The Ghost of the Dim Sum Table

The air was thick with the steam rising from a steaming bamboo basket as Xiao Mei, the proprietress of the Golden Delicacy, watched her last customer exit the restaurant. The neon sign flickered above her, casting an eerie glow over the wooden tables that had seen better days. She turned to the dim sum table where a ghostly figure had appeared the night before, a figure she was determined to understand.

The first night was a blur, filled with the sounds of clinking chopsticks and the hum of conversation. But the next morning, the table was covered with an unexplained layer of dust, and a single chopstick, perfectly straight, lay beside it. It was as if the table had been untouched for years, but Xiao Mei knew better.

She had lived in this bustling part of the city her whole life, watching the neighborhood evolve with the seasons and the years. The Golden Delicacy was her family’s legacy, a place where stories were shared over steaming plates of shrimp dumplings and sweet buns. But now, something sinister seemed to be woven into the fabric of her beloved establishment.

Xiao Mei’s curiosity was piqued, but so was her fear. The restaurant had been a source of comfort for her, a sanctuary away from the tumultuous world outside its walls. The presence of the ghost was an unsettling intrusion, one she could neither ignore nor confront alone.

The next evening, as the last customers filed out, Xiao Mei stood at the dim sum table once more. She was determined to uncover the mystery. She picked up the chopstick, examining the dust that seemed to have settled over it in mere moments. It was strange, almost as if the table was alive, capable of moving itself, waiting for her arrival.

As she moved to the counter to fetch a broom, she felt a cold draft brush against her neck. She turned, expecting to see someone, but there was no one there. The ghost was silent, invisible, and yet somehow present, a whisper in the back of her mind that kept urging her forward.

“Who are you?” Xiao Mei whispered to the empty room, her voice echoing off the tiled floor. The only reply was the soft chime of a closing door down the hall.

She decided that it was time to ask for help. The next day, she sought out an elderly neighbor, Mrs. Li, a woman who had lived in the neighborhood since the 1950s and had a knack for stories that seemed to be rooted in the fabric of time itself.

Mrs. Li listened intently as Xiao Mei recounted the strange occurrences. “This place has always been a little… lively,” Mrs. Li said with a knowing smile. “There was a chef here many years ago, a man with a secret so dark that he left the neighborhood without a trace.”

The chef, her neighbor explained, was obsessed with the art of dim sum. His dishes were exquisite, the best in the city, but it was rumored that he practiced some sort of dark magic, binding the essence of the food to himself. His disappearance was as mysterious as his sudden appearance in the neighborhood, and with it, so went the reputation of the Golden Delicacy.

Xiao Mei was stunned. The possibility that her family restaurant was linked to a dark secret from the past was unsettling, but it also made sense. The table, with its dust-covered chopstick, seemed to be a physical reminder of the chef’s dark legacy.

As days turned into weeks, Xiao Mei began to research the chef’s past. She found old newspapers detailing the events surrounding his disappearance, his name, and a single photograph that hinted at the nature of his obsession. It was a picture of a dim sum table, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, the chef standing at the center, his face obscured by shadows.

One evening, as Xiao Mei stood once again at the dim sum table, the ghostly figure appeared once more. She approached the table, her heart pounding. The figure turned, and Xiao Mei was finally able to see him, the chef’s face etched into the image she had found in the newspaper.

“Why?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why did you do this to yourself, to us?”

The chef’s eyes, which had been hidden behind a mask, now opened, revealing a sadness that seemed to echo through the years. “I wanted to be remembered, but I didn’t know how to do it,” he whispered. “So I bound myself to this place, to this table, hoping that one day, someone would see what I had seen and understand what I had done.”

Xiao Mei nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. She reached out and touched the table, feeling the warmth of the wood under her fingertips. “We remember, chef,” she said softly. “And we understand.”

The next morning, as Xiao Mei stood in the empty restaurant, the ghostly figure was gone. The table was free of dust, and the chopstick lay in its usual place, perfectly straight. The restaurant was back to its usual bustling state, the dim sum table a silent witness to the revelation of a long-forgotten truth.

The Golden Delicacy was no longer haunted by the ghost of the chef, but Xiao Mei knew that his spirit would forever be a part of her family’s story. She smiled, thinking of the years that had passed, and how the restaurant had grown with her and her family, its legacy a tapestry woven with the threads of both joy and sorrow.

As she opened the restaurant that day, the neon sign flickered to life, casting its soft glow over the tables that had seen so much. And in that moment, Xiao Mei realized that some secrets, once uncovered, could be the key to peace, even for those who had passed on long ago.