1 The day my mom was cremated, I collected her ashes with my own hands. I buried the urn, I burned the paper offerings. She died, and for three straight years, I barely slept. But last night, she came back. She stood at the door, wearing the same nightgown from the fire, tapping softly. Her voice, gentle, called out, “Ethan, Mom’s home.” I didn’t dare open the door, didn’t even dare breathe. But she knew I was inside. She pressed herself against the wood. “I made your favorite chicken and wild rice soup. It’s still warm.” Her voice carried the faint, acrid scent of char. My name is Ethan Vance. I’m 28, and I live alone on the seventh floor of an old apartment building in the suburban sprawl. Three years ago, a fire devoured our home, and it took my mom with it. I remember that night, her body a shield, burning around me. That smell… I’ll never forget it. The police said she was unrecognizable, a brutal death. I identified her by the jade bracelet on her wrist. My mom was a good person, lived a life without a single regretful act. She shouldn’t have come back—not like this. I desperately tried to convince myself it was a hallucination. But the ‘her’ outside the door suddenly used my childhood pet name: “My little stink bug, come out. Mom saved a chicken leg for you.” My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor. Only she ever called me that. I’d never told anyone, not even my ex-girlfriend. I called the police. Two officers arrived. I steeled myself, opened the door, and she was gone. On the balcony, the chicken soup was still steaming, wisps of warmth rising into the cool air. The officers did a quick sweep, then suggested I might be having a mental health crisis, offering to arrange a hospital visit. I handed them my security footage. The result? All recordings from 2 AM to 4 AM were blank. They patted my shoulder. “Tough break, kid. Our condolences.” After they left, I found a fragment of a bloodied jade bracelet on the doorstep. It was my mom’s. The next day, she came again. This time, she didn't knock. She used a key. I watched, horrified, as the lock clicked open, the deadbolt retracting with a soft clack. She walked in. She carried a grocery bag, a container of hot food, as if nothing unusual had ever happened. She headed straight for the kitchen to cook. I cowered in my bedroom, peeking through the crack in the door. A patch of burnt flesh on the back of her head was still faintly smoking. She was chopping vegetables, using the rusty cleaver I’d thrown away before she died. I swore I’d tossed that knife into the river after the fire. Yet, she chopped with practiced ease, humming a lullaby. “Dark skies, gonna rain…” She never sang. Not once in the twenty-five years I’d known her alive. I couldn’t take it anymore. I burst into the kitchen, slamming the knife from her hand. “Who are you?!” She paused, then slowly turned, a gentle smile still playing on her lips. “What’s wrong, Ethan? Didn’t you say last night you wanted pot roast?” A chill snaked down my spine. I hadn’t said that. But… I had, years ago, when I was a child. Fifteen years before she died. My voice trembled. “You’re not her… You’re not human.” Her smile vanished. She bent down, picking up the cleaver, and in a tone that sounded almost like a complaint, she said, “Little Ethan, why are you still upset?” On the third day, a neighbor dropped by. It was Old Man Johnson from downstairs. He glanced at ‘my mom,’ a cheerful grin spreading across his face. “Well, if it isn’t Eleanor! You look wonderful, dear. Did you go on a long trip these past three years?” My mind went blank. “She… you’ve seen her?” “Of course! Just yesterday, bumped into her at the complex entrance!” “But… she’s dead?!” Old Man Johnson’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about?” I roared, “She burned to death! You were at the funeral!” His expression froze for two seconds, then he suddenly slapped his thigh. “Oh, my memory these days. I’ve been having so many dreams lately, maybe I mixed them up.” As he turned to leave, I saw a burn on the back of his ear. A fresh burn, blistered and weeping yellow fluid. I started to believe it wasn’t just my mom who had changed. It was the whole world. A new contact suddenly appeared in my phone: “Mom.” Her profile picture was taken six months before she died, the caption: “My sweetest son.” I’d never set up WeChat for her; she could barely use a phone when she was alive. My hands trembled as I tapped on the chat. The first message: “Ethan, Mom bought your favorite sugar figures today, just like when you were little.” I typed: “Who are you?” A reply, instant: “I’ve always been your mom. Don’t you want to come home?” I yanked out the internet cable and smashed my phone. But the next day, my phone was back to normal, and there was a new voice message on WeChat. I put on my headphones— It was my five-year-old self, crying and calling for Mom. That audio clip only existed in my head; it had never been recorded. I rushed to the cemetery. Her tombstone was still there, the name unchanged. But the urn had been dug up, placed on the ground, and opened. It was empty. I frantically dug at the earth, desperate to confirm if it had been stolen. My hand hit something solid. I pulled it out, and my heart nearly stopped. It was the paper airplane I’d placed at her grave when I was a child, inscribed with, “Mom, I miss you.” I had clearly burned it. Burned it to ashes. Yet here it was, clean and undamaged, buried in the soil. My scalp prickled with raw terror. My mom truly had “returned.” But how could she bring back burned paper? Unless she retrieved it from hell itself. That night, I dreamt she sat by my bed, whispering, “Ethan, our family should be together now.” In her hand, she held that rusty cleaver, lightly tracing its edge along my neck. The blade was cold. The dream was real. I woke up with a red mark on my neck. And she was standing outside my window, watching me through the glass. Smiling. 2 My mom never liked fish. I remembered that clearly from childhood; she wouldn't touch it even if it was boneless, claiming a fish bone had once lodged in her throat when she was little, nearly killing her. But now, she cooked fish every day. Steamed, braised, stewed in sauce – different ways, always fish. If I didn’t eat, she’d put it in my bowl, watching me swallow each bite. Once, I asked her, “Don’t you hate fish?” She paused for two seconds, her expression momentarily stuck, her lips moving before a suddenly benevolent smile spread across her face. “Yes… Mom’s getting old, I misremembered.” But her eyes were fixed on my throat. I swallowed a mouthful of rice, my throat stinging. A fish bone. I watched her lips slowly curve upward. It was a smile of pure satisfaction. More and more “memories” began to tumble from her lips. Some were about my childhood, unnervingly accurate, even down to which shoe I wore out in third grade. Others, however, simply weren’t mine. She said I used to love folding paper boats and floating them down the river. But I never learned to swim; I was scared of water. She claimed I had a high fever when I was three that summer, and she rushed me to the Downtown Medical Center emergency room. I’d only ever stayed at the local hospital, never the Downtown Medical Center. I asked her, “Mom, was I afraid of shots when I was little?” She said, “You always cried when you got shots, especially that time you were hospitalized for pneumonia—” I cut her off sharply. “I’ve never had pneumonia in my life.” Her expression went blank for two seconds. The next moment, she was smiling again. “You don’t remember.” It wasn’t that I didn’t remember. It was that it simply wasn’t me. She was carrying the memories of more than one son. She was “piecing” me together. Or maybe, she wanted me to believe that she was the real one. In the mornings, she started using a bowl I’d never seen, calling it my “favorite patterned bowl” from childhood. She pulled out a family photo. “Your dad doted on you when you were little,” she said. My dad died when I was five. The ‘dad’ in that photo was a stranger. I picked up the photo. The child in it wasn’t me either. It was a pale-skinned boy with big eyes and dimples. I’d been chunky, with single eyelids and prominent front teeth. She looked at the picture. “This was taken on your fourth birthday, when we went to Westside Park.” She was becoming more serious, more natural, as if truly believing that photo was me, that past was me, that life was me. She looked at me, her voice soft as a lullaby, like a hypnotic whisper. “Ethan, are you… forgetting yourself?” I was losing my mind. I rummaged through all my old family photo albums. They were all gone. Three days after my mom died, when I packed up her things, I’d carefully put those photos in a box and hidden them in my closet. The box was still there, but all the photos had been swapped. Not a single one of me. They were all of that “dimpled boy.” I looked at my own ID photo, confirming I hadn’t had plastic surgery, wasn’t delusional. Then, suddenly, she patted my shoulder from behind. “Ethan, Mom got you a new ID. You didn’t like that photo.” I picked up the new ID she handed me—it bore the little boy’s face. The name was still Ethan Vance, the birthday the same. My hands started to shake. I opened my laptop, checked my social security records—gone. My work files—blank. My bank account balance read “0,” and the account holder was listed as “Ethan Vance (Minor).” My entire life had been overwritten. She hadn’t just come back; she was replacing me with someone else. That night, she said she wanted to take me to see someone. She led me to a house in the old city outskirts. The door opened, and an old woman emerged, grinning widely at my mom. “Oh, Eleanor! It’s really you, dear! I heard you were back, but I didn’t believe it!” I stared at the old woman, feeling a vague sense of familiarity. My mom asked me, “Who is this, Ethan?” I was stunned. “…I don’t know.” The old woman chuckled. “You rascal, I took you to the zoo when you were three, and you don’t remember me?” She turned and pulled out a photo. It was that “dimpled boy” again. The old woman’s tone suddenly shifted. “If you don’t recognize me, you’re not my grandson anymore.” My body stiffened. I swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “I do, I do.” Only then did she nod, satisfied. On the way home, my mom chuckled. “Remember that oak tree outside her house? You used to pee on its roots every day when you were little.” I looked down, saying nothing. I’d lived in a different complex when I was little. My home had a maple tree, not an oak. If I didn’t keep up the charade, they’d “cleanse” me. They weren’t trying to make me accept her return; they were trying to transform me into the ‘child’ she desired. Back home, I secretly took scissors and made a shallow cut on my wrist. The pain was excruciating, the blood real. She came in, saw it, but showed no anger or surprise. She merely sighed. “You’re still being stubborn.” She walked over, took my wrist, and wiped away the blood. She spoke, word by word: “Ethan, don’t mess with this body. You haven’t adjusted to it yet.” I completely panicked. I rushed into the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and saw my reflection suddenly wink its left eye—but I hadn’t winked. In the mirror, I made an expression I hadn’t made, a strange, unfamiliar smile. I stared at the mirror. The me in the mirror whispered, “Mommy’s waiting for you to wake up.” When I went to sleep, I locked my door. I woke up at 3 AM to sounds from the kitchen. She was cooking soup again. This time, it wasn't chicken soup. It was pork brain soup. As she cooked, she murmured, “He was so smart as a child, needs a little boost.” I crept closer to the kitchen and saw her add something to the pot—a strand of hair, still clinging to its root, tainted with blood. I recognized it. It was mine. She turned around, slowly smiling at me. “Ethan, be a good boy. Drink one more bowl, and you’ll remember.” “Once you remember, you can stay forever.” 3 I started to wonder: Who was crazy? Me, or the entire world? At 7 AM, my mom called, announcing breakfast was ready. Three minutes ago, she was in the kitchen, I’d seen her with my own eyes, hacking at bones, red meat still clinging to them. But now, her number appeared on my phone, her voice gentle. “My little stink bug, time to get up.” That was exactly how she’d woken me every morning when I was small. She had completely reverted to ‘herself’—no, she was simulating a more perfect version of herself. I walked into the kitchen. She wore an apron, cooking. On the table, my favorite fried eggs, soy milk, plain congee, and pickled vegetables were perfectly arranged. There was even a glass of milk, with “Best Son Ever” printed on it—the exact mug I’d used as a child, which had been reduced to ashes in the fire. Now, it looked brand new. She slid a fried egg onto my plate. “Eat up. Aren’t your friends coming over today for a project? I remember you mentioning it.” I had never said that. But then the doorbell rang. I opened the door—it was Kevin Davis, my closest friend from college. The moment he saw ‘my mom,’ his eyes lit up. He smiled politely. “Mrs. Vance, long time no see. You look great.” I was stunned. “You’ve seen her?” “Of course!” He laughed. “I came over to your place the year you graduated, and Mrs. Vance even cooked me some congee.” “She died three years ago!!!” I roared. Kevin flinched, frowning at me. “Are you having too many dreams? Your mom just chatted with me a few days ago, even told me to convince you to find a girlfriend.” I stared, aghast. “You were chatting with her?” “Yeah, WeChat video. We even added each other. I’ve liked all her posts.” “My mom can’t even use WeChat…” Before I could finish, Kevin had already wandered into the living room, chatting with ‘my mom’ about recipes. I watched their conversation, feeling as if a glass wall separated us, and only I couldn’t understand the language. I opened WeChat. It was true. She was posting. The first one: “Ethan finally ate his dinner, such a good boy.” And the likes? They were from my friends, my colleagues, even my unit supervisor. Comments below: “Auntie is such a great cook!” “A son is a mother’s soft spot.” They all truly believed it—she was alive, had never died. I privately pulled Kevin into my room, closed the door, and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Please, I beg you, listen to me. Three years ago, the fire department pulled my mom from the rubble. I identified her body. I burned her ashes. I personally put them in the columbarium. I swear I’m not crazy, she is not my mom!” Kevin looked at me strangely, silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “Why are you still living in the past?” “I’m not living in the past! I’m living in the present—but she doesn’t belong in this present!” Kevin sighed, patting my shoulder. “Ethan, I know that fire really hurt you, but she’s really fine. You should take your medication.” I stared at him, testing. “Do you remember that day you came to help me identify the body?” “What?” “Didn’t you see my mom’s body after the fire?” “Stop joking. Your mom never died.” I took a step back, my voice dry as kindling. “Look into my eyes—are you thinking right now that I’m crazy?” Kevin didn’t answer. He only said, “If she’s not your mom, then who is she? She’s the mom we all recognize. If you keep talking nonsense, everyone will really think you’re unstable.” Before he left, he threw out one last line: “If you keep this up, don’t bother calling me again.” That night, I went to find my middle school deskmate, Sarah Chen, the only friend who knew my mom had truly died. I sent her photos, pictures of the empty urn. She was silent for a long time, then replied: “Are you trying to get attention, or are you really having a breakdown?” I opened her social media. She had also liked that post, “Ethan finally ate his dinner.” I hid on the balcony, watching ‘my mom’ in the living room clear the table, fold clothes, wipe the floor, and hang photos. Every movement was perfectly theatrical. She even pulled out my favorite childhood teddy bear from a cabinet and placed it on the sofa. I didn’t believe she could find it—I’d thrown that thing away before the fire. But she found it, and it even had the bite marks I’d made on it years ago. She turned and smiled at the balcony. That smile told me she knew I was watching. I went to check my household registration. The City Hall clerk flipped through the system and said my mom’s registration had been active for three years, with no record of any fire incident. I said, “Can I access the resident death records from the year of the fire?” She tapped a few keys, then frowned. “Which apartment complex did you say?” I gave her the address. She stared at me. “Are you mistaken? That building has never caught fire.” “What?!” “I checked the street records. The fire report for your complex that year was zero.” My body went cold, my legs turned to jelly. I forced myself to speak. “Then… can I access my medical records from those days?” “Were you sick?” I nodded. “That year… I had psychogenic aphonia, and I was admitted to the city hospital.” She checked, her expression growing stranger. “You were hospitalized, but it wasn’t for psychogenic aphonia.” “What was it?” She turned the screen toward me: “Cause of death: moderate burns, crushed airways, irreversible organ damage. Died despite resuscitation efforts.” Cause of death? I was looking at my own death certificate. I staggered back two steps. My phone chimed. My mom had sent a WeChat voice message: “Ethan, come home for dinner. Today, Mom made your favorite roast chicken, just like when you were little.” I hadn’t told her what I wanted to eat. And I had never eaten roast chicken as a child. But I remembered a detail—the night of the fire, I dreamt I was gnawing on a chicken leg. In the dream, my mom was peeling the skin, saying, “Son, is it good?” That was the only time in my life I’d dreamt of her being alive and on fire. Now, she was turning the dream into reality. I started to fear the dark. My room had four lamps, and they burned all night. My mom didn’t force me to turn them off; instead, she said, “You were afraid of ghosts when you were little. Mom won’t let you be afraid.” I hadn’t told her that either. Yet she always knew my little secrets, secrets I’d forgotten years ago. How did she know? Or was it that she wasn't “knowing,” but rather digging out my memories one by one, reflecting them back on herself? If that were the case… then she was “emptying” me.
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