Psychological fragments

The string of numbers on the back of the file folder kept replaying in my mind, a sequence of numbers like a death knell, finally settling on the last number, 0318. The back of the folder was empty, with no next number pointing to it, but the note tucked inside, with the three words "He Chunfang" written in black and white, felt like a needle, repeatedly pricking my nerves.

Who exactly is He Chunfang?

Was it that middle-aged woman who appeared in the waiting area three times, always hiding in a corner and refusing to show her full face? Was it that unfamiliar family member who asked Xiao Zhou about my schedule and the clinic's closing time? Was it that murderer who killed six psychologists and had seven lives on his hands?

Or... someone else I can't even imagine?

I leaned on my desk and stood up, walking to the floor-to-ceiling window. The street below was eerily quiet. The early morning wind swirled fallen leaves across the pavement, and occasionally a late-night car would drive by, its headlights like two knives, slicing through the thick darkness with a fleeting glimmer of light before being swallowed by the darkness again. The old sycamore tree outside the window swayed its branches in the moonlight, the rustling of its leaves drifting in through the half-open window, sounding particularly clear in the empty clinic.

I suddenly remembered what she said during her third consultation, with her eyes downcast: "Some people come to see a psychologist not because they really want to get treatment, but just because they want someone to talk to."

But all those who listened to her died.

I am the seventh.

The cold moonlight fell on my face, and a thought suddenly popped into my mind, like a thunderbolt splitting my chaotic thoughts:

What if the person she's talking about isn't herself at all?

What if the person in the line "After searching for fifteen years, finally someone is willing to listen" wasn't Zhao Min or Lin Nian, but someone else?

If the question she repeatedly asks me, "There's someone in your life who isn't the person you think they are," is she referring to herself, not someone else?

A chill ran down my spine, and I shivered involuntarily, even my fingertips felt cold.

The moonlight stretched my shadow very long, down the floor all the way to the end of the corridor, to the closed door of the archives room, like a silent, huge question mark.

I started walking, following the shadow, and turned on the overhead light. The cold white light instantly filled the room. The metal cabinet against the wall stood quietly, with rows of files neatly stacked inside. Everything was exactly the same as when the police left during the day, but the inexplicable sense of unease in my heart grew stronger and stronger.

I walked to the filing cabinet labeled 0318 and reached out to pull out Zhou Jianguo's file folder.

The kraft paper bag was slightly frayed. I unzipped it and poured out the consultation records inside. Just like the ones I'd seen during the day, they were typical anxiety disorder consultation records. I flipped through them page by page; nothing special—Zhou Jianguo, male, 45 years old, married, mid-level manager at a listed company, chief complaint: severe anxiety caused by long-term work pressure, accompanied by insomnia and panic attacks. The record stated that he had come for consultation four times in total. I turned to the last page, my gaze falling on the date at the end, and I froze instantly.

The date of his last consultation is clearly written: March 15, 2023.

March 15th.

Today is April 20th.

Exactly one month ago.

Lin Nian—or rather, Zhao Min—first appeared at my clinic on March 23.

In other words, eight days after Zhou Jianguo last entered this clinic, Zhao Min pushed open the door to my consultation room for the first time.

What is the connection between these two things?

I tightened my grip on the paper and continued flipping through it. His consultation content was no different from that of ordinary anxiety patients, nothing more than the pressure of workplace competition, conflicts in marital relationships, and a sense of loss of control over the future. But on the last page of the fourth consultation record, at the very end, there was a line of words that had been crossed out unrecognizable by black pen, the pen tip pressed too hard, even tearing the thin printing paper.

I held the paper up to the light, squinted, and tried to make out the crossed-out words. There were only three words, clearly legible: Waiting Area.

It's the waiting area again.

The three words that were crossed out in the files of the six deceased psychiatrists were exactly the same.

What does this tell us?

Does this mean Zhou Jianguo also discovered something in the waiting area? Did he spot that suspicious, furtive figure? So he wrote it down in the consultation record? And then someone else discovered it and forcibly crossed it out?

Who crossed it out?

He Chunfang?

Is it still that person whose true face I still haven't seen clearly, hiding in the shadows?

I put down the file folder, my back against the cold metal cabinet, my mind a jumbled mess, countless fragments of clues colliding inside, yet I couldn't piece them together into a complete picture.

Just then, my phone rang.

A sharp ringtone suddenly shattered the deathly silence of the archives room, startling me. I pulled out my phone; a completely unfamiliar number was flashing on the screen, with no location or contact name.

I took a deep breath, swiped to answer the call, and held the phone to my ear.

There was complete silence on the other end, broken only by a faint crackling of electricity, which lasted for a full three seconds. Then, an aged, hoarse female voice came through, like sandpaper scraping against dry wood, carrying a chilling, penetrating quality:

"Dr. Shen, you shouldn't have done that."

I froze on the spot, and the hairs on the back of my head stood on end.

"Who are you?" I gripped my phone tightly, my voice trembling.

There was still silence on the other end, only the faint sound of breathing, which, through the receiver, felt like it was right next to my ear.

"He Xiuying? Or He Chunfang?" I asked through gritted teeth.

Still, silence.

Two seconds later, the aged voice rang out again, carrying an almost insane obsession and possessiveness, each word pounding into my ears:

"She's mine. She's always been mine. No one can take her away."

The phone was abruptly hung up.

All that could be heard through the receiver was a continuous, piercing busy tone.

I stood there, holding my still-hot phone, completely stiff and unable to move.

The moonlight slanted in through the window, spreading a pale, silvery frost across the floor. My shadow stood there, all alone, like an unsolvable question mark.

4:37.

That time, like a curse, has surfaced in my mind once again.

She died in front of me twice, both times at 4:37.

She died just two steps away from my clinic.

Before she left, she looked at me and said, "Maybe next time."

This time, the "next time" came, and she died again.

What about next time? Will there be a "next time"?

I looked up at the deep moonlight outside the window, and for the first time, I thought about that most crucial, and most perplexing, question with utmost seriousness:

Why does Zhao Min, or rather Lin Nian, keep coming to see a psychologist?