He Says You Are Tired

At seven fifteen in the morning, Yifen was toasting bread in the kitchen.

The pop of the toaster coincided with the alarm on her phone. She turned off the alarm, took out the toast, spread jam on it, cut it in half, and put two pieces on each plate—a cup of black coffee for herself, a glass of milk for Atuo.

“Atuo, come out and eat breakfast.”

She heard movement in his room, then footsteps. When Atuo walked out, his hair was a mess, his uniform was on, but the collar was tucked inside. Yifen reached over and flipped it out for him. He didn’t pull away, and he didn’t say thank you.

The two of them sat down at the folding table and ate toast in silence.

Yifen took a sip of coffee and checked the weather forecast on her phone. It would get cooler in the afternoon. She reminded herself to bring an extra jacket. The monthly fee for the after-school program was due this week. She did the math in her head—she had just enough in her account, but after paying, it would be empty. What right did a single mom who couldn’t even keep her closet organized have to question whether her son was being haunted?

“Mom.”

“Mm?”

“He says you’re tired. He says you should go to bed earlier.”

Yifen’s toast stopped halfway to her mouth. She looked up. Atuo was drinking his milk, a white ring around his lips.

“What?”

“He says you were still scrolling on your phone in the living room at midnight last night, not sleeping.” Atuo put down his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He says your body will break down if you keep doing that.”

“Who said that?”

“The one in the closet.”

Atuo said it in the exact same tone he would use to say “We had toast for breakfast today.” No mystery, no pride. Just stating a fact.

Yifen put down her toast. Her fingers tapped the edge of the table twice.

“Atuo, I told you yesterday—there’s no one in the closet.”

“There is.”

“I checked. It’s empty.”

“That’s because you opened the door too loud and scared him away. But he came back at night.” Atuo picked up his toast, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “He said you ate thin noodles yesterday at lunch, and you added two packets of chili sauce.”

Yifen froze.

She had eaten thin noodles at lunch yesterday. The noodle stand next to the clinic—she ordered a small bowl, added two packets of chili sauce, and ate it standing under the awning. She hadn’t told Atuo about that.

“How do you know what I ate yesterday?”

“He told me.”

“Atuo, stop messing around.”

“I’m not messing around.” Atuo looked at her, his expression dead serious—so serious it didn’t seem like a fifth-grade boy at all. “He just asked me to tell you that you’re tired. That’s all.”

Yifen opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but not knowing what. She was still holding the toast. Strawberry jam dripped onto the table, orange-red, like a small puddle of blood.

She pulled out a napkin, wiped it up, stood, and collected the plates into the kitchen.

“Hurry up and eat. You have to go to school.”

She shoved the toast into her mouth, chewed, swallowed. The coffee was bitter. She’d forgotten to add sugar.

Atuo didn’t say anything else. He finished his breakfast quietly, rinsed his own plate at the sink, and put it in the dish rack. Then he slung his backpack over his shoulder and stood by the door waiting for Yifen to put on her shoes.

Yifen grabbed her bag, locked the iron door, and followed Atuo down the stairs. The stairwell of the old apartment building was dark. One of the fluorescent lights was out, flickering, emitting a faint buzzing sound.

When they stepped out the front door, the air in the alley was cool. The convenience store sign glowed white. A man in a suit stood at the entrance smoking.

“Go straight to the after-school program after school. Don’t wander off.”

“I know.”

“I’ll pick you up after class.”

“Okay.”

Atuo walked ahead, his steps small but steady. He didn’t stop at the convenience store. He didn’t stop at the park. He kept going all the way to the intersection and waited for the light.

Yifen stood beside him, looking down at the top of his head. His hair was getting a little long. She should take him for a haircut.

The light turned green. Atuo crossed the street. Yifen stayed where she was, watching him walk through the school gate, wave hello to the crossing guard, and disappear around the corner of the building.

She turned and walked toward the clinic.

The morning streets were quiet. Not many cars. The breakfast shop’s iron shutter was half open; the owner was frying egg pancakes inside. When she walked into the clinic, the phone at the front desk was ringing.

She picked it up. “Zhongzheng Family Medicine, how may I help you?”

The morning clinic was busy. Elderly patients picking up chronic prescriptions. Young mothers bringing in kids with colds. An old man saying his knee hurt. Yifen registered patients, collected fees, pulled charts, answered phones—she didn’t get a sip of water until after eleven.

When she went to the break room to pour herself a glass, she leaned against the counter and spaced out for a moment.

What did I eat yesterday at lunch? Thin noodles. Two packets of chili sauce.

She hadn’t told anyone about that. Atuo couldn’t possibly know. Unless he’d followed her to the clinic—but he was at school yesterday. Unless he’d snooped through her phone—but she hadn’t texted anyone about eating thin noodles.

She finished her water, rinsed the cup, and put it back in the cupboard.

At one thirty, she grabbed a rice ball and some unsweetened green tea during a lull. She sat on the chair behind the front desk, chewing, watching people come and go through the clinic door.

That old coat.

It came back to her—last night when she checked the closet, that old coat was hanging on the far left. A dark green down jacket she’d worn for years, the collar a little frayed. She remembered it being in the middle of the closet, because last weekend after she hung the laundry, she’d put it on the middle hook.

But this morning when she looked again, it was hanging on the far right.

She didn’t remember moving it. Atuo had no reason to touch her coat.

Unless…

She shook her head, crumpled the rice ball wrapper into a ball, and tossed it into the trash.

At four thirty, the clinic started winding down. She finished organizing the charts, shut down the computer, clocked out.

When she walked out of the clinic, the sky was still bright. She didn’t go straight home. Instead, she went to the supermarket and bought a carton of eggs, a pack of noodles, and a bunch of baby bok choy. While waiting in line to check out, a woman in front of her was on the phone, saying her son had been knocking on the wall in the middle of the night.

”…Right, I kept thinking it was the neighbors renovating, but it was him knocking in his own room, I don’t know what he was doing…”

Yifen gripped her shopping basket. Her fingers were cold.

She paid, picked up her bag, and walked back to the apartment. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, the light in the stairwell was out again. She fumbled for her keys in the dark, unlocked the iron door.

The apartment was quiet. The hum of the refrigerator. The ticking of the clock.

She put the shopping bag on the kitchen counter and walked into Atuo’s room.

The room looked the same as when they’d left in the morning. The blanket was folded neatly. His backpack was beside the desk. The zipper on his pencil case was open. She stood at the foot of the bed, facing the closet.

A three-door wooden sliding closet.

She reached out, gripped the edge of one door, took a breath, and slid it open.

Two stacks of blankets on the top shelf. Seasonal jackets hanging in the middle. Suitcases and paper bags at the bottom.

It wasn’t how she remembered it—last weekend she’d hung the coat in the middle, last night it was on the left, this morning it was on the right, and now it was back in the middle. She stood frozen, her hand still on the door.

She couldn’t remember when she’d last closed the closet. Had she opened it this morning? Yes. She remembered pulling the door open and glancing inside. But what had the contents looked like at that moment?

She couldn’t be sure.

She could swear that last night she’d seen the coat hanging on the far left. But last night she hadn’t taken a picture. No evidence. No one to back her up.

Maybe she remembered wrong. Maybe she was too tired. Maybe Atuo had gotten up in the morning and moved things around himself.

Maybe.

She closed the closet door, turned, walked out of the room, and went into the kitchen. She started washing rice, cooking rice, washing vegetables.

She didn’t want to think about it anymore. She had work tomorrow. The after-school program fee was due. There were only three eggs left in the fridge. She had too much to do to spend time wondering what was in the closet.

She cut the baby bok choy into sections, cracked an egg, and boiled the noodles.

Steam rose from the pot. A layer of fog formed on the window.

Atuo came home at seven, washed his hands, and sat down at the table for dinner. Yifen sat across from him, eating her rice, looking at her phone.

“Did you finish your homework?”

“I finished it at the after-school program.”

“Any problems?”

“One question in science I didn’t quite get.”

“Which one?”

“The… precipitation experiment. But I asked him, and he taught me.”

Yifen’s chopsticks stopped in midair.

“He taught you?”

“Yeah. He said the principle of the experiment is…”

“Atuo.” Yifen cut him off. “Enough.”

Atuo looked up at her. His eyes were calm. Not scared. Not hurt. Just very calm, looking at her.

“Don’t talk to the closet anymore,” Yifen said.

“Why?”

“Because there’s no one in the closet.”

“There is.”

“No.”

Atuo was silent for three seconds. Then he lowered his head and said quietly, “But he said he really likes me.”

Yifen stared at him. Her throat suddenly felt tight.

She wanted to say something. Mom doesn’t not believe you. Mom’s just worried about you. Tell me what’s really going on. But she didn’t say it. She wanted to say Mom doesn’t not believe you—but saying it would be admitting there was something in the closet. She would rather be a bad mother than a crazy one.

She lowered her head and kept eating.

At night, Atuo took a shower, walked into his room, and closed the door. Yifen sat on the living room sofa, the TV on, but she wasn’t watching.

She listened to the sounds from Atuo’s room.

No talking. No knocking. Just the occasional rustle of a page turning, then the click of the light switch.

She waited until the room was completely silent before she got up to brush her teeth and wash her face.

On her way back, she stopped outside Atuo’s door. It wasn’t fully closed—a sliver of light showed through. She pushed it open gently and stepped inside.

The room was dark except for the warm glow of the nightlight. The closet doors were closed. Sliding type, three wooden panels, one of them so old it stuck.

She stood in front of the closet and whispered, “Who are you?”

No answer.

The closet was perfectly still. Not even the sound of a mouse.

She stood there for thirty seconds, then quietly backed out of the room and pulled the door shut.

She closed the master bedroom door, lay down, and turned off the light. Darkness wrapped around her. The streetlamp outside cast a yellow strip of light through the gap in the curtains.

She closed her eyes.

Atuo’s voice from this morning echoed in her ears: “He says you’re tired. He says you should go to bed earlier.”

She pulled the blanket over her head and rolled over.

I have work tomorrow, she told herself. Go to sleep first.

But for a long, long time, she did not fall asleep.