There are many kinds of human weeping; the loud, unrestrained bawl is one, the quiet sniffle another, and the long, low moan emitted in a woman's soft voice is particularly unnerving when heard in a secluded place.

Little Shu had once heard a story from Mrs. Nangong. It happened on a dark and windy night, back when the city wasn't as vast as it is now, the streets far less bustling, and everyone still lived in tongzilou—communal housing blocks. These buildings were arranged around a central courtyard, like a siheyuan, with corridors that were long and narrow, winding around the courtyard like stacked mahjong tiles. Those better off had a family unit at every turn, while those less fortunate lived much like students do now, in rooms that lined the hallways, doors packed densely together—sometimes an entire family squeezed into one small room. Yet, even in such a crowded setting, the nights were strangely more terrifying. For no other reason than this: as soon as darkness fell, every household bolted their doors shut. Because disputes over shared electricity costs were common, those long hallways were mostly pitch black, devoid of any light whatsoever. After midnight, when everyone else was asleep, the corridors became so silent you could hear your own breathing. Still, even at such a quiet hour, someone dared to venture out.

That person, so the rumor went, was an old neighbor of Mrs. Nangong, surnamed Zhang, whom everyone called Auntie Zhang. Auntie Zhang had a peculiar habit: every night before sleeping, she absolutely had to meticulously review everything she had done that day. If she found an unfinished task, she couldn't sleep until she got up and completed it perfectly, only then could she finally lie down, close her eyes, and rest. Doctors called this symptom perfectionistic OCD—a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. However, she disliked seeing doctors and never thought much of this compulsion.

One night, Auntie Zhang, having followed her routine by turning off the lights and lying down to **recall the day's activities, suddenly remembered a basket of trash she hadn't taken out. She got up, threw on her clothes, and picked up the trash basket. Just as she reached the door, her hand hovering over the knob, a sudden chill blew in through the crack. The hand that had been reaching out retracted. Although she often got up at this hour to attend to things, this was the first time she had planned to step outside to dispose of trash. In the dead of night, with the wind howling, going out alone was quite unnerving. Thinking this, Auntie Zhang placed the trash basket by the door and turned back to ** lie down.

She lay there for a long time. She tossed and turned, not a speck of sleep coming to her, thoroughly disturbing her husband as well. Finally, her husband lost his temper, pulling the quilt tight around himself, and said, "Do whatever you need to do. Don't lie awake yourself and keep others awake too."

Hearing his words, Auntie Zhang finally resolved herself. She donned her clothes, picked up the trash basket, and opened the door. Her family lived on the fourth floor. From her doorway to the trash collection point required traversing a stretch of inky-black corridor, descending three flights of stairs, and walking another two hundred meters. The entire route was dark and utterly devoid of light; even the moon was hidden. Walking down the hall, Auntie Zhang felt an eerie wind chilling her, a cold swoosh brushing past her ears. She hurried down the stairs toward the collection point, but far off, she saw a figure standing stock-still beside the trash station, with something resembling a basket strapped to its back.

Auntie Zhang found this strange. Very few people were out at this ungodly hour, and the trash station was usually a place everyone avoided. Why would someone stand there and not leave? She quietly maneuvered past the spot, the trash basket in hand. As she got closer, she realized the figure was a woman, standing near the pile of refuse, weeping in a low, drawn-out tone. The object on her back was indeed a basket, and a small child was reaching a hand out from within it, playing. Auntie Zhang felt instantly enveloped by a heavy wave of sorrow and resentment. Panicked, she dropped the trash basket near the corridor entrance and bolted back toward her home. She ran until her lungs burned, too afraid to stop, for she constantly felt someone pursuing her from behind. Upon reaching home, she slammed the door shut, scrambled into bed, and wrapped herself entirely in the quilt, leaving only her nostrils exposed to breathe, as if that woman had followed her right into the apartment.

Later, Auntie Zhang fell seriously ill and couldn't get out of bed for over a month. The doctor's conclusion was that her OCD had become too severe, compounded by the terror of going out at night. In the collision of obsession and fear, she had failed to complete the day's required task, losing her equilibrium and falling gravely ill. The fortune teller’s explanation, however, was that Auntie Zhang had encountered the ghost of a woman who died in difficult childbirth, and the spirit was now haunting her; he advised burning more Joss paper. Whenever this story was brought up, Mrs. Zhang and her husband would argue. He believed the doctor; she believed the fortune teller. Naturally, in the end, they did both: the doctor's medicine was taken, and the paper money was burned.

After finishing the tale, Mrs. Nangong playfully asked Little Shu: If it were you, whose words would you trust? Young Little Shu, without hesitation, chose the doctor. But now, having experienced so much herself, when she heard that long, low wail with her own ears, a tremor ran through Little Shu. She paused at the doorway of her room, suddenly hesitant.