Ch. 003| Shuyuan Station by Day

Sunday, March 15, 2065, 08:30.

Gu Mingye woke earlier than usual.

Sunlight slanted in through the window. Morning light — thin, pale, with a faint trace of blue, a long way from yesterday afternoon's thick yellow light.

He shut his eyes a moment first.

The first second, his head was empty.

The second second, yesterday came back in order. From the last train to walking out along that street by the Cyan Lantern. He still remembered every stretch of it.

He sat up. On the nightstand, the notebook was still there. The line "Last night was real" on the cover was the one he'd written on the Shuyuan Station platform last night; looking now, the writing was a little smaller than his usual hand, and shaky.

He got out of bed.

He came out of his room. The living room light was off. On the table was a note.

"Mingye, Mom's on the 06:00 early shift, off at 14:00, breakfast is warming in the rice cooker, I'll ask you about last night after work. Mom."

Pressed under the note were two hundred-yuan bills.

Gu Mingye picked up the note and read it three times.

He knew what that line meant — "I'll ask you about last night after work." His mother had spent the whole night searching the city for him, hadn't gotten home until 04:50 to confirm he wasn't back, then driven to the hospital again at 05:00 to take the back half of a senior's shift. There was no way she wouldn't ask.

But he didn't know how he was supposed to answer.

He put the note back on the table.

He didn't take the bills.

---

At 09:00 his mother called.

"Mingye."

"Mm."

"You okay?"

"Mm."

There were other sounds on her end. The beep of a monitor, the rolling wheels of a cart going down a corridor, someone calling for her.

"It's busy here, I can't talk long. Have you eaten?"

"I'll eat in a bit."

"Money for lunch is on the table. Order in at noon, or go down and buy something, whatever you want."

"Mm."

His mother paused.

The texture of that pause was the same as the one when the world held a beat last night, before he got off at Platform Thirteen. There was something to say. It wouldn't come out.

"Last night you—"

Over on the corridor, someone called his mother's full name. The voice was urgent, like a ward was going off somewhere.

"I'll talk to you after work."

His mother hung up.

Gu Mingye's screen went black, lit itself back up, went black again.

He set the phone down, went into the kitchen, opened the rice cooker.

Inside was a breakfast sandwich, ham and egg, under plastic wrap. It had sat three hours, the edges already a little dry.

He sat down to eat.

The rice cooker's indicator light had turned to "keep warm," red.

Halfway through, his throat caught; he stopped and drank some water before going on.

---

At 11:00 he sat on the edge of the bed and opened the notebook.

The slip of red paper in black ink was pressed between that day's page and the next.

He took it out gently.

He held it up to the desk lamp by the bed — no good.

He went to the window and held it up to the 11:00 light.

Sunlight slanted in from the Rivermag side and fell on the slip.

Different from what he'd seen yesterday under the skylight on the Shuyuan Station platform.

Yesterday's light was the 15:30 light, yellowish, a little orange. Today's was the 11:00 light, white with a touch of cyan.

The red of the red paper went deeper under this light. Like an old red washed many times over, not the printed red of now.

The black of the ink was different — it had bled a little more than what he'd seen last night.

Like it was still bleeding.

Not his imagination.

With his thumb he touched the edge of the 過 character lightly. The ink didn't come off. But he could feel a slight rise at the center of the character. The ink hadn't dried through; moisture was still holding it up.

He put the slip back in the notebook.

He turned to that day's page.

The line "Last night was real" sat at the very bottom. With his thumb he ran over the line — it wouldn't come off, the ink had dried. He just wanted to confirm those words were his.

He wrote "March 15, morning," and then wrote:

The paper's still bleeding.

The writing was steadier than yesterday's. But he knew his hand wasn't shaking because he could accept this thing now. He could accept it — which wasn't the same as understanding it.

---

At 14:00 his mother came home.

The key turned in the lock outside, the sound the same as always. Gu Mingye came out of his room and stood in the living room.

His mother pushed the door open. Her hair was flat. There was a pressure mark on the left side of her forehead, like she'd slept a while face-down on the nurses' station desk.

She saw Gu Mingye and paused.

She came over, reached out, touched his head.

"You don't look like you were kidnapped."

"Mm."

"You look like you walked all night."

"Mm."

Her hand stayed there. It slid from his head to his shoulder, gave it a squeeze, then dropped.

"Eat first."

She went to the kitchen, took out last night's bento under its plastic wrap, put it in the rice cooker, pressed warm. She walked back to the living room, sat on the sofa, shut her eyes.

Two minutes. Neither spoke.

The rice cooker popped up. His mother didn't move.

Gu Mingye went over and set the bento on the table, turned back for chopsticks, sat down across from her.

"Mom."

"Mm."

"The bento's warm."

His mother opened her eyes.

She looked at Gu Mingye, didn't ask where he'd gone last night, didn't ask why he hadn't answered her messages, didn't ask why he hadn't gotten home until 05:30.

"You eat. I can't really eat."

"Have a little."

His mother gave a small smile. That smile, Gu Mingye hadn't seen in a long time. The last time was the year Grandma died. His mother had come back from the old house that day, looked in the mirror, and smiled just like this.

"Mingye."

"Mm."

"Did you see anything yesterday — anything you can't tell Mom?"

Gu Mingye paused.

"No."

His mother nodded.

She picked up her chopsticks, took a bite of rice, chewed slowly and swallowed. Like a thing she had to get through.

She didn't look at Gu Mingye. Her eyes were on the bead of condensation at the edge of the plastic-wrapped bento box on the table.

"Mom won't force you to talk. But the day you can tell me, you tell me."

"Mm."

His mother looked at him. Under her eyes were two deep shadows of lost sleep, different from how she usually looked coming off a night shift.

The usual bags were puffy, blue. Today's were sunken, gray.

Like she'd been up all night and hadn't rested at the hospital either.

Gu Mingye wanted to say he was sorry.

But he couldn't open his mouth — opening it meant telling her about last night, and he couldn't do that now.

He lowered his head and ate the plate of rice in front of him.

The rice had gone a little cold. He didn't mention it.

His mother took another bite.

"Mom's going to sleep two hours, get up at 17:30 and head back to work. Figure out your afternoon yourself, and if you go out, send me something before you come back — even one word is fine."

"Mm."

His mother stood, took the bowls to the kitchen and washed them, wrung out the cloth and hung it up. Went into her room, closed the door.

Gu Mingye sat at the table, looking at the plate of bento that had barely been touched.

He had no appetite himself.

But he knew he should eat.

He finished it.

---

At 15:00 he went out.

The Old River District alley in the afternoon was the same as yesterday afternoon — the noodle stall open, the iced black tea cart parked at the corner, the early-released primary-schoolers cutting through.

The difference: today was Sunday, and at the alley's mouth there was one more person, a vegetable seller, talking with an old woman from the far end of the alley.

Gu Mingye came out of the alley and his eyes met the old woman's.

The old woman froze for half a second, turned her head away, went on talking with the vegetable seller.

The same look as the convenience store clerk's last night.

Gu Mingye headed toward Shuyuan Street.

---

At 15:30, the small bridge on the old embankment.

People strolled in daytime. A middle-aged couple came from the other side of the bridge leading a yellow dog, passed Gu Mingye without a glance.

Under the old banyan, the brick-red Earth God shrine no one tended, censer empty.

Gu Mingye went over, crouched, looked at the censer.

There was a faint ring of scorch at the bottom.

The color sat somewhere in between — the edge not yet covered over by dust, but the underside already sunk down into the rust.

Like something had burned there last night, and after it burned out someone had gently wiped the ash away.

Wiped very clean. But the scorch underneath was a circle, like metal that had been heated a while. Incense burns upright and the ash falls upright, so the bottom keeps a ring like this.

He felt at it with a finger, through the iron rim of the censer.

The rim was still cold.

"Young man."

Gu Mingye looked up.

At the bridgehead, the middle-aged woman with the yellow dog had turned back to look at him.

"This shrine hasn't been tended in thirty years. What are you praying to?"

"I'm not praying to anything." Gu Mingye stood. "Just looking."

The woman looked at him for two seconds.

"Young people shouldn't look at empty shrines like this. Look at an empty shrine long enough, and you go empty yourself."

She pulled the dog along, crossed the bridge, and was gone.

Gu Mingye stayed where he was and watched her back cross the bridge and disappear into the alley.

He looked down and checked the censer once more.

Still that same ring of scorch at the bottom.

He stood up, crossed the bridge, and kept on toward Shuyuan Street.

---

At 16:00, Shuyuan Station.

Same as yesterday — Platform Three, white tile, not white with cyan, the scrolling sign running "Next train 16:18 / terminus Qingcaohe," the usual woman's voice over the announcement.

On the platform, fewer people on a holiday afternoon. A few with shopping bags, a college student with a guitar case slung on, a little boy holding his mother's hand.

Gu Mingye walked the platform, checked the tile once, checked the sign once.

Platform Three.

No thirteen.

He didn't board.

He left the station, went through the gate, came around to the crossroads where Shuyuan Street met the old embankment.

The 24-hour convenience store.

On the glass door in the afternoon, that "Night Service Open" sticker was the same as last night. But there was one more beside it now — "Day Shift Also Open," the lettering new.

He pushed the door open.

The bell rang.

The person behind the counter had changed. An older woman clerk, wearing a pair of reading glasses.

She looked up.

For that second, the same look as the young man clerk last night.

The look passed over Gu Mingye's face, didn't stop, slid down, settled on the whole outline of him.

The reading glasses she wore slid a centimeter down her nose, and she didn't push them back up.

Gu Mingye went to the cooler, took a bottle of mineral water, came back to the counter.

"Thanks, come again." The woman clerk's voice was flat, but low.

Gu Mingye lifted his wrist to the sensor pad. A beep. The wristband flashed "Charged 25, balance 37."

"Thanks, come again."

The woman clerk pushed the water over, tore off the receipt, clipped it to the holder.

Just then someone pushed open the back door of the store and came out.

It was the young man clerk from last night.

Changed, with a school bag on his back, like he'd just finished handing off the shift and was about to leave.

He passed the counter, saw Gu Mingye, stopped for half a second.

The woman clerk turned her head and looked at him.

Their eyes met.

The woman clerk asked one thing, her voice very low, almost only breath: "Is this the one?"

The young man clerk didn't speak. He shook his head once.

A short shake, his chin barely moving, his eyes drifting toward the door. That one motion pressed her question back down.

He walked out of the store, the glass door closed behind him, and he headed toward Shuyuan Street.

The woman clerk turned back, pushed her glasses up, went on scrolling the phone she kept under the counter.

Gu Mingye stayed where he was, looking at the bottle of water in his hand.

A thin film of beads had gathered on the bottle, taken from the cooler and starting to warm back up.

He put the water into the plastic bag and tucked it into the pocket of his uniform jacket.

"Thanks," he said.

The woman clerk didn't look up. "Thanks, come again."

He walked out of the store, the glass door closed, and the bell gave a soft ring.

---

On the way home he went around the banyan and past the Earth God shrine.

No one in front of the shrine.

The censer empty. The scorch at the bottom the same as before.

But this time he didn't crouch to look.

He walked past.

---

At 17:00 he came in the door.

His mother's bedroom door was closed, quiet inside.

He set the water on the table and took out the notebook.

He opened it and went on writing below "The paper's still bleeding."

The writing was steadier than this morning.

T　h　e　y　　k　n　o　w

Two words.

He paused, thought a moment, then wrote more:

A　t　　l　e　a　s　t　　t　w　o

When he'd written it, he closed the notebook and put it back on the nightstand.

---

At 17:30 his mother came out of her room.

Changed into her uniform, hair combed. She walked to the living room and looked at Gu Mingye.

"I'm off to work."

"Mm."

"Did you—" she paused, "go out today?"

"Went to Shuyuan Station for a bit."

"Everything okay?"

"It's fine."

His mother looked at him, looked for three seconds.

She didn't ask again.

"I'm off. Won't be back till six in the morning."

"Mm."

His mother took her bag, went to the door, opened it. She paused, turned back.

"Mingye."

"Mm."

"If you don't text home next time, Mom's going to the police station to report you missing."

She wasn't angry. Her voice was flat. But Gu Mingye could hear that it wasn't a threat.

"Mm."

His mother nodded, went out, closed the door. The stairs creaked twice. The sound of her steps going down slowly faded.

Gu Mingye stood in the living room and listened to her steps slowly fade.

Then he sat down at the table and opened the notebook again.

The 過 character, red paper black ink, pressed in the middle.

With his thumb, through the paper, he felt at it.

The center of the paper, that patch of ink, was still raised.

Still bleeding.

---

【Ch. 003 End · Old House in the Old River District, Qingcheng → Small Bridge on the Old Embankment → Convenience Store on Shuyuan Street → Old House in the Old River District】