Ch. 008| Everything
Mingye recounts the night to his mother, who reads the changed slip, passes on his grandmother's words, sets two conditions for school, and on the way out he sees a coated stranger at the bridge shrine.
March 17, 2065. Tuesday. 05:30.
"Everything?"
"Everything."
Gu Mingye looked at his mother. She had the notebook on her lap, closed. She didn't rush him.
She didn't reach for her phone, didn't check the clock, didn't drink any water. Her posture was the one she used in the ward, listening to a patient talk — Gu Mingye had seen it a few times as a kid, the times he'd gone to the hospital to find her.
He started talking.
From last night, 21:30, the third time he'd looked at the slip. The middle warm, the edge cold, feeling it with his thumb, the whole thing like it was drawing that block of ink from the center toward the edge. Then 22:00, his mother leaving for the night shift. Then 23:00, alone in the living room, closing the notebook, setting it on the coffee table, seeing the faintest motion along the edge.
"Then I went back to my room to sleep."
"Didn't sleep?" his mother put in.
"Didn't sleep."
"Then."
"00:30, the balcony," he said. "There were footsteps coming from the mouth of the alley, walking under my building, kept going, faded out and vanished at the far end."
"Was there someone below?"
"No one."
His mother nodded. No expression of "were you dreaming."
"Which direction did the footsteps come from?"
"From the mouth of the alley toward the far end."
"Not from the far end toward the mouth?"
"No."
His mother nodded again, didn't explain.
"02:30, the kitchen."
When his mother heard "02:30," her gaze moved from Gu Mingye toward the walkway leading from the living room to the kitchen. One second.
"I heard water. I went to look."
"Then."
"In the middle of the counter, near the sink, there was a pool of water. The tap was off. The sink was dry."
"Temperature?"
"Room temperature."
"Shape of the water?"
Gu Mingye thought. "Round. About half a palm."
"And the edge?"
"The edge was —" He stopped. When he'd looked in the kitchen, he hadn't looked at the edge in particular. "I didn't notice."
His mother nodded.
"Next time there's water, look at the edge."
"Mm."
"03:00, I looked up at the spot where Grandma used to paste the talisman."
His mother's eyes stopped for a moment.
She didn't interrupt.
"The circle with a piece missing was deeper than usual," Gu Mingye said. "Deep, like someone had traced the circle over again from behind the paint."
The hand his mother had resting on her lap closed lightly.
The motion was very small. If Gu Mingye hadn't been this close to her now, he wouldn't have seen it.
She didn't speak.
Gu Mingye went on.
"03:30, the living room," he said. "I looked at the notebook cover. The rim of the butterfly's wings, same as the circle on the kitchen wall — deepened."
"Same as the one on the kitchen wall?"
"Same texture. Not brighter. Deeper."
"That butterfly is on a cover the school handed out?"
"Yeah. The biology textbook cover."
"Not one you drew yourself?"
"No."
His mother thought, didn't ask more.
She reached for the closed notebook, brought it up in front of her, looked at the cover again.
She didn't turn on the desk lamp this time. The ceiling light had stayed off all along; there was only the lamp. She brought the notebook under the lamp, turned it at an angle.
"Yes," she said. "Same kind of thing as your Grandma's circle."
After she said it, she stopped a moment herself.
Like she'd only confirmed it for herself in the saying.
"04:30, the slip," Gu Mingye said. "The whole thing reversed from last night — the middle went cold, the edge went warm."
"Middle cold, edge warm?" his mother repeated.
"Yeah."
"And then you messaged me?"
"Yeah."
"Middle cold, edge warm." When his mother said it, her voice slowed.
She set the notebook back on her lap, closed.
The two of them sat on the living room couch about a minute, not talking.
His mother was thinking. Gu Mingye could tell from the line between her brows.
That line was usually faint. It only appeared when she'd judged in the ward that a patient's condition was off.
Gu Mingye had seen it a few times as a kid.
The mother in the living room today was that line between the brows.
Outside, the sky was starting to lighten.
06:00. The first light came in from the balcony.
The morning in the Old River District looked the same as yesterday morning, the 06:30 he'd woken to.
But Gu Mingye knew it wasn't the same anymore.
His mother spoke.
"Mingye."
"Mm."
"I'm going to open the notebook now and look at the slip."
"Mm."
"When I'm done, I'll tell you what I see. If it's different from what you saw — we need to write it down."
"Mm."
His mother drew in a deep breath.
Set the notebook on the coffee table.
Opened it.
The slip was tucked between that day's page and the next.
His mother reached in, took it out.
Her hand paused half a second as she picked it up.
"Cold," she said.
"The middle?"
"The middle."
She turned the slip over, looked at the back. Turned it back, looked at the front. Held the slip up to the morning light coming in from the balcony and looked at it for a while.
"The edge — really is warm."
"Yeah."
His mother put the slip back in the notebook, lightly touched the character 過 in the middle with her thumb.
"It's not bleeding anymore," she said. "This afternoon when you looked there was moisture holding it up; now there isn't."
Gu Mingye reached out and touched it too.
The block of ink in the middle was dry.
Completely different from last night.
"It pulled all the moisture back in," his mother said. "Not dried-out dry — pulled in."
She held the slip up to the light again, looked for a while.
"The character in the middle is a little different from before now."
Gu Mingye leaned in to look.
The character 過 had the same shape as this afternoon. The strokes, where they started, where they ended, all the same.
But the depth of the color was different from this afternoon.
This afternoon the ink was still bleeding, so the center of the character spread slightly outward. This morning the character stopped within the range of its strokes.
Like someone had traced the edges of the character over again.
Same thing as the butterfly's outline being deepened.
06:30.
His mother closed the notebook, set it back on the coffee table.
She didn't speak, sat about a minute.
Then she said:
"Mingye."
"Mm."
"Your Grandma told me something once while she was alive."
"Mm."
"It was back when I'd just married into the family, early twenties. She said — 'If one day your child starts asking about these things, don't try to explain it to him. You can't explain it. All you need to do is tell him that he isn't facing it alone.'"
His mother looked at the coffee table.
"I'd only just come into this family then, didn't understand anything yet. I thought Grandma was talking about something only she understood, and she didn't explain it. So I just kept those words in my head."
She looked up, at Gu Mingye.
"Now those words are for you."
Gu Mingye didn't speak.
He knew what he should say in answer — but his throat was tight.
"I'm not alone," he finally said.
"No," his mother said. "At least now Mom's here. Grandma's gone, but she left those words behind — there were people before her generation. My generation didn't see it, but Mom knows."
"Waipo —" Gu Mingye thought. "What about Waipo?"
His mother gave a small laugh. "My mother — your Waipo — she was even better at seeing this kind of thing than your Grandma, but I wasn't very close to her side of it. Waipo got sick and passed when I was eight; how much of what she left behind I can remember, I'm not sure."
"What about Waigong?"
His mother thought.
"Waigong's another line, not quite the same as Grandma's side," she said. "But I don't really understand what his side is either."
She didn't go on.
Like she wasn't sure herself how far she could say.
07:00.
His mother glanced at her watch.
"Do you have morning study today?"
"07:35."
"Don't go to school today."
Gu Mingye looked up.
"I want to go."
His mother looked at him.
"Why?"
"Teacher Lin," Gu Mingye said. "I want to see Teacher Lin again. Yesterday her biology class was about individual recognition in animal groups. She didn't say it outright, but she was talking to me. I want to see if she keeps going today."
His mother listened.
"The Teacher Lin you mean, which one?"
"Teacher Lin from the science department, teaches biology."
"Her surname's Lin?" his mother said. "Thirties, glasses, hair in a low ponytail."
"Yeah."
His mother gave another small laugh. But this laugh was different from the one earlier, when she'd mentioned Grandma.
"Teacher Lin," she said. "Her mother used to know your Grandma."
Gu Mingye stopped.
"Teacher Lin's mother — knew Grandma?"
"They used to do volunteer work in the Old River District, the same community development association. When I was in middle school Teacher Lin was only in elementary, she'd come over to our place to play with me. After her family moved away we lost touch."
His mother thought.
"You're saying her biology class yesterday was talking to you?"
"Yeah."
"I think I get it now," his mother said. "Her family's side might be another line too."
His mother thought, then added:
"Not necessarily the same kind of line. Could be a related one, could be completely different. But her mother knowing your Grandma means that generation had something in common on certain things."
"Related or different — where's the difference?"
"I don't really understand it either," his mother said. "Grandma mentioned it while she was alive. She said some people, like herself — can see but don't go. Some people, like Teacher Lin's mother — can see, and go and deal with it actively. The way they deal with it isn't the same as our family's. She didn't say the details."
07:30.
His mother stood, went to the kitchen, got two cups, poured water.
Came back to the living room, set one down in front of Gu Mingye.
"You want to go to school, Mom won't stop you. But you have to promise me two things."
"Mm."
"First, if Teacher Lin talks to you again today — don't respond directly. Tell me when you get home what she said."
"Mm."
"Second, take the Rivermag home after school, no matter what. Don't walk. Don't go around by that apartment across the street. If someone you don't know tries to talk to you, don't stop."
"Mm."
His mother drank half of her cup of water.
"I'm off today too. I'll be home. If you feel anything wrong at school today, message me. Mom will come straight to school to get you."
"Mm."
The two of them were quiet a moment.
His mother sat back on the couch.
"Mingye."
"Mm."
"Mom honestly wishes I hadn't let you go out today."
"Mm."
"But you've decided to go. So Mom is letting you go."
She stopped a moment.
"Grandma told Mom once — for the ones who can see, the most important thing is keeping your own daily routine. When the routine breaks, you see more of the things."
She looked at Gu Mingye.
"You going to school today, that's keeping your routine."
After she said it, his mother got up herself, took the two cups to the sink, washed them.
The sound of the tap running was a normal sound of water.
Water came out of the tap, into the sink, down the pipe. Completely different from the pool of water that had appeared on the counter last night at 02:30 — two different kinds of water.
Gu Mingye listened to the water and knew his mother had turned the tap on deliberately. To let him hear that, right now, the house had the normal sound of water.
It was a sound his mother was giving him, an audible sound that meant the house was all right now.
08:00.
Gu Mingye shouldered his bag, went to the entryway, changed his shoes.
His mother stood behind him in the entryway, watching.
She didn't say anything like "be careful out there."
She said: See you back home.
"Mm."
Gu Mingye opened the door, walked out, closed it.
The stairs creaked twice. Down the stairs, out of the old house, into the alley.
To the far end, out the mouth of the alley, across the road toward Shuyuan Street.
08:10. The little bridge at the old river embankment.
Under the old banyan at the bridgehead, that brick-red Earth God shrine no one prayed at.
Gu Mingye passed it every day, never gave it a second look.
Today he reached the bridgehead, looked up, stopped.
In front of the shrine, there was a person.
Standing.
Back to Gu Mingye.
Wearing a dark long coat, knee-length. You couldn't tell the age, couldn't tell the sex.
The person reached out, put a stick of incense into the censer.
The spot at the bottom of the censer with the scorch mark — the circle Gu Mingye had seen yesterday afternoon.
The incense went in.
The smoke rose slowly.
The person didn't turn around.
Gu Mingye stood at the bridgehead, looking at the person's back.
That dark long coat, knee-length. The cut was like something from decades ago, not a current style.
A different cut from the old man's coat on the last train that night. But that era — Gu Mingye remembered it.
Gu Mingye stood at the bridgehead about ten seconds.
The person didn't look back.
The incense burned slowly in the censer.
Gu Mingye knew he should keep walking toward Shuyuan Street. School morning study was 07:35; past that, you were late.
He wouldn't go over to say hello, wouldn't stop and stare — any of that would make the person turn around.
He kept walking.
Across the bridge.
Past under the banyan.
Without looking back at the shrine.
But he knew the person was probably still there.
From the bridgehead to the direction of Shuyuan Station on the Rivermag Line was a 300-meter straight stretch of road. Walking that straight stretch, Gu Mingye didn't look back once.
He didn't know whether the person would turn around to watch his back in the moments he wasn't looking.
【Ch. 008 End · The Old House, Old River District → The Little Bridge at the Old River Embankment, Qingcheng】
Follow this story
Drop your email and we'll send new chapters the moment they go live.
Observer comments
0 records