荔園遊樂場門後的夜晚，總是安靜得讓人感到不安。尤其是宋城區，那裡的氣氛與其他地方截然不同。這個仿照中國古代風格建造的園區，白天充滿遊客的笑聲與相機的快門聲，但一到夜晚，卻彷彿沉入了一片死寂之中。只有巡場的保安和偶爾吹過的微風，打破了這片靜默。
阿強是荔園的一名夜班保安，他已經在這裡工作了三年。儘管聽過不少關於宋城的傳聞，但他一向不以為意。雕像移動？影子會改變方向？那些不過是人們的心理作用罷了。然而，有一天晚上，他的想法徹底改變了。
那天，阿強如往常一樣拿著手電筒，沿著熟悉的小路巡視整個園區。他走進宋城時，心裡還在嘀咕著白天聽到的一些故事。據說，有人曾在夜裡看到雕像的影子自己動了起來；也有人說，曾經聽到低語聲從那些石像中傳出。阿強甩了甩頭，試圖把這些荒唐的故事拋諸腦後。
他走過一排武將雕像，手電筒的光柱在每一尊雕像上掃過。這些雕像栩栩如生，每一尊都面容剛毅，手持兵器，彷彿隨時準備衝鋒陷陣。然而，當他走到其中一尊雕像前時，突然停下了腳步。他感覺有些不對勁。這尊雕像的姿勢……似乎和白天不一樣？他記得白天經過時，它的臉是朝向左邊的，而現在，它卻似乎轉向了正前方。
阿強皺了皺眉，心想可能是自己記錯了。他伸手摸了摸雕像冰冷的表面，試圖確認它是否真的被移動過。然而，雕像紋絲不動，就像它應該在的那個位置一樣。他搖了搖頭，自嘲地笑了笑，覺得自己可能是太累了。
然而，當他繼續往前走時，一種奇怪的感覺開始籠罩著他。他總覺得背後有什麼東西在盯著他看。他回頭望去，那尊雕像仍然穩穩地站在原地，但阿強卻覺得它的眼神似乎變得更加銳利了。他深吸了一口氣，加快腳步，想要快點離開這片區域。
就在他即將走出宋城時，他突然聽到一陣輕微的聲音。那聲音像是石頭與地面摩擦發出的聲響，非常微弱，但在這靜謐的夜晚卻顯得格外清晰。他停下腳步，四處張望，但周圍空無一人。那些雕像依舊靜靜地站立著，一動不動。
「誰在那裡？」阿強壯著膽子喊了一聲，但沒有回應。他舉起手電筒四處照射，光柱劃過每一尊雕像，但什麼異常也沒發現。然而，那種被注視的感覺卻越來越強烈，彷彿有無數雙眼睛從黑暗中盯著他。
突然，他瞥見眼角餘光中，有一個影子似乎在移動。他猛地轉過頭，把手電筒的光柱對準那個方向。那是一尊文人雕像，它手持書卷，低頭沉思。阿強記得剛才經過時，它的頭是朝向另一邊的，而現在，它竟然低垂著，彷彿正在看著自己。
阿強感到一陣寒意從脊椎蔓延開來。他後退了一步，手中的手電筒微微顫抖。他想要離開，但雙腿卻像被釘在地上一樣無法動彈。他只能站在原地，看著那尊雕像。
就在這時，他突然聽到身後傳來一陣輕微的腳步聲。他猛地轉身，但身後什麼也沒有。當他再次回頭看向那尊文人雕像時，它已經恢復了原本的姿勢，就像什麼都沒發生過一樣。
阿強再也無法忍受這種詭異的氣氛，他匆匆離開宋城，一路跑回了保安室。他告訴同事剛才發生的事情，但大家只是笑他太緊張了，還說可能是光線造成的錯覺。
然而，那晚之後，阿強再也不願意單獨進入宋城區。他開始懷疑，那些雕像或許真的有某種古老而神秘的力量。在白天，它們只是普通的石像，但到了夜晚，它們似乎會蘇醒過來，用無聲的方式注視著闖入者。
幾個月後，荔園宣佈即將關閉的消息傳開了。阿強心裡鬆了一口氣，他終於不用再面對那些詭異的雕像了。然而，在荔園關閉前的最後一個晚上，他仍然不得不完成最後一次巡場工作。
當他再次走進宋城時，那熟悉的不安感再次湧上心頭。這一次，他決定不再逗留，只想快點結束工作。然而，就在他即將走出宋城時，他聽到了那熟悉的石頭摩擦聲。這一次，那聲音比以往任何時候都要清晰。
阿強轉過身，看到遠處的一尊武將雕像正緩緩轉動著頭部，直直地看向他。他驚恐地後退幾步，不小心被地上的石塊絆倒，摔倒在地。他掙扎著想要爬起來，但雙腿卻不聽使喚。
就在此時，他感到背後有東西靠近。他不敢回頭，只能用餘光瞥見一道模糊的影子朝自己逼近。他閉上眼睛，大聲喊叫，希望有人能聽到他的聲音。
然而，周圍的一切卻突然安靜下來。當他再次睜開眼睛時，那些雕像已經恢復了原位，就像什麼都沒發生過一樣。但阿強知道，那絕不是他的幻覺。
荔園關閉後，宋城被拆除，那些雕像也隨之消失。不過，每當有人提起荔園時，阿強總會想起那個夜晚。他始終無法忘記，那些雕像轉動時發出的摩擦聲，以及那雙彷彿能看穿靈魂的眼睛。
或許，那些雕像並沒有真的消失。或許，它們仍然存在於某個我們無法觸及的地方，靜靜地等待著下一個闖入者。而當你靠近它們時，它們會悄悄地移動，用無聲的方式告訴你——它們一直都在，看著你，看著所有人。
English Version
After closing hours, Lai Yuen Amusement Park would fall into a silence so complete that even the faintest sound seemed amplified, and within its many themed zones, none carried a more unsettling reputation than the so-called Sung Dynasty section, a carefully constructed area designed to resemble an ancient Chinese town, filled with lifelike statues of warriors, scholars, and historical figures, which by day attracted tourists with their detail and cultural charm, yet by night became something altogether different, a place where stillness felt unnatural and shadows seemed to linger longer than they should Ah Keung, a night-shift security guard who had worked at the park for three years, had heard the stories—whispers among staff about statues shifting positions, shadows moving independently, and faint murmurs emanating from stone figures—but like many others, he dismissed them as imagination fueled by darkness and fatigue, until one particular night forced him to reconsider everything he thought he understood; armed with his flashlight, he began his routine patrol, walking along the familiar paths with practiced ease, entering the Sung Dynasty area with only mild apprehension, the beam of light sweeping across rows of statues whose expressions appeared almost too vivid under artificial illumination, their carved eyes catching the light in ways that suggested awareness, and as he passed a line of warrior statues, he paused unexpectedly, struck by a subtle inconsistency—the posture of one figure seemed different, its head no longer angled as he remembered from earlier in the day, but instead facing forward, as though its attention had shifted toward him, and though he tried to dismiss it as faulty memory, the unease settled deeply, prompting him to reach out and touch the cold stone surface, confirming that it remained solid and unmoving despite the change he believed he had perceived; continuing forward, he became increasingly aware of a sensation he could not shake—the feeling of being watched, not by a single presence but by many, as if every statue in the area held its gaze upon him, silent yet attentive, and when he turned back, the figures appeared unchanged, frozen in their original positions, yet their presence seemed heavier, more deliberate, as though something lingered beneath their stillness; just as he neared the exit of the area, a faint sound reached his ears, subtle yet unmistakable—the scraping of stone against ground, a slow, deliberate friction that did not belong in a place where nothing should have been moving, and he froze, scanning the surroundings with his flashlight, illuminating each statue in turn, yet finding no visible movement, only the oppressive silence that followed; then, from the corner of his vision, he caught a fleeting shift, a shadow that did not align with the direction of the light, prompting him to turn sharply, focusing on a scholar statue holding a scroll, its head now lowered in a way that suggested it was looking directly at him, a change so clear and undeniable that it shattered any remaining attempt at rational explanation, and as a chill ran through him, he stepped back instinctively, his grip tightening on the flashlight as he struggled to maintain control of his breathing; before he could react further, he heard it again—footsteps behind him, slow and measured, yet when he turned, there was nothing there, and when he looked back at the statue, it had returned to its original position, as though nothing had ever changed, leaving him caught between two realities, unable to trust either; overwhelmed by the mounting tension, he hurried out of the area, returning to the security station where his account was met with disbelief and dismissive laughter, colleagues attributing his experience to fatigue or imagination, yet despite their reactions, he could not shake what he had witnessed, and from that night onward, he avoided entering the Sung Dynasty section alone, choosing instead to complete his patrols as quickly as possible whenever required; months later, as the park prepared for its final closure, he found himself assigned to one last patrol through the now nearly abandoned grounds, and though he had hoped to avoid the area entirely, duty led him back once more, the familiar unease returning the moment he stepped into the silent zone, the statues standing exactly as before, yet carrying an unmistakable sense of anticipation, as though aware that this would be his final visit; determined not to linger, he quickened his pace, but just as he approached the exit, the sound returned—louder this time, unmistakable—the grinding of stone shifting against stone, and when he turned, he saw it clearly, one of the warrior statues slowly rotating its head, its gaze aligning directly with his, the movement deliberate, undeniable, and horrifying in its defiance of all logic, and as panic surged through him, he stumbled backward, falling to the ground as his body refused to respond, the statue’s expression unchanged yet its presence now fully alive in a way he could no longer deny; unable to move, he sensed something approaching from behind, a presence drawing closer with silent intent, and though he did not dare turn his head, he glimpsed a shadow advancing toward him, growing larger with each passing second, until, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped, the sound ceased, the air stilled, and when he finally forced himself to look, the statues had returned to their original positions, unmoving and silent as though nothing had ever occurred; after that night, the park closed, the Sung Dynasty section dismantled, the statues removed and scattered, yet for Ah Keung, the memory remained vivid and unshakable, a reminder that something within those figures had once awakened, if only briefly, and though they no longer stand in that place, he cannot escape the lingering thought that they were never truly gone, that somewhere, beyond sight and beyond understanding, they continue to exist, waiting patiently for the moment when another unsuspecting visitor might step too close, and when that happens, they will move again, not with sound or spectacle, but with the quiet certainty of something that has always been watching, always been aware, and has never truly been as still as it appears.
