Ficorpio
Chapter 1
At one in the morning, I dragged my exhausted body back to my rental apartment. After working late into the night, my stomach was completely empty. I opened the old refrigerator, which was probably older than I was, hoping to find something edible.
All that remained inside was half a container of three-day-old leftovers and two wilted vegetables.
With a sigh, I poured the rice into the microwave. I had just turned around to press the start button when I caught sight of an unfamiliar sticky note on the refrigerator door.
Leftovers that have been sitting for three days, and you’re still willing to eat them? Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?
The handwriting was neat and elegant, with the sharp strokes of a teenager. It didn’t look like something my landlord or the previous tenant would have written. Frowning, I assumed one of my friends was playing a prank. I peeled the note off, crumpled it, and tossed it into the trash.
Once the rice was heated, I tried eating it with some pickles. After two bites, I found it impossible to swallow, so I opened a food-delivery app and ordered a serving of extra-spicy Luosifen Rice Noodles.
While I waited for the delivery, I opened the refrigerator again to get a drink. Another sticky note had appeared on the door.
You just threw one away. How have you still not learned your lesson?
My heart gave a sudden jolt.
I had only rented this apartment two weeks ago. Aside from my best friend, no one knew my address. Besides, it was the middle of the night. Who could have stuck the note there without making a sound?
I scanned the room warily. The apartment was small, with one bedroom and one living room. The doors and windows were all locked tight. No one could have broken in.
Could the refrigerator be haunted?
The thought surfaced and was immediately crushed by common sense. I picked up a pen and wrote on the note:
Who are you? What are you doing in my home?
I stuck it back onto the refrigerator door and stared at it, my heart pounding. About five minutes later, a new line of handwriting slowly appeared.
I should be asking you that. Why has a horrible smell suddenly drifted into my refrigerator?
I froze.
Then I glanced down at the container of Luosifen Rice Noodles on the table and understood.
Tentatively, I wrote:
You mean… you can smell what’s inside my refrigerator?
Obviously. The reply came almost at once. First it was the smell of spoiled leftovers, and now it’s this disgusting, spicy stench. Can’t you eat something normal?
My temper flared.
Chapter 2
I had tolerated this battered old refrigerator for long enough. Its cooling barely worked, and now some inexplicable stranger was criticizing what I ate. I slapped the refrigerator door so hard that the bottles inside clinked together.
“You’re hiding behind my refrigerator, and you think you have the right to tell me what to eat?”
The other side fell silent for a full ten minutes.
Just when I thought the stranger had disappeared, a new line slowly emerged on the sticky note. Every stroke was deliberate and serious.
Who says I’m hiding behind your refrigerator?
Who says this is your refrigerator?
I stood there, completely rigid, unable to process the two sentences for nearly three minutes.
What did that mean?
Could it be that this refrigerator was connected to somewhere else?
Before I could sort through my thoughts, more writing appeared.
I don’t understand it either. They’re clearly two separate refrigerators, so how can the smells pass between them?
Pass between them? I stared at the words, finding the whole thing absurd and bizarre. Then why can’t I smell anything from your side?
My refrigerator only has bottled water and sugar-free seltzer in it. What kind of smell would there be? His handwriting practically dripped with disdain. You’re the one who needs to pay attention to your food hygiene.
I laughed despite myself, though I was mostly irritated. This stranger certainly had a lot to say.
I was about to argue when I suddenly remembered how unusually cheap the rent was. At the time, the landlord had only said, “The refrigerator’s a little old, but it works.” He had never mentioned anything else.
Could there really be something strange about it?
Over the next few days, I got a firsthand look at just how bizarre the refrigerator was.
One night, I suddenly craved durian. Afraid the smell would spread through the apartment, I wrapped the fruit in three layers of plastic wrap and stuffed it into the refrigerator. The instant I shut the door, the sticky note reacted.
What are you doing now? I can smell it even through all that plastic wrap!
My eyes widened.
How sensitive was this guy’s nose?
I wrote:
I wrapped it three times. How can you still smell it?
I suggest you get a new refrigerator. Or change your eating habits.
The reply was short, irritating, and completely smug.
You say that like you can afford a new refrigerator. I fired back without hesitation. I’m renting this apartment. Where would I get the money to replace it?
Funny. I can’t afford one either.
Chapter 3
After that, the sticky note remained blank for a long time.
I stared at the durian, wrapped up like a little parcel, and suddenly felt a bit guilty. The smell really was disturbing the neighbors.
I was just about to take it out and throw it away when I opened the refrigerator door.
A powerful onion smell rushed into my face.
“Urgh!”
I covered my mouth and sprinted to the bathroom. My stomach churned violently. Mixed with the lingering scent of durian, the smell was an absolute assault on the senses.
I grabbed my pen and angrily wrote:
How old are you? This is incredibly childish.
Fight poison with poison. His handwriting was full of unconcealed satisfaction. Now you understand the downside of sharing smells, right?
How old are you, anyway? You’re so immature.
Seventeen.
So he really was just a kid.
The corners of my mouth lifted despite myself as I wrote:
Hey, Onion Brat. I’m twenty-two. Can’t you show a little respect to your elders?
After a while, a new line appeared on the sticky note, its teasing tone unmistakable.
Sure. Twenty-two-year-old… Durian Auntie.
…What a little punk!
After several rounds of back-and-forth warfare, we established three rules:
No durian, onions, or other strong-smelling foods.
No attacking each other with smells.
No prying into each other’s private lives.
The rules said nothing about leftovers.
One afternoon, the tomato-and-egg stir-fry in the company cafeteria was unusually delicious. I packed up a serving and brought it home, then placed it in the refrigerator. The instant I closed the door, the sticky note reacted.
Leftovers?
Yeah. I couldn’t finish them at lunch, and throwing them away would be wasteful. I replied tiredly. After working overtime for an entire week, I barely had the energy to cook.
I expected him to add No leftovers to our list of rules.
Instead, he wrote:
Are all office workers this exhausted?
“That’s called thrift!” I argued. Then, unable to stop myself, I added, “So you’d better study hard. Find yourself an easy job when you grow up. You don’t want to end up working overtime every day like your big sister.”
When you have time, let me take you out to eat.
I stared at the words, my heart giving a small, unexpected flutter.
To be honest, I was curious to meet this boy I had never seen. I also wanted to figure out exactly what this refrigerator was and where it had come from.
Before I could reply, another line appeared on the sticky note, followed by an address:
Qinghe County - Peachwood Apartments - Building B - Apartment 502.
My breath stopped.
The hand holding the pen began to tremble.
I checked the apartment number again and again. Once I was certain I hadn’t misread it, I wrote slowly, one word at a time:
…I’m in Qinghe County right now… Peachwood Apartments… Building B… Apartment 502.
“Aunt Durian, this really isn’t funny.” His exasperation came through clearly in his handwriting. He obviously didn’t believe me.