Echoes of Whispers
On the fourth day, the sky was overcast. Gray clouds hung low over the city, filtering out all the vibrant colors, leaving only a dull gray. Light weakly penetrated the clouds and diffused into the apartment, making everything seem even paler and more still.
Ye Shu still woke up at that time and went through his usual routine. But today, he didn't sit by the window for long, nor did he immediately begin his wide-angle observation of the city.
The brewed wild tea was placed on the long table, steam rising from it, drawing a few fleeting, soft white curves against the gray background. He walked towards the wooden box in the corner of the bedroom.
He didn't take the box to the living room. Instead, he sat down beside the tatami and opened the lid. Unlike yesterday, when he had merely scanned the box with his eyes, today, his fingers reached inside and very gently lifted the bundle of rice paper strips tied with hemp string.
The hemp rope wasn't tied tightly, and it came loose with a flick of his finger. The slips of paper scattered, about seven or eight, each with a few numbers written on it. The ink varied in depth, but the handwriting was consistent—extremely thin and light, with a sense of detached strength that subtly matched Ye Shu's temperament.
He didn't pick them up in order, but let them scatter on the dark wooden floor like a few fallen leaves. His eyes moved slowly among the ink words.
【The boat passes away】
[Mist Locks Thousand Rivers]
Untied Boat
【empty pool】
Winter 2009
【Homeland】
【Thanks】
There was no date, no context, only these fragmented words, like shells washed ashore by the tide, the life and sound that once existed within them long gone, leaving only a hard, empty form.
His fingertips brushed over the words "Winter 2009." The warmth from his fingertips didn't alter the cold ink at all. His gaze lingered a little longer.
Outside the window, an ambulance with a sharp siren sounded from far away, then from near to far away, and finally disappeared in the background noise of the city.
The sound did not seem to disturb him, but it was like an invisible key, gently knocking on a long-closed door.
His gaze drifted unfocused toward the gray sky outside the window. Deep within his pupils, a blurry image seemed to begin to drift. It wasn't a clear picture, but rather fragments of sensation: a bone-chilling, damp chill unique to the south, seeping into his bones; the subtle creaking of the old wooden house in the wind; the smell of rainwater in the courtyard, mixed with the scent of aged moss and some indescribable, withered plant; and... a vast, silent blank, like a curtain suddenly drawn on a stage, interrupting any ongoing story.
That blank space is not nothingness, but a nearly tangible vacuum left behind after an extremely intense "loss," which once swallowed up sound, color, and warmth.
His brows furrowed imperceptibly, ever so slightly, like a ripple on a calm lake stirred up by an invisible speck of dust, which then subsided in an instant. This was almost the maximum emotional fluctuation his face could show.
His fingers unconsciously moved away from "Winter 2009" and landed on the word "Thank you".
This character was written with particularly great force, yet the ink seemed even lighter, as if the writer had exhausted all his energy, leaving behind only a light, fading trace. The final stroke was even a hasty drag, carrying a sense of determination, perhaps even fatigue.
He looked at the word for a long time.
Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he closed his eyes.
His breathing was still steady and long, but if someone observed carefully, they would find that the fingertips of his hands on his knees curled up slightly, as if he wanted to hold something, but in the end he held nothing and just maintained a suspended posture.
The apartment was completely silent. The city outside the window continued to move under the dark clouds, but everything seemed isolated in another dimension.
Time slipped away quietly as he sat in silence. The aroma of the tea gradually faded, and the tea grew completely cold.
Those pieces of rice paper scattered on the ground, silently telling the past that no one can understand.
He didn't know how long it had been, maybe just a few minutes, maybe an hour, before he opened his eyes again. In the empty amber of his eyes, the blurry fragments that had been floating around had settled, and a bottomless calm had returned.
He reached out and began to gather the scattered rice paper strips one by one, his movements careful and gentle, as if he were collecting fragile bird feathers. He didn't even look at the words on them, but simply folded them in some invisible order and tied them up again with the hemp rope.
The rope was tied back to its original shape, and that simple knot seemed to have locked back something that had just briefly escaped.
He placed the bundled paper back into the wooden box and closed the lid. His fingers rested on the smooth wooden lid for a moment, feeling its warm touch.
Then he stood up and walked to the window.
The world outside was still gray, the traffic moving slowly like a sticky gray slurry. The buildings in the distance looked oppressive and silent under the low clouds.
He raised his hand, his fingertips gently pressing against the cold glass. Through his fingertips, he could feel the vague vibrations of the world outside the window—the eternal low-frequency pulse of the city.
His gaze passed over the buildings and looked into the distance, to the chaotic and unclear boundary where the sky and the earth met.
No one knew what he was thinking. Perhaps he was thinking nothing at all. He simply retracted the fleeting, faint breath of the past back into the vast, silent depths of the sparse leaves.
Those whispers, those echoes, are ultimately just whispers and echoes.
Failed to change anything.
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