The Black-Eyed Mystery

My name is Lin Wan. I’m twenty-six, an illustrator.

Three months ago, my grandmother passed away. She left me her old house — a gray-brick house on the edge of town, with a huge locust tree in the courtyard that blooms white in summer, so fragrant it makes your heart ache.

On my first day there, I noticed something strange.

The Black Eyes

On the living room wall hung a family photo: my grandfather, my grandmother, my father — and a little girl I didn’t recognize.

She stood at the very edge, in a white dress, her hair in two braids, smiling sweetly.

But her eyes were completely black.

No whites, no boundary between pupil and iris — her whole eyes were like two black glass beads, staring straight into the camera. Staring at me.

I thought the photo had faded. But when I leaned in close: my grandfather’s eyes were fine, my grandmother’s were fine, my father’s were fine. Only the little girl’s eyes were black.

As if someone had taken ink and painted her eyes out.

A chill ran down my back. I pulled out my phone and called my father.

"Dad, that family photo on the living room wall — who’s the little girl in it?"

The silence on the other end lasted so long I thought the signal had dropped.

"Your grandmother… never mentioned her?" My father’s voice trembled. "She was your aunt. Your grandmother’s first child. My sister."

"Where is she now?"

"When she was seven, she fell into the well at the village entrance. She drowned."

I froze. In all my life, no one in the family had ever mentioned this aunt. It was as if she had never existed.

"Then… why are her eyes black?"

My father’s breathing stopped for a beat.

"Wanwan," he said, one word at a time, "burn that photo."

The Dream

That night, I dreamed.

In the dream, I stood in the old house’s corridor. It stretched long, doors shut on both sides, moonlight slanting through the windows onto the brick floor.

At the end of the corridor stood a little girl.

White dress, two braids. Her back to me, perfectly still.

I heard my own voice shaking: "Who are you?"

Slowly, slowly, she turned around.

Her eyes were completely black.

"Sister," she said, "play with me."

I woke up screaming, drenched in sweat. Outside the window, the locust tree’s shadow swayed in the moonlight like a giant, withered hand clawing at my window.

I switched on the light and rushed to the living room. The family photo still hung on the wall. The little girl was still in it, her black eyes staring straight at me.

I took it down, turned it face-back, and shoved it into a drawer.

Out of sight, out of mind. That’s what I told myself.

The Diary

The next day, I started going through my grandmother’s belongings.

At the bottom of her camphor-wood chest, I found a yellowed diary. The pages were brittle as butterfly wings, crumbling at a touch.

The early entries were ordinary: accounts, the weather, funny stories about my father as a boy.

On the very last page, a single short line. The handwriting trembled, the ink pressed heavy, as if the writer had used all her strength:

"She’s back. She’s looking for her eyes."

It was dated three days before my grandmother died.

My hands started shaking; I nearly dropped my phone.

That night, I dreamed again.

This time the little girl was closer. She stood right beside my bed, her black eyes staring straight at me — so close I could see, reflected in those two "glass beads," my own terrified face.

"Sister," she said, "where are my eyes?"

"Aren’t your eyes… on your face?" I heard myself say.

She shook her head, her braids swaying.

"Grandma took them," she said. "She painted my eyes black."

I jolted awake, gasping. The room was empty, the moonlight pale.

But — on my nightstand sat the family photo.

I had definitely locked it in the drawer.

With trembling hands I picked it up. My grandfather was still there, my grandmother was still there, my father was still there.

The spot where the little girl had stood was empty.

She was gone.

And in my palm, I don’t know when, there was now a small black-and-white photograph.

In it, the little girl. Smiling — her eyes normal. Dark and bright, sparkling like two stars.

On the back, in tiny writing, my grandmother’s hand:

"Give them back."

The Well

I didn’t sleep all night. At dawn, I went into the village to find Granny Chen, the oldest person there.

After hearing my story, she sighed a long sigh.

"Your aunt was named Lin Xiao," she said. "Such a well-behaved child. Your grandmother… ah, your grandmother had a terrible temper back then."

That summer, Lin Xiao had broken her grandmother’s favorite porcelain vase. In a fit of anger, her grandmother punished her: go draw water from the well at the village entrance before dark — "that’ll teach you a lesson."

Lin Xiao went, and never came back.

The rope snapped. A seven-year-old child, gone without even a cry for help.

"Your grandmother lost her mind," Granny Chen said, wiping her eyes. "She held your aunt’s body and sat there all night. After that, she took every photo with your aunt in it and painted the eyes black with ink. When we asked her why, she said—"

Granny Chen paused.

"She said, this way Xiao Xiao can’t see her. She didn’t dare let her daughter look at her."

Tears poured down my face.

That evening, I made a decision.

I took the small black-and-white photograph to the old well at the village entrance. The well had long run dry; a great stone slab pressed over its mouth, moss crawling through the cracks.

In the moonlight, I laid the photograph on the stone, and beside it the paper money I’d found tucked in my grandmother’s diary.

"Lin Xiao," I said softly, "I’m sorry. Grandma didn’t take your eyes to be cruel. She was just… too afraid. Afraid that you hated her."

"Now, I’m giving your eyes back to you."

The wind moved through the locust tree, leaves rustling like someone sighing softly.

The Stars

That night, I slept deeply, and did not dream.

But somewhere between sleeping and waking, I "saw" —

At the end of the corridor, the little girl turned around. This time, her eyes were no longer black glass beads. They were dark and bright, sparkling.

Like two stars.

She smiled, two little dimples.

"Thank you, sister," she said.

Then she turned, and walked step by step into the moonlight — fainter and fainter, until she was gone…

I woke with a wet pillow. But the stone that had pressed on my heart for days suddenly felt light.

I hung the family photo back on the wall.

In it, the little girl was back, standing at the very edge, white dress, two braids, smiling sweetly.

Her eyes, dark and bright, sparkling.

Grandma, I’m sorry. What you painted over wasn’t just Xiao Xiao’s eyes — it was your own courage to face her.

Now, I’ve given that courage back to her, for you.

— The End —