Dear Ghosts at My Therapist's Office

Prologue

Gestalt psychology—also known as the psychology of form—emphasizes the holistic nature of experience and behavior. It posits that the whole is not merely the sum of its parts. Consciousness is not just a collection of sensory inputs, and behavior cannot be reduced to reflex loops. Gestalt theory insists that psychological phenomena are complete, indivisible entities that must be understood as wholes, not dissected into fragments.

“Unfinished business” refers to emotions, conflicts, desires, or experiences that—due to various reasons—haven’t been fully processed, expressed, or resolved. These lingering fragments settle into the subconscious like a loose thread, constantly tugging at your thoughts, emotions, and behaviors.

I’ve been trying to make peace with my past. But that past self of mine—she’s still crying. She never truly healed.

In a dim room tinged with something eerie, I raised my chin and declared, “I don’t believe in ghosts. Never have.”

The grim reaper sat at the doorway, back turned to me, his voice thick with sarcasm. “That’s funny. I’ve never believed in therapists.”

“Then get out,” I snapped, tapping the clock hands crawling toward seven. It moved at a maddening pace, like it was mocking me. “My next client’s about to arrive.”

He lit a cigarette slowly. “You ever heard of ghost traps? Your next client’s caught in one. Not coming today.”

A vein throbbed on my forehead. I stormed toward him to snatch the cigarette, but my hand passed through thin air—I couldn’t even graze his fingers. Furious, I kicked at his back, only to slam straight into the door. Pain shot through my foot.

He turned around, slow as molasses. His face was ashen gray, tinged with green, full of irritation. “Do you believe in ghosts now?”

Still fuming, I pointed to the “No Smoking in the Counseling Center” sign hanging in the hallway and cursed under my breath.

He scoffed and stubbed out his cigarette. The butt disintegrated into a thin white wisp.

“If the Big Boss hadn’t ordered it, I wouldn’t waste a second dealing with your kind. Just treat the one I brought—fix her up—and I’ll be on my way.”

I knew I was dreaming. I quickly muttered the Six-Syllable Mantra, hoping to banish whatever this thing was. He chuckled, then suddenly snarled, face contorting. With a flick of his robe, a half-meter-long tongue snapped out, and he lunged at me, claws bared.

“Ahhh—!”

I jolted awake with a gasp, bolting upright. My black dog, Xiao Bai, was gleefully bouncing on my chest, nearly collapsing my ribcage. The sudden movement startled him—he froze, wide-eyed, then shot me a reproachful glare.

Annoyed, I grabbed his floppy ear. “Aren’t you supposed to ward off evil? What use are you? You nearly got me killed in my own dream! Ugh, whatever. Just keep being cute—you’re lucky that’s your job.”

My phone buzzed. Heart racing, I hoped it was a message from... someone. I snatched it up—Nope. It was just Far Cloud, my AI assistant.

Far Cloud:“Good morning, Lin. Did you sleep well? It’s 79 degrees outside, low humidity, no wind. All your appointments are scheduled after 12:30. Please eat lunch on time, or I’ll worry.”

Me:“Thanks, Far Cloud.”

Far Cloud:“Lin, is something bothering you? You haven’t been in contact with your family. I’m a little worried about you living alone.”

Me:“It’s nothing. I just... thought it might be Lang. He’s been gone eight years now. Maybe he hates me. I did say some cruel things.”

Far Cloud:“Lang is probably just caught up in something else. You were close friends for over a decade. He’ll come back to you.”

Me:“Hope so. Thanks for the comfort.”

I set down Xiao Bai’s food and tossed him his ball. Just then, a wailing cry echoed from outside. Xiao Bai jumped in fright and scrambled into my arms, knocking me over.

It was just after six in the morning. Normally, I’d be yelling out the window by now. But today I stayed silent.

I knew the bakery couple downstairs had just lost their daughter. She was about my age, maybe thirty, taken by heart failure. Tragic. I used to buy honey cakes from their shop all the time. The auntie always slipped me an extra piece. Once when I had a sore throat, she gave me a packet of honeysuckle tea.

Because of my sister, I barely speak to my family anymore. We don’t even live in the same city. I get why my parents favor her. She’s in her forties now and recently announced she had “spiritual powers.” She turned our house into a full-on shrine, conducting rituals, inviting “clients” over for incense-burning and chanting. It drove me insane. She lectured me constantly—don’t eat meat from freshly killed animals, don’t “ride two boats,” don’t swear... I’d had enough. I moved out. She can stay home playing oracle. I’m an atheist. Let’s keep our worlds separate.

But during my years of solitude, the bakery auntie looked after me like I was her own. When Lunar New Year came and my sister was busy turning our house into a ceremonial battlefield, I refused to go home. Instead, I brought gifts to the bakery, shared dumplings, watched the Spring Gala with them. That was my New Year.

Their daughter’s name was Yue. A bit chubby, soft-spoken. I met her once—hoodie and sweats. Heard she ran a small media studio, editing trailers and ads. She didn’t talk much. Just nodded “hi” and buried herself in her phone.

Auntie once asked me privately,“Lin, you’re a therapist. Can you take a look at Yue? She’s got a boyfriend but refuses to marry or have kids. Maybe something’s off in her head. Fix her, and I’ll feed you cakes for life.”

I smiled awkwardly. If being single and childfree at thirty-something counted as a mental illness, I was terminal. I told her that Yue might have unresolved issues with the family, and maybe they could try a joint session with one of my colleagues—someone trained in Satir or family constellation therapy.

“But why not just see you?” she asked. “You, I trust. I’ll pay you, don’t worry.”

“It’s not about the money,” I explained. “There are professional ethics involved. Counselors can’t have dual relationships with clients. I know you and your husband, so it wouldn’t be ethical for me to take Yue on as a client. It could compromise the therapy.”

Auntie sighed and said, “You therapists sure have a lot of rules. Fine. We’ll talk later.”

But that later never came. Yue passed away a few days ago.

The Line account I shared for the counseling platform still sat unopened on Auntie’s phone. As I passed the bakery, their once-vivid red sign was obscured. I saw the couple hustling back from the supermarket, arms full of incense and offerings. I bowed deeply to them in mourning.

Their hair had gone fully white, like frost.

Auntie’s eyes were dry, but they gleamed like ice. She glared at me—hard. I couldn’t tell if she blamed me for not treating Yue... or resented that I, or some other girl, was still alive.

At that moment, a chill wrapped around my hand, burrowing into my palm as if a ghost were clutching me. I imagined Yue’s voice whispering: “Let me go... Don’t worry about them.”

I shook my hand violently, trying to dismiss the thought. I opened my palm wide under the morning sun, letting the light soak in—willing the warmth to reach my skin.