I don’t know how long it took me to recover. I put the three photos back in the envelope, slowly walked to the table facing the bed, and carefully put the envelope in a box that was already filled with countless white envelopes. All of my actions reflected the care of a surgeon in an operation room, as if afraid of waking a sleeping demon.

​

I looked at the box, slowly backing away towards the bed. For the past three months, I have been receiving a letter from that deliveryman or a colleague of his every three days.

​

There was always only a recipient’s address with no sender and a picture of an eye that looked like a child’s drawing.

In addition, each letter would contain three photos. No matter how I threw them, the three photos would always be stacked neatly: a photo of life, a photo of death, as well as a very strange photo. The only difference was the person in each set of photos; some were young or old, male or female.

​

I took a long breath and looked at the box. In the beginning, I had thought it was just a prank done by one of my friends. However, when I had once showed it to the owner of the printing shop across the street from me, he told me that these were just overexposed waste photos. That he couldn’t make anything out on them at all. That’s when I started getting a little scared. See, the photos appeared very clear to me.

​

I decided to get a second opinion, hoping the owner of the shop was messing with me. I had asked a lot of people - my friends and my neighbors - but everyone said the exact same thing same as the printing shop owner’s.

Was everyone lying to me? Was I living my very own Truman Show?

​

Obviously, I knew that it was impossible for so many people to be in on something like this. Yet I couldn’t help but wish I was in Truman's world. At least then I’d know everything was fake.

​

Whatever it was that I was facing, it was real. At the very least, my fear was real.

​

It was dark outside and the alarm clock went off at 7:30, right on time.

​

I slowly picked up the TV remote at the head of the bed and turned on the TV. The local news channel, which had been the channel on the TV for months, hadn’t changed.

​

I quietly watched the reports that seemed meaningless, until a news report appeared stating that a crowd of joggers found a body near the river this morning. Police rushed to the scene, and after a forensic medical examination, the victim was determined to be an 18-year-old female and the time of her death was about 1:00. The possibility of suicide had been ruled out. At the present moment, the identity and cause of death of the victim was still being confirmed...

​

After watching the news, I turned off the TV. The people in those photos might not all appear in the daily news, but a large portion of them did. Those who didn’t appear in the news might not have been found yet. From the moment I received that day’s photos, I knew that person in the photos was not likely to be alive. The whole thing was becoming routine.

I turned on all the lights in the room, even the desk lamp and a flashlight. I had fixed the flashlight in place with a few thick books, shining its beam at the foot of the bed.

​

As time went by, the sounds of the outside world gradually dwindled, with only the occasional roar of passing cars disturbing the silence.

​

I felt like I was about to collapse. What kind of prank was this?

​

I suddenly wanted to pee, and slowly got out of my bed. The door of the bathroom was not closed and the lights and water heater were also on, but as I peed, I glanced around and the empty room made me unwell.

​

After peeing, zipping up, and raising my head, I was startled by my reflection in the mirror. What kind of life was I living?

I rushed out of the bathroom and threw the heavy box of letters to the ground. Envelopes scattered across the floor and several photos fell out. All of them were neatly stacked on the ground and the top one was always the same. A photo representing life and of a person smiling.

​

“Come on man! What are you doing?!” said voice muffled by a wall that separated my apartment with my neighbor’s. At that moment, I hoped all the ghosts in the photos would come out and tear me to pieces. After all, I was depressed; I would go crazy at this rate.

​

“It's almost midnight! What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you sleeping?” the neighbor's verbal abuse could be heard through the wall.

​

I sat on the ground, kicked away the envelope that was closest to me, while tears began to flow down my face and onto the ground. It’s very embarrassing to admit that’s what was happening, but I’ve never been a brave man. The worst thing I’ve ever done was skip school.

​

I just continued to sit on the floor that night. No, I had to leave. I couldn’t t stay there anymore.

​

I carelessly packed some clothes and hurried out of my house.

​

“Wu, are you going on a trip?.”

​

I looked up and found it was my neighbor, an old woman. It seemed like she had just come back from her morning exercise and was smiling at me.

​

I nodded slightly and said, “Yes.” Not caring whether she heard me or not, I just quickly took a taxi and fled the house where I had been living for 5 years.

​

I went to a hotel on the other side of town. The hotel was not very classy, but there were a lot of people, and outside the window of the room I chose was a night market stall, which would be open until 2 or 3 in the morning every day.

​

The room I picked was originally used by the hotel owner for storage, so most people wouldn’t choose it. However, I had no other choice. When I insisted on this room, the hotel owner was very surprised.

​

I unpacked and went to bed early. Although the noise of people playing drinking games and talking outside was very loud, it was really the best night’s sleep I’ve had ever since I began receiving the letters.

​

It was also the only day since then without nightmares.

​

In those few days at the hotel, I always let the noises outside lull me to sleep. I felt a lot better about myself after some rest and even went out shopping one day. After all, it was the first time in months that I was in the mood to go out to the street.

Around noon I found a small cafe outside and ate something. Afterwards, I went back to the hotel and stayed inside for a few days. At that point, I was very familiar with the hotel owner. Every time he saw me come in, he would smile and say hello to me, and I would also reply to him with a rare smile.

​

As I was about to walk past the counter one day, I asked, “Mr. Tang, do you have mail for me?”

​

Mr. Tang, the hotel owner, paused and said, “Mail? No. If I get any mail for you, I’ll let you know.”

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I shook my head hurriedly, “No, thanks.” I waved to Mr. Tang with a bright smile and walked back to my room, followed by his surprised and confused gaze.

​

No mail was a good thing. I seem to have cast away the stone that had been weighing down on my heart. Even as I was opening the door, I felt my hand had become a lot more relaxed.

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However, when I opened the door, I was stunned. A familiar white envelope was quietly lying on the floor inside, seemingly having been pushed in from under the door.

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I felt my body go stiff. No, no way. Mr. Tang had said there was no mail.

​

I forced myself to swallow and stooped to pick up the letter. Then I quickly turned and got out of the room. Approaching the front desk, I waved the envelope in my hand and asked loudly: "Mr. Tang, didn’t you say no one had sent me anything?”

​

Mr. Tang seemed startled by my exaggerated reaction and carefully said to me, “Yeah, sure. What's the matter?”

​

“So what’s with this letter?” I didn't know what the expression on my face looked like. However, when I saw Mr. Tang stand up and knock over his chair, he seemed to be very scared. I was silent. If there really was someone who could take such photos, wouldn’t it be easy for them to send me a letter?

​

I waved feebly, expressed my apologies to Mr. Tang, and walked slowly to my room. Behind me came the voice of Mr. Tang, “Wu, are you OK?”