Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Just before dawn, I went to Chengnan Cemetery.

The rain had stopped, and the mountain path was slick. In front of the headstone was a withered bouquet of white roses-the one I had brought last week. In the photo, Nanzhi was still twenty-seven, holding that can of orange soda, smiling as if nothing had ever happened.

I sat down beside her and finished reading the letter.

Wind threaded through the plane trees, stirring a soft rustle all around me.

I used to think that was her answering me.

Now I knew wind was just wind.

But even if it was only wind, it was gentle enough.

The groundskeeper recognized me. He stood at a distance for a while and did not come over to disturb me. Only when the sky had brightened did he hand me a cup of hot water.

“Mr. Liang,” he said, “today makes exactly two years.”

I nodded.

Two years.

Even a headstone had an age now.

I ran my fingers over the fine moss on the base of the stone and suddenly thought of Xiaoman, who had just turned two last month. She had blown out her candles so hard that cream splattered onto the tip of her nose. She did not know what “death” meant. She only knew that Mom lived in a photograph, and that sometimes Dad would stare at that photograph in a daze.

I pressed my forehead against the headstone.

“Nanzhi,” I said, “so you’ve been in Fengli for two years now.”

After I said it, I did not fall apart the way I used to.

I only let out a breath, very, very slowly.

Like someone who had been holding it in for two years, finally admitting he was still alive.

I called my doctor from the cemetery.

When the call connected, I could not speak. The doctor did not rush me. She only asked me to describe three things I could see around me.

I said, “A headstone, plane tree leaves, and a cup of hot water.”

Then she asked me to describe two sounds I could hear.

I said, “The wind, and the footsteps of someone sweeping a grave.”

Finally, she asked, “What do you want to do most right now?”

I looked at Nanzhi’s photograph and was silent for a long time.

In the past, my answer would have been to stay.

Stay and keep her company. Stay and atone. Stay and freeze myself into a piece of stone that could no longer walk away.

But that day, I suddenly remembered Xiaoman asking me if I would come tomorrow.

I said, “I want to pick my child up from school.”

On the other end of the line, the doctor gave a soft mm.

“Then go do that first.”

I hung up and sat in front of the grave for another ten minutes.

“Nanzhi,” I said, “I might still want to run away in the future. I might still say the wrong thing, burn the food, make Xiaoman cry. But I’ll come back and make it right.”

The wind blew over, and one dried petal fell from the white roses.

I did not take it as her answer anymore.

I simply picked up the petal and placed it in my palm.

Then I rose and headed down the mountain.