Birds had been chirping outside the window.
Song Mo opened her eyes. There was no post-sleep satisfaction or laziness in them, only absolute clarity.
Mimicking her actions from when she was still alive, she stretched her arms and blinked slightly slowly.
Three days had passed since the 《Old Lady Huang's Birthday Celebration》 Instance ended.
She had spent the last few days sorting through new Instance materials.
Late last night, she had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring blankly at the indifferent “person” reflected inside.
Since she didn't need to eat to survive, she had given up food.
Since she never felt tired, she had discarded sleep.
Having gone so long without sunlight, her skin had taken on an unnatural, deathly pallor.
Song Mo realized something was wrong with her state of mind.
If things continued this way, she might lose her obsession with “resurrection.” If that happened, would her sense of self have any meaning left?
This realization made Song Mo vigilant.
Her original desire was to be resurrected. Writing scripts and drawing rewards were all for this single purpose.
If she became an emotionless monster in the process of writing scripts, then even if she eventually gathered enough Screenwriter Points, the resurrected entity would no longer be “Song Mo.”
So, she tossed her scripts aside and slept for an entire day.
Song Mo tried to recall the happiness of sleeping in from her past life—that cozy feeling of turning off the alarm and realizing she could snooze for five more minutes. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
The blanket was soft and fluffy, as if filled with sunlight, making her want to snuggle under it a little longer.
“Crunch, crunch.”
A sound like someone munching on crispy biscuits drifted out from beneath the bed.
Song Mo leaned over the edge of the bed and peered down.
From the shadows beneath the bed, three round Mud Calabashes rolled out.
They were a dusty, clay-gray color, about the size of fists, with round bellies that wobbled as they rolled.
Each calabash wore a small, faded scrap of rag on its head like an ill-fitting bandana.
Balancing on their bellies, they waddled over to the corner, bowed their heads toward the dusty cracks in the wall, and began to nibble on the dust.
The sounds Song Mo heard were coming from them.
They made tiny crunching noises, eating with utmost focus.
The dust fell into their mouths as if sucked in by a vacuum, leaving nothing behind.
“It feels like I'm keeping a pack of sentient robot vacuums.”
Song Mo reached out and poked one. The Mud Calabash cooperatively rolled onto its back, only to bounce right back up because of its spherical shape.
Perhaps it was because she was always accompanied by two fierce ghosts.
Not only in her rented apartment, but not a single living mosquito could be found in the entire building.
To say nothing of rats, cockroaches, snakes, or ants.
A few days ago, the neighborhood WeChat group had been discussing it, praising the property management for their excellent pest control.
Some even joked that the building had been eerily clean lately, saving them money on roach bait, and wondered if the feng shui had improved.
—Of course, no one said this too loudly. Liu Laosan from downstairs had died in a car crash recently, so bringing up good feng shui would just be asking for trouble.
Song Mo had only smiled when she scrolled past those messages on her phone.
...
“My Lady, you are awake.”
A'yan's head dangled down from the ceiling, her pale, bluish-white ghostly face shrouded by long hair, making her look exceptionally eerie.
“Did these silly things wake you? You have worked hard for so long; you should rest for a few more days.”
—Anyone with a weak heart seeing this would probably have to pop some emergency heart pills on the spot.
“Good morning, A'yan.”
Song Mo reached out and patted the fierce ghost's head. It felt like touching a block of ice.
“No, I've rested enough. These Mud Calabashes are very quiet and didn't disturb me. Besides, with them around, I don't even have to clean the apartment.”
“Would My Lady care for some snacks?”
A'yan floated down from the ceiling, a hint of expectation somehow shining in her large, dark eyes.
“I heard that there is a foreign bun sold in the city, and its taste is quite delicious. My Lady, shall we have that delivery boy bring some over today?”
When they were alive, the two ghosts A'zhu and A'yan had learned music, chess, calligraphy, painting, and how to read people's expressions, but they had never learned how to cook.
Back then, servants prepared everything and brought it to them. What they ate, how much they ate, avoiding spicy food, using less salt, and having meatless dishes—all of it had been strictly regulated.
Thus, after spending some time with Song Mo in the modern era, the two fierce ghosts quickly fell in love with takeout.
Heavy oil, heavy salt, heavy spice—no matter how bizarre the flavor, the two ghosts devoured it with great relish.
However, without offerings, they could not touch the food of the living. Therefore, Song Mo had to light candles and burn paper money every time so they could eat.
“Foreign... buns?”
Song Mo searched her memory for a moment before realizing A'yan meant hamburgers. She nodded.
“I'm going out in a bit. I'll buy some and bring them back for you. Do you want fries? What about fried chicken wings? Actually, I'll just buy everything. If there are leftovers, the Mud Calabashes can eat them.”
“My Lady is the best!”
A'yan cheered and hugged Song Mo's arm, tears of blood streaming down her face in joy. “Then A'yan also wants that sweet, dark tea to drink—wait, My Lady is going out?”
She quickly realized what was said and floated alongside Song Mo.
“If it is a trivial matter like running errands, we can just call that delivery boy. If it is anything else, you can leave it to my brother and me. Why must My Lady make a trip in person?”
“Well... probably because...”
Song Mo walked to the door and changed into her outdoor shoes, pausing to think before replying, “Probably because I want to live more like a human.”
She didn't eat to fill her stomach anymore.
With the Thousand-Mile Hunger-Free Pill, she wouldn't starve to death even if she didn't eat for weeks.
But eating, sleeping, going outside, basking in the sun, and visiting the market—these were all rituals to remind her that she was still human, that she was still living as one.
While getting dressed, Song Mo deliberately slowed her breathing, mimicking normal humans by letting her chest and abdomen rise and fall gently.
In truth, she had stopped breathing long ago.
It didn't matter how long she held her breath; she would never feel suffocated even if her chest remained perfectly still.
But when she went out, she had to act like a normal person.
She couldn't walk down the street in broad daylight with a completely motionless chest, lest someone notice and get scared half to death.
After practicing in front of the mirror a few times and ensuring her breathing rhythm looked natural and flawless, Song Mo nodded in satisfaction.
The woman in the mirror had shoulder-length black hair with slightly wavy tips, pale skin from a chronic lack of sunlight, and pale lips.
This was the original owner's appearance, and it was also Song Mo's current look.
The original owner had been an obscure, bottom-tier web novelist who spent her days cooped up at home writing melodramatic romance. Nine out of ten drafts she submitted went completely unnoticed, yet she stubbornly chased her dream.
She had been so poor she couldn't afford rent, which was why she ended up renting a cheap shared room in Wang Dazhi's apartment.
When Song Mo took over this body, there had barely been any money in the original owner's bank account.
The phone on her nightstand buzzed.
A'yan leaned in curiously and saw it was a bank deposit notification.
【At 09:12, your account ending in **** received a deposit of 120,000.00 yuan. Current balance: 123,247.50 yuan.】
The amount perfectly matched the cash reward from her last Instance settlement.
Immediately after, her editor, who hadn't contacted her in ages, sent three consecutive WeChat messages in an excited tone:
【Momo!!! Great news!!!】
【The melodrama short drama script you submitted last month! The client fell in love with it!! They bought it outright!】
【It's exactly over 120,000 after taxes! I just had finance wire the money! Check your account.】
【I told you that you have a talent for melodramatic romance! Stop writing mystery all day. Take my advice and focus on angsty-sweet romance, you'll definitely make it big!】
Song Mo glanced at her phone, her emotions barely stirring.
The Screenwriter System did things flawlessly.
Instance settlement rewards didn't just appear out of thin air; they were transferred into her account through various legal channels.
If she wanted to, she could easily spend Screenwriter Points to write a scenario where she won the lottery, inherited a fortune, or received a sudden windfall.
“A'yan, watch the house. I'll bring you back some burgers. If you get bored, you can play video games, but you're not allowed to curse people if you lose, and you definitely can't crawl through the internet cables to kill them.”
Song Mo gave a few instructions:
“Staying at home all day will only make you go soft in the head. In a bit, call A'zhu and the Mouse Servant back. We'll have hotpot tonight. The more people... well, the more ghosts, the merrier.”
Hotpot was piping hot and carried the strongest sense of everyday life.
She want to immerse herself in that warmth to wash away the scent of death lingering on her.
A'yan obediently agreed and floated over to watch from the window.
Song Mo took her keys and phone and went out. When she reached the third floor, she paused.
The door to Liu Laosan's apartment was wide open, and the inside was noisy, packed with people.
...
“A perfectly fine man, just gone like that.”
“I always said drinking would be the death of him. Look at that, running onto the main road drunk. I asked around, and everyone said the driver wasn't at fault.”
“Who else is there to blame? The driver was going at a normal speed, but Laosan threw himself under the wheels like a madman—”
“At least the insurance paid out a little. Fang, you have your own salary, and with this apartment, it's enough to raise your daughter.”
Seven or eight relatives of the Liu family sat on the sofa, some smoking and others sighing, with a dozen or so cigarette butts scattered on the floor.
Liu Laosan's wife, Cao Fang, sat on the sofa dressed in mourning hemp. Her hair was a messy nest, and her eyes were swollen like walnuts.
An aunt sitting beside her patted her back to comfort her:
“My condolences, sister-in-law. The dead cannot be brought back. You must take care of yourself; Chanchan still needs you.”
“How could he just be gone like that...”
Cao Fang choked out, “He was perfectly fine when he left the house. How did he get hit... How am I supposed to live now...”
Song Mo didn't stop.
The young girl she had met last time was standing in the corner with her back to the crowd, picking at the wall plaster with her fingers.
White dust was stuck under her fingernails, and her hair hung down, obscuring most of her face.
As Song Mo walked past, she happened to look up.
The sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl's eyes were red, looking as if she had just cried.
Yet deep in her eyes, there was not a hint of sorrow. Instead, there was a trace of relief, and even... satisfaction.
In just an instant, she lowered her head again, her shoulders twitching slightly as she pretended to be grief-stricken.
Song Mo walked past as if she had seen nothing.
...
In the community, elderly folks were doing morning exercises, practicing tai chi, walking dogs, carrying vegetable baskets toward the market, and scolding their sons... the bustling energy of daily life washed over her.
Song Mo followed the crowd toward the market.
The market was a moderate distance from the community, just a few streets away.
The morning market had just dispersed, leaving rotten vegetable leaves and puddles on the ground.
The air was a mixture of the fishy smell from the seafood stalls, the bloody scent from the meat vendors, and the aromas of various breakfast foods.
Unable to resist, Song Mo bought a batch of sesame flatbreads.
“Young lady, what vegetables are you looking for? Fresh romaine lettuce, just arrived!”
“Beef rolls are on sale! Genuine cuts, perfect for hotpot at home!”
The stall owners called out enthusiastically in loud, clear voices.
Song Mo strolled through the market, picking out a box of beef rolls, two packages of meatballs, a bunch of romaine lettuce, a few potatoes, enoki mushrooms, frozen tofu, and finally, a packet of beef tallow hotpot base.
The vendor bagged the items deftly and chatted with a smile, “Living alone, young lady? Buying so much hotpot stuff is great for keeping warm in this cold weather.”
“Yeah,”
Song Mo paid the money, took the bag, and smiled. “I just had a craving for it.”
It was a very ordinary conversation, a very ordinary moment.
But Song Mo was genuinely happy.
The heavy plastic bag dug into her fingers, and she was surrounded by living people.
The subtle barrier between Song Mo and the world seemed to vanish in an instant.
She was alive.
Right here in this mortal world.
...
Of course, before heading home, Song Mo made another stop at the burger joint.
Rate on N.U.
