Chapter 4: Goodbye at the Crossroads

The package was sent by my mom from the world above.

The takeout was food my mom offered to me.

The forum comment about only black, white, and orange tabby cats here—

Because foreign breeds aren’t allowed in the underworld. Only the common types—tabbies, black, white, orange. Calico, too, I guess.

The hotel receptionist was a paper person, always with two braids. (Paper people are ceremonial figures, folded and burned as offerings for the dead.)

The corpse-like face in the camera was the makeup the mortician gave me before my funeral.

The license was issued by the underworld, the photo was my memorial portrait.

Why did I go to the hotel? Because my ashes were taken for a ghost marriage with Ben Monroe. (A ghost marriage is a traditional ritual in which the ashes or spirit of a deceased person are joined with another, often to appease restless souls or fulfill family obligations.)

I remembered everything. I sat on the ground, my face still bloody from the fall, and screamed in anger:

“Why won’t you let me go? Even after death, you still haunt me!”

Ben dropped his disguise. His face was even more ruined than mine—just a pile of rotting flesh.

“Because I love you. I love you so much, Emma Parker. Do you know how much I love you? I could die for you,” Ben said, full of twisted affection.

I let out a harsh, miserable laugh, then said, word by word: “You could die by yourself. Why drag me down with you? That’s not love—it’s obsession. You pervert, let me tell you: I didn’t like you when I was alive, and I won’t like you after death.”

Ben showed no emotion. He straightened his clothes, his ruined face returning to a stiff, dead expression.

“To marry you after death, to be buried together, to hold you day and night—it’s all worth it.” Ben signaled to the paper people behind him. “Help the bride bow in the hall.”

The paper bridesmaids dragged me up.

The matchmaker shouted loudly, “First bow to heaven and earth!”

The paper people forced my head down.

“Second bow to the parents!”

“Bow to each other as husband and wife!”

“Ceremony complete, enter the bridal chamber!”

I was forced into a room decorated with wedding signs, the windows and doors plastered with yellow sigils.

Ben sat by the bed. “Emma Parker, you’ll always be tied to me, never to be separated.”

I had given up struggling, two lines of bloody tears streaming down my face.

Ever since our daughter died, my wife and I sold the house we’d prepared for her wedding and bought three adjacent graves in the suburbs, so our family of three could be together again someday.

Recently, I liked to visit the crafts shop, learning to make paper offerings so I could burn things for my daughter myself.

One evening, I met an orange cat on the roadside.

The orange cat followed me all the way home.

When I walked, it walked; when I stopped, it stopped.

At the building entrance, the orange cat stood by the stairs, its dark green eyes staring straight at me.

My wife, Mariah, opened the door. “What are you doing at the door?”

I pointed at the orange cat under the stairs. “It followed me all the way.”

Mariah looked toward the stairs. The orange tabby was squatting there, head raised, staring at us intently.

“Let it in,” my wife said.

After dinner, my wife and I found the new cat was gone. We searched every corner, but only Sunny was lying listlessly in its bed.

My wife said the kitchen window wasn’t closed—maybe it went out that way.

I figured that was possible and didn’t think much of it.

That night, I dreamed of the orange cat.

It kept meowing at me, as if it had something urgent to say.

I squatted down to pet its head, but it turned and ran, then looked back as if urging me to follow.

In the dream, it led me to a new grave.

I saw my dead daughter sitting on the grave in a red dress, crying, “Dad, save me, Dad, save me.”

I wanted to hug my daughter, but I couldn’t move my feet, couldn’t shout, could only watch her cry.

The helplessness made me anxious, and after struggling hard, I woke up from the dream.

My wife woke up at the same time, crying, “Ethan, I dreamed of our daughter again. She was crying on a grave. I wanted to hug her but couldn’t.”

I turned on the light, gently patted my wife’s back, and softly said, “I dreamed of her too.”

My wife’s crying stopped abruptly. She found a few pieces of paper ash by her pillow.

The kind from burned paper offerings.

We realized something was wrong.

Even though it was one in the morning, I called the crafts shop owner.

The phone rang twice and was answered. “Ethan, what’s up so late?”

I said anxiously, “My wife and I both dreamed of our daughter crying on a new grave. When we woke up, there was paper ash by the bed.”

After a pause, he said seriously, “This isn’t simple. Tomorrow, bring some of your daughter’s clothes. I’ll help you ask.”

After hanging up, my wife asked, “What did Mr. Thompson say?”

“He said to bring Emma’s clothes tomorrow. He’ll help us ask.”

Neither of us could sleep, so we got up to use the bathroom. When we opened the door, we found paper ash scattered on the floor, from the front door to the bedroom.

Exactly where the orange cat had walked.

Early the next morning, we went to Mr. Thompson’s craft shop.

Mr. Thompson was ready. “Did you bring the clothes?”

“Yes.”

My wife took out a light blue long dress our daughter had worn in life.

Mr. Thompson lit three sticks of incense, burned a paper with Emma Parker’s birth and death dates. “Later, keep burning paper in the basin. Don’t stop unless I wake up.”

“Okay.”

Mr. Thompson muttered incantations and soon fell asleep.

About half an hour later, Mr. Thompson woke up, looking grave. “Emma isn’t in the underworld. I think she’s been hidden. Yesterday, the paper cat by Emma’s side came to find you. It wanted to tell you Emma was taken and is suffering.”

My wife cried, “My Emma!”

Mr. Thompson said, “Go check if Emma’s ashes are still there. I’m afraid someone took them for a ghost marriage.”

My wife and I rushed to the Hall of Rest. The urn was still there, but when we asked to open the glass case, the staff tried every way to stop us.

First they said it wasn’t time yet, then said we needed to prove our relationship with the deceased.

I asked who made the rule, told them to call the manager, put out our IDs, cremation, and death certificates.

Then they said we needed a paternity test.

I called the police immediately.

I made a scene—maybe because I’d suppressed my grief too long, afraid to cry in front of my wife.

Now I sat on the floor and wailed.

“Everyone look, I’m trying to take my daughter’s ashes, and the staff want a paternity test!”

“My poor daughter died so unjustly, and after death we can’t even see her ashes.”

“Call your manager! Who says you need a paternity test to take ashes?”

“My wife and I are honest folks, always did right by others. This is too much.”

The police came quickly, helped my wife and me up, and asked what happened.

I cried, “My daughter was supposed to be stored here for three years. Last night, I dreamed she cried for help. We just wanted to take the ashes home, but the staff refused. First they said it wasn’t time, then said we needed a paternity test.”

I handed the police all the documents. “ID, cremation, death certificates—but they made all kinds of excuses not to let us take our daughter’s ashes.”

Officer Carter listened and sternly told the staff, “They have all the documents. Why can’t they take the ashes? If there’s a regulation, show me.”

The staff mumbled and couldn’t explain.

Officer Carter firmly ordered them to open the glass case.

I took out my daughter’s urn and, in front of the police, opened it.

Inside was no bag of ashes—just half a box of mud.

I smashed the urn in anger, mud scattering everywhere.

My wife nearly fainted at the sight, but the police caught her.

“Is there no justice? My daughter’s ashes turned to mud! No wonder the staff wouldn’t open the case,” I shouted.

A staff member collapsed to the ground, looking as if he’d lost everything.

Someone pulled out a phone to record.

The incident spread quickly. As soon as we left the police station, reporters found me.

Facing the camera, I said, “My daughter died two months ago in a fall. You all forced her to the rooftop to persuade the pervert who harassed her not to jump, and she was dragged down to her death. Now her ashes have been stolen and sold.”

“I want to ask, what did my daughter do wrong to deserve all this?”

“Last night my wife and I dreamed of her crying for help.”

“As parents, can you imagine how much pain we feel?”

I looked at a microphone with a media logo. “Before my daughter was forced to the rooftop, you reported on social media that she deceived feelings and caused someone’s suicide.”

“Three hours before the rooftop, because of your video, my daughter was doxxed and harassed.”

I was so agitated I blacked out and fainted.

When I woke up, it was the next day.

Officer Carter brought fruit to visit me. He said, “The Hall of Rest staff confessed. Ms. Parker’s ashes were sold to Ben Monroe’s parents. We’ve arrested them, but the ashes can’t be recovered. According to Ben’s parents…”

I braced myself. “Officer, please tell me. I can take it.”

He said, “Ms. Parker’s ashes were mixed with Ben’s.”

I closed my eyes in despair. What a tragedy.

Three days after I was discharged, my wife was stronger than I expected. She didn’t cry as before.

We went to Mr. Thompson’s craft shop. After hearing our story, Mr. Thompson smoked in silence.

After finishing a cigarette, he said, “I can’t handle this. I’ll invite people from St. Jude’s Church.”

Ben’s parents and the staff were arrested for stealing ashes. I also sued the netizens and media who insulted my daughter.

Outside the court, my wife and I met the pastor Mr. Thompson mentioned.

She was a girl of seventeen or eighteen. My wife said from afar she looked a bit like our daughter at eighteen.

“You’re Pastor Grace? Mr. Thompson sent us,” I greeted her.

Grace nodded. “Lead the way.”

We went to Mr. Thompson’s shop.

Grace looked at the urn and said calmly, “It’s not a big problem, just a bit troublesome.”

My wife held Pastor Grace’s hand and pleaded, “Please help my daughter.”

Grace comforted us. “Ghost marriages are easy to break.”

My wife and I felt relieved.

Grace told us to close all the doors and windows, sprinkled incense ash on the floor, and told us to wait in the room until she called us out.

About ten minutes later, we heard her call us.

She stood aside and asked, “Your daughter is here. Do you want to see her?”

My wife and I looked and saw footprints in the incense ash.

“Yes, yes,” my wife cried.

Grace burned a yellow sigil and waved it in front of us. I saw a white light, and then I saw my dead daughter.

She stood on the incense ash, wearing the light blue dress we’d just burned, smiling at us.

My wife couldn’t help but want to hug her, but Grace stopped her:

“She’s a soul—she can’t withstand the living’s energy.”

My wife cried, “Good girl, Mom misses you so much. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

My daughter smiled and shook her head. “Mom, Dad, I love you very much. Please take care of yourselves. Don’t keep thinking about me. Just think of me as traveling.”

“Dad, the cat you burned for me—I really like it. Dad, don’t carry water upstairs with your bad hand. Use the massage chair I bought you more, and drink less.”

I choked up. “Okay, Dad will listen to you.”

My daughter told my wife to take care of her health, not to eat cold food, and to look after Sunny.

My wife agreed.

“Mom, Dad, thank you for letting me see this world, and for caring for me for over twenty years. In my next life, I want to spend more time with you.”

“Goodbye, Mom and Dad. Emma will always love you.”

Finally, my daughter waved and turned into white light, disappearing.

My wife sobbed uncontrollably.

Grace said the ghost marriage was resolved, but the ashes couldn’t be separated again.

We both understood that mixed ashes could never be divided.

The pastor suggested finding a nice day to scatter the ashes in the mountains.

I thought, since the ashes were mixed with that pervert’s, no matter how I thought about it, I felt uncomfortable.

I asked, “Will scattering the ashes affect my daughter?”

Grace said, “If you scatter them in a very peaceful mountain and set up a memorial tomb, it’s the same as burial. It’s just a bit of a bargain for the other one.”

Following the pastor’s advice, we found a good spot, scattered the ashes, set up a memorial tomb, and bought the nearby land so my wife and I could be buried next to our daughter in the future.

Emma Parker

I thought I would always be stuck in this house. I didn’t expect anyone would come to save me.

The fragrant woman who picked up my license at the hotel kicked the door open, swiftly beat up Ben, twisted off the lock on my hand, took off my wedding dress, and grabbed my hand. “Don’t be afraid, we’re here to save you.”

I asked, “Who are you?”

She smiled gently. “The orange cat found me to help deliver a dream to your parents. It was your parents and the orange cat who saved you.”

Ben tried to grab me. “She’s my wife now. You have no right to take her.”

The beautiful woman didn’t even look at him. She twisted Ben’s neck. “What do you mean, ‘yours’? I don’t acknowledge it. Who do you think you are, a ghost?”

She even carried his head, and when we passed a black bridge, she threw it into the river.

I clearly saw Ben’s ghost head sink into the black river, bubbles rising.

The beautiful woman said, “He tortured and killed hundreds of animals in his life, even assaulted girls. Someone like him should be boiled in the black river for thousands of years. Who knows what the underworld police are doing.”

We crossed a long bridge to a pitch-black crossroads.

I saw a girl standing in the middle of the intersection.

The beautiful woman nudged me toward her. “Go up and see your parents.”

The girl said to her, “It’s expensive to ask Madam Rose for help. I burned five boxes of gold for this.”

I followed the girl and saw my parents.

The words I never got to say in life—I never thought I’d get the chance to say goodbye after death.

After saying goodbye to my parents, I returned to my home in the underworld neighborhood. The orange cat was waiting at the door, but it was missing one ear. I went up and hugged it, rubbing my face against its fur. “Thank you.”

While you’re alive, spend more time with your family and friends.

You never know which will come first—surprise or accident. Life is unpredictable. You never know if each farewell will be the last. Cherish every encounter, and say a proper goodbye when parting.

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere out there, someone you love is watching over you, even in the dark.