Waking up in the morning with a splitting headache. I vaguely remember having a nightmare, but I can't remember it.

The curtains that had been closed all the time showed through the cracks, and the sunlight shone on the withered pothos on the windowsill as if it were burning.

I got out of bed and sat down at the dresser. There are some cosmetics neatly arranged on the table, not much, not used for many years. I looked up and saw myself in the mirror: my skin was as pale as a zombie, and my hair had grown a lot in two months due to neglect.

It's like a female ghost.

I was immediately amused by my thoughts, and suddenly remembered my morning dream:

A female ghost, sitting on top of me, hair hanging down to the edge of the bed.

It's funny.

As the saying goes, "think about it during the day, dream about it at night". I never watch horror movies, and I have a vague concept of female ghosts, but I have a very clear memory of female ghosts in my dreams. What is the "reality" associated with it?

I turned my head to look at the room I'd lived in for ten years and began to think.

This is a typical female dormitory. The chair in front of the windowsill was stacked with messy clothes, hanging lifelessly, and a small bra was exposed at the bottom.

The bedside photo was dusty, and the two people inside didn't resemble me in the slightest.

Everything is the same as last night. There is nothing that reminds me of a "female ghost".

The chaotic thinking made me feel tired. I stood up and decided to go wash up. When I opened the door of the room, I saw a bloody sanitary napkin in the wastepaper basket in the corridor.

A wave of anxiety exploded in his chest. I woke up from my lethargic state, my senses were back to normal, and I heard the sound of water coming from the bathroom.

I don't remember any pads I changed before I went to bed last night...... Amusing!

Resentful of the intruder, I hurried through the narrow corridor to the bathroom door. Take a long breath, grab the handle, turn it, and push the door.

The shower curtain was not drawn.

An unknown woman is showering under a shower head.

She saw me too, turned around, and winked innocently at me.

After half a second of silence, I gave her an indifferent look and closed the door again. I turned to the living room, walked into the semi-open kitchen, and opened the refrigerator.

Despite the fact that this closed summer vacation was nothing to call it a blur, I was obsessed with making myself a beautiful breakfast every day.

To do this, I borrowed a friend's mobile phone and bought seven types of omelette dishes online: It's Saturday, so I have to make an omelette, in the shape of Mickey Mouse.

I was happy to watch the white and yellow omelette take shape in the mold. I picked up the shovel and made a scratch in the mouth of "Mickey Mouse".

The heated oil with steaming heat continued to spill through the shovel's trail and puff up the egg whites, making it look like the Mickey Mouse was talking.

I leaned forward, listened carefully for a while, and then suddenly smiled and nodded with satisfaction, and said to Mickey Mouse in the frying pan:

"Good morning, too."

But I quickly frowned. The oil at the bottom of the pan heated up so quickly that the yolk in the middle of the omelette cracked and flowed everywhere.

A violent feeling of agitation crept up all over my body, and I silently turned off the heat, took out the omelette maker, picked up the pan, and emptied the unformed omelette into the trash. It's not a Mickey omelette anymore.

I tried my best to stay calm, took a brand new egg out of the fridge, and let everything start again.

The egg whites in the mold were turning white, and this time I used a spatula to draw a thin line over Mickey Mouse's mouth at the most opportune time.

The new Mickey spoke to me. I'm very happy and this time it understands me very well. I smiled softly at it.

Before serving the delicate breakfast to my own dining table, in this old apartment, after three years, I heard a second human voice besides me.

The woman who was taking a shower in the bathroom just now, wrapped in a bathrobe that belonged to me alone, sat on a mahogany chair with peony lace that belonged to me alone, and took a pleasant breath:

"It smells so good!"

I looked at her and noticed her hair: if she had been sitting on me, it would have been just over the edge of the bed. After a while, I suddenly lowered my head and stared blankly at the Mickey Mouse omelette on the plate; After a few more moments, he sighed softly, and a few words floated out from between his teeth.

"It's not a dream." I put down the plate with a blank face, laid the chopsticks on the side of the plate as usual, neatly and neatly, and said solemnly to the omelette:

"It's the female ghost. But it's not a dream. ”

This young girl sitting in front of me, for some reason, reminded me of the female ghost I dreamed of when I saw her, will completely change the course of my life in the next 28 minutes and 13 seconds.

But before she embarks on a series of outrageous shenanigans on me in the next five seconds, allow me to interrupt the story for a moment and briefly analyze the current situation.

I didn't have any contact with the woman in front of me. According to the aesthetics of modern people, she may have similar characteristics as female stars on TV: a beautiful face, delicate skin, and a tight body...... The hair is very long. My skin was a warm, healthy white, very different from my miserable white complexion, which was enough to make people ashamed of themselves.

Her temperament looks like that of a cultured daughter. This is in stark contrast to her outrageous act of breaking into the house illegally. It just proves that it is a synonym for "trouble".

I'm not afraid to meet ghosts. I'm most afraid of trouble.

In order to avoid trouble, my instinct reminded me that I must never communicate too much with her, lest I be involved in something I did not understand; Perhaps the most sensible way is to go back to the bedroom, pick up your phone and call the police directly.

But that also means more trouble. I'm going to have to go into contact with the police, and I'm more likely to miss eating freshly baked omelette and bacon on Saturday mornings – something I can't afford to gamble my life on.

It is even more impossible for me to directly engage in a shrew-like duel with her based on personal anger. There are two reasons for this:

First of all, even though she is now menstruating and weak, I have been lacking exercise for many years and probably won't be able to beat her.

- Secondly, since I'm not a woman, I'm not good enough to do it to her.

At this point, maybe you'll be surprised by my gender.

Because I started the story with a little bit of basic logic - for some reason, I had a rough dive into psychology for a while. It is a technique that is often used in interrogations or speeches:

By stating only a part of the truth, the recipient is induced to use common sense to fill in the blank parts of the information, and skilled criminals can even fool the polygraph machine. Influential online critics can control the direction of public opinion in this way, pretending to let the reader discover something "inadvertently" that he wants the reader to discover.

The room I stayed in was indeed a typical women's room: thirteen years ago, when my adoptive parents were still alive, they slept in one room for work reasons, and I moved into my adoptive mother's room after their death ten years ago. The dresser and the makeup on it were also her relics, and I never touched them, except that the back chair was stacked almost entirely with my men's clothes, and I only highlighted the bra that slipped from underneath when I described it.

It is extremely interesting to study the psychological consciousness of human beings when they are sifting through information. When you see through the little trick at the beginning of the story, you will often subconsciously become wary and pay careful attention to whether there will be similar "logical inducements" in other narratives.

I hope you can do that.

I still know a lot about similar tricks.

Because what I'm about to tell is a story that belongs only to "madmen" and "liars" through and through.

The story is full of lies and deception, and every character in the story is hard to trust, including me as the narrator.

So, please bring all the hesitation and doubt, and challenge all the hypocrisy in this story.

If you can surface at the end of the day and see the truth hidden in the story; If you, like me, have been touched by the precarious truth within; If you are willing to put aside all doubts and choose to believe all this at the end of the day - please come to me at the Shahe Children's Welfare Institute in Tianhe District, Guangzhou.

I will be there waiting for you to tell you another version of the story and complete the last consultation of my life.

Now the story is about to begin. And it all starts with that woman called Liu Yanshi.

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Exegesis:

The Hanged Man (Tarot)

Card Interpretation: This card symbolizes self-sacrifice, and the card depicts a warrior hanging upside down with his hands tied behind his back, and a faint angelic halo has appeared on his head. Although others thought it was painful, he was serene, knowing that he was sacrificing for someone else, and that even if his body was destroyed, his spirit would live on.

Keywords: Tested, Limited Movement, Sacrifice, Rebirth, Egoist, Impatience, Punished, Extensive Learning, Devotive Love.