The Tenant Who Suddenly Died Has Returned
Bad luck. One of my tenants died in my house.
I live in a self-built two-story house in the urban village, relying on rental income to get by. If word got out that someone had died here, renting out the place again would be next to impossible.
The deceased was Chen Chengwu, a food delivery guy. Hardworking, honest, never missed a rent payment.
He was found shirtless, slumped against the bedside table, eyes wide open, lips purple, not a single injury on his body.
After panicking for a moment, I called my uncle, who works at the hospital.
My uncle’s preliminary judgment was sudden cardiac arrest.
He helped arrange for an ambulance to come discreetly. As long as people saw the ambulance taking out a "living" person, and he didn’t officially die in the hospital, it’d be fine.
The dead should at least leave in decent clothes.
But his wardrobe didn’t have a single presentable outfit.
Before the ambulance arrived, I rushed to the nearest mall and bought him a brand-name tracksuit.
Back home, I used a warm towel to loosen his stiff joints and dressed him from head to toe.
While putting on his socks, I noticed a heart-shaped red birthmark on the top of his left foot.
Rigor mortis had set in, so I dabbed foundation on his face to make him look less pale.
As my fingers brushed against his cold, stiff skin, I couldn’t help but feel regret.
He was only twenty-eight. Rain or shine, he delivered food to make a living. And if anything broke in the house, he’d fix it without complaint.
The neighbors even joked that I should consider dating a guy like him—at my age, finding a decent man wasn’t easy.
Too bad I never got the chance.
I pretended to be frantic, helping the paramedics load him onto the stretcher, making it look like a last-ditch hospital effort.
Only at the hospital did I learn he’d been dead for two days.
I paid the fees, watched as he was sent to the morgue, and waited for his family to claim him. Only then did the weight in my chest ease.
Following local customs, I burned paper money for him, murmuring:
"Chen Chengwu, come collect your money. Use it to smooth your way in the afterlife. Don’t blame me for dragging you to the hospital—the rental market’s brutal these days!"
"I’ll refund your deposit and rent to your family. Just don’t haunt my house, okay?"
Back home, staring at his tools—wrenches, pliers, all neatly kept—I felt another pang of guilt.
My conscience nagged at me to do more.
He only owned five pieces of clothing. I folded them into his backpack. Whether his family burned them or kept them as mementos, that was their call.
I found his phone, planning to return it to his family through the police.
But the officer on duty sighed, exhausted.
"We contacted his next of kin through his employer. Just an elderly grandma. She had a heart attack when she heard the news."
"Turns out heart disease runs in their family."
"If we wait for civil affairs to handle it, who knows how long that’ll take."
"Just sign for the cremation and take the ashes."
I immediately protested: "He told me he had a little sister relying on him for medical bills! He has family!"
The cop glared. "If it’s not in the system, it doesn’t exist."
Unconvinced, I demanded his hometown address and boarded a train that same day.