My name is Ye Cheng. A few years ago, I graduated from university and have been unemployed ever since. To put it plainly, I was unlucky. Back in high school, in a moment of foolishness, I chose Traditional Chinese Medicine as my major—one of the most unpopular fields at the time. The result? A diploma in hand and no job in sight.
I applied to several pharmacies, but the moment they heard about my background, they dismissed me without a second thought.
One day, after being turned away once again, I ran into my ex-girlfriend, Lin Ying. She happened to witness my embarrassing moment. She asked how I had been and mentioned she was about to get married. Her fiancé had returned from studying abroad and treated her well. She offered to help if I needed anything. I declined with a polite excuse and left quickly.
I found myself sitting on the curb of Shaobei Street in the old city, my heart weighed down by sorrow. I still cherish our past relationship. But reality crushed my ideals—when we graduated, Lin Ying chose a wealthy heir over me.
Just as I was preparing to leave this city full of bitter memories, my college roommate, Chen Liang, called me. He told me a traditional medicine shop on West Shaobei Street was hiring. If I signed the contract, the owner would pay an advance salary of 30,000 yuan. If I stayed long-term, I'd even be given an old house as a benefit.
At first, I found it hard to believe. Chinese medicine shops were struggling to stay afloat, let alone give away houses. But unable to let go of Lin Ying completely, and driven by curiosity, I decided to check it out.
The shop was tucked away in a quiet alley off a bustling street. Ancient houses lined both sides, and at the end stood the apothecary—classic and serene, steeped in old-world charm.
In the main hall, I met the shop's owner, an elderly physician in his seventies named Hong Gang. Despite the summer heat, he wore a long blue robe reminiscent of a Republican-era scholar.
As I entered, he was leaning back in a redwood chair, yawning contentedly. Upon seeing me, his eyes brightened, and he straightened up.
"You're here for the job?" he asked.
"A friend sent me," I replied.
"I know. But anyone who works here must be bold and meticulous. We open from midnight to 4 AM. Outside those hours, you're free to do whatever you want. You can live and eat here. Monthly salary: eight thousand yuan. Think you're up for it?"
"Open at midnight?" I thought I misheard.
"If you're not interested, I'll find someone else," he said curtly, offering no further explanation.
"I'll do it!" Apart from the strange hours, the pay was generous. I didn't want to wander the streets job-hunting anymore, so I accepted.
Hong Gang eyed me up and down. "Alright then, sign this contract. Come back tonight for your first shift. But I must warn you..."
Afraid he might change his mind, I nodded eagerly while signing. "Go on."
"You must open the shop exactly at midnight. If any customer comes for herbs, be absolutely precise—no mistakes! Between midnight and 4 AM, under no circumstances are you to leave the premises. Even if someone outside is crying for help, you must stay. Do you understand?"
To uphold professional integrity is a physician's duty, so I didn't find his terms unreasonable. Still, if someone were genuinely in danger, would staying put make me heartless?
"Did you remember everything I said?" he asked, eyes fixed on me.
"I did." I nodded.
He pulled a wooden chest from beneath the counter and smiled. "Then it's all yours. I'm off on a long trip."
I took a closer look at the apothecary. Its architecture still retained the style of the late Qing Dynasty. The wooden staircase creaked as I climbed to the second floor, where a cold, eerie atmosphere lingered. Every room was locked, the rusted locks hinting they hadn't been opened in ages.
I moved my belongings from my rental apartment, settled into a room on the first floor, and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.
As I slept, I had the uncanny feeling someone upstairs was talking, but in my daze, I couldn't be sure.
When I finally woke, night had fallen completely. At that moment, the footsteps and murmurs from above ceased—vanished as if they had never existed. I rubbed my eyes and sat up.
A glance at the clock startled me.
"Shit! It's almost midnight!"
Remembering Hong Gang's words, I leapt from bed, hastily dressed, and swung the door open. A gust of cold wind rushed in, making me shiver. Instinctively, I checked the time: 11:59. Just in time. I breathed a sigh of relief and peeked outside. The weather was gloomy—fog veiled the city lights, swallowing the bustling streets in silence.
Strange. Why was it so quiet tonight?
Puzzled, I returned to the counter and leaned back in the chair, thinking it unlikely anyone would come this late.
"Hmm? A new shopkeeper again?" a shrill voice called out. I jumped. A short old man had somehow appeared in front of the counter.
Trying to steady my nerves, I said, "The boss is away. I'm the new assistant."
"Hmm," he grunted. "You're quite brave, young man. Here's my prescription." He handed me a slip of paper.
Following the list, I weighed out one qian of Chinese butterfly bush, three qian of annam seed, and one point five qian of platycodon—all for a cough remedy. I wrapped the herbs and passed them to him.
That's when something odd happened.
He handed me an old 100-yuan bill—one that was no longer in circulation. I gave him 70 yuan in change, but he claimed my money was fake. No matter how I exchanged it, he insisted the bills were counterfeit and demanded to speak to my boss. Helpless, I returned his 100 yuan and gave him the medicine for free.
As he left, he muttered curses under his breath, leaving me annoyed and confused.
The rest of the night went smoothly. The next few customers were polite and easygoing. Around 3 AM, a young boy entered—the last visitor of the night.
Expressionless, with a dark mole at the edge of his brow, he made people uncomfortable.
"Uncle, I'd like five qian of honeysuckle," he said softly, head bowed.
I found the herb in the third drawer of the third row, wrapped it up, and handed it to him.
"Why are you out so late, little one?" I asked.
He said nothing. After taking the change, he crouched in a corner and began counting the money—over and over again, with meticulous precision.
The dim light in that corner barely illuminated his face as he bent low, focused solely on the coins in his palm.
At first, I thought he was just being careful. But after a while, I realized something was off—he kept repeating the same counting motion, tirelessly, obsessively.
He remained like that for what seemed an eternity.
After the boy came in, no more customers arrived. Nearing 4 AM, I turned to ask him to leave so I could close up, but he was gone. I hadn't seen or heard him leave.
Later, when I went to balance the cash register, the numbers wouldn't add up. No matter how I calculated, I kept coming back to the same anomaly: an extra 100-yuan bill had mysteriously appeared—one of those discontinued notes that had long since vanished from circulation.