyone started to wonder. Granny Zhang, who had sharp eyes, said she’d peered under the door – it was pitch black inside, didn't look like anyone was there. Auntie Li, quick-tempered, couldn't hold it one time and knocked on the door for ages, but there was absolutely no response from within. "Hey, what's this all about? Hogging the stall and not even using it, and locking it too?" she muttered, her voice just loud enough for everyone queuing to hear.

The librarian was a young woman in her early twenties named Liu, wearing black-rimmed glasses and speaking softly. Someone reported the issue to her. "Oh, that stall," she said, adjusting her glasses, her face expressionless. "They say... there's a bit of a problem with it, so it's temporarily out of use."

"What kind of problem? If it's broken, fix it!" pressed Grandma Wang. She was a regular here, with a booming voice.

"Well... I'm not too sure myself, the logistics department is responsible for it." Young Miss Liu seemed evasive, pointing to a sign next to it. "See, it says right there, 'Equipment Maintenance, Temporarily Out of Service'."

But that sign had only been put up later, hung crookedly, like a rag hastily used to cover something up. And that sign coexisted ridiculously with the "In Use" sign on the door, seemingly telling two contradictory stories. If you said it was broken, it claimed to be "In Use"; if you said someone was inside, it declared "Temporarily Out of Service." Either way, you couldn't use it, and you couldn't get a straight answer.

Gradually, this locked restroom stall became an open secret in the library, a minor topic of conversation. Some guessed something illicit was hidden inside. Others speculated it might have been reserved for some former leader, and the habit remained after they left. Even wilder theories emerged – perhaps something bad had happened there, and it was sealed off? The rumors grew wilder, layering that ordinary green door with an aura of mystery, even a touch of the sinister.

As for me, I'm not one for gossip, but I couldn't help wondering. Sometimes, passing by, I'd steal an extra glance at the door. The panel was old, the green paint peeling in patches, revealing the wood's original color underneath, like a face weathered by time yet remaining silent. It just stood there quietly, sealing off a small space, and also shutting out all the curiosity, speculation, and impatience from the outside world.

One time, some hygiene inspectors came to the library. Several people in uniform, holding clipboards, pointing here and there. When they reached the women's restroom, the one in charge pointed at the locked door and asked Liu, "What's going on with this stall?"

Miss Liu gave her usual explanation: "Reporting to the leader, this stall has some equipment issues, it's temporarily closed off, waiting for logistics to repair it."

"How long has it been?"

"It's... it's been a while." Liu's voice got even lower.

"What kind of issue? If it can't be used, it should be fixed promptly! Public resources shouldn't be left idle like this." The leader, full of official bearing, knocked on the door panel. "Can we take a look inside?"

Miss Liu's face turned pale, and she quickly stopped him: "Leader, the key... the key is with the logistics department, I don't have it here."

The leader frowned, seemed about to say something more, but someone next to him urged him to inspect elsewhere, and the matter was dropped. Once the inspectors left, Liu let out a long sigh, leaning against the wall, motionless for a while. Watching her, I suddenly felt that this matter probably wasn't so simple. There was likely some unspoken difficulty, or perhaps some kind of... well, unwritten rule?

Another while passed. That afternoon, the sunlight was particularly beautiful, streaming through the high windows onto the floor, warm and inviting. I was sitting in my usual spot, looking at the same book I'd flipped through countless times without finishing. Suddenly, I heard a commotion from the women's restroom – not the usual sounds of flushing or handwashing, but more like... someone picking a lock?

Curiosity piqued, I joined a few old ladies who were gathering nearby. We saw a maintenance worker in blue overalls, tools in hand, fiddling with the lock on that very door. Liu stood beside him, looking nervous.

"Miss Liu, this lock core is rusted solid, might need a bit of force," the worker said, sweating profusely.

"Master worker, please... please be gentle, don't break the door," Liu whispered her instructions.

"Got it!" the worker replied, applied more force, and with a sharp "click," the lock gave way.

The door creaked open.

Everyone held their breath, craning their necks to look inside. The imagined filth, horror, mystery, or some earth-shattering secret... none of it was there.

Inside, it was empty, but relatively clean. Just some miscellaneous items piled in the corner – a few broken mops, a paint-chipped plastic bucket, and half a bag of unused cement, hard as rock. On the wall, there was indeed a faded notice, the writing blurred, roughly saying "Internal Maintenance, Do Not Use," with a date stamp from... three years ago.

So, that was all it was.

No special reservation for a leader, no unspeakable secrets, no haunting. It was just broken, then used to store some junk, and then... forgotten. Or rather, neglected out of laziness. Logistics probably found it troublesome, and Liu, being low-ranking, figured less trouble was better. Over time, this door became a strange "presence" in the library, a festering issue everyone knew was problematic but no one wanted to address.

The crowd gradually dispersed. Granny Zhang pursed her lips: "Hmph! What a waste of all our guessing!" Auntie Li snorted: "Just as I said, sheer laziness! Just taking up space!"

Grandma Wang sighed: "Ai, what kind of situation is this..."

I looked at the opened door, the half-bag of cement inside like a silent monument. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating dancing dust motes. Suddenly, I found it a bit laughable, yet also somewhat sad. We mortals, always expending energy on trivial matters, guessing and gossiping. And the real reason is often pitifully simple, even contemptible. Just a bit of procrastination, a bit of apathy, a bit of "none-of-my-business," and a door can remain locked for three years, turning a place meant for public service into a neglected corner.

That door was quickly cleaned out and repaired. The sign was replaced with a brand new "Vacant." But, for some reason, whenever I pass by, I still instinctively glance at it, feeling deep down as if the door is somehow still locked. Perhaps what it locked away wasn't just that small stall, but also something indefinable within our hearts. Like this old library, quiet as it is, always feels like something is missing, yet also like something extra is present. Indescribable, undefinable, the days pass just like that, like the old locust tree outside the window, year after year, turning green then yellow, yellow then green, as if nothing has changed, yet somehow, everything has.