The Queue of the Unseen

My uncle, Zhao Wei, was a man of logic and skepticism. A successful engineer in Shenzhen, he prided himself on his rational thinking. But that all changed after the accident that shattered his spine and confined him to a hospital bed in the city of Harbin, a place known for its freezing winters and long, dark nights.

It was in the sterile, white-walled ward of the Third People’s Hospital that my uncle’s reality began to unravel. Months of paralysis had taken their toll, and a severe infection had spiked his fever, leaving him delirious and weak. The doctors had given him strong antibiotics, but his body was fighting a losing battle against the illness. He lay in a state between consciousness and dreams, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry flies.

One night, when the hospital was silent except for the distant beeping of monitors, Zhao Wei woke with a start. His fever had broken, leaving him drenched in sweat and shivering. He turned his head to look at the window, where the frost had formed intricate patterns on the glass, and he saw them. At first, he thought it was a hallucination from the fever. But no, they were as solid as the bed he lay on. A procession of figures, all dressed in plain grey robes, stood in a line that extended from the door of his room, along the wall, and terminated at the window. They were silent, their faces obscured by the shadows that clung to them like wet cloth.

Zhao Wei’s heart hammered in his chest. He tried to call out, but his voice was a dry rasp. The figures did not acknowledge him. Instead, as if they sensed his gaze, they turned in unison to face the window. One by one, they stepped onto the windowsill and vanished through the glass as if it were water, not a single sound accompanying their departure. The last figure paused, its head tilting slightly as if looking back at him. But it had no eyes, only smooth skin where eyes should have been. And then it, too, was gone.

The room felt suddenly colder. Zhao Wei lay there, shivering, too terrified to move. He had seen something that defied every logical explanation he had ever clung to. In that moment, he realized that there was more to existence than the tangibility of the physical world. He began to pray, not knowing why, but the words came to him as if they had always been there, buried in his subconscious.

The next morning, when a nurse came to check on him, she found him pale but calm, his eyes filled with a strange serenity. She asked him if he had slept well, and he said, ‘I saw them.’ She asked who, and he could only reply, ‘The queue of the unseen.’ She assumed it was a fever dream and dismissed it, but Zhao Wei knew better.

From that day on, he was a changed man. He asked for a Bible and read it fervently, finding solace in its verses. His recovery, both physical and spiritual, was slow but steady. He never spoke of the incident again except to me, his nephew, when I visited him years later. He told me that he had been given a glimpse into the unknown, and it had both frightened and freed him.

‘They were waiting,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper, ‘but they weren’t waiting for me. They were just passing through, and I happened to be there to see the journey of souls.’ He smiled, a sad, knowing smile, and I felt a chill run down my spine.

Now, whenever I visit my uncle in that same hospital, now old and crumbling, I can’t help but glance at the window in his room, half-expecting to see a line of grey figures waiting to depart. And I wonder if, one day, I will see them too, and if I will have the courage to face what lies beyond the glass.