Indigo Line
The subway during rush hour is like a tin can. Ayu huddled in a corner of the carriage, her nose brushing against the rain-stained backpack of the passenger in front of her. The morning light outside the glass window was fragmented, sweeping across the platform. She saw the shadows of coconut trees on the billboards and suddenly remembered the shimmering light spots on the coral reefs when she was diving at Weizhou Island last year.
"Dreaming again?" Zhong Hua's voice drifted through the crowd. The subway card he was clutching was white from being squeezed so tightly that the edges were frayed—it was a souvenir card they used on their first date, with the Bund's night view printed on the back, the curve of the riverbank railing, and the same bamboo poles used for drying cloth in the dyeing workshops of Wuzhen.
Ayu didn't reply, her gaze falling on the gap between the seats opposite her. There, a kraft paper envelope was stuck, sealed with several layers of transparent tape, the tape adorned with tiny cotton fibers, the color of which resembled the sand of the Gobi Desert near Dunhuang. Taking advantage of the surging crowd, she bent down to reach for it, and the moment her fingertips touched the envelope, she suddenly remembered her mother's dowry wooden chest, the bottom lined with blue-printed cloth, also with this rough paper texture.
The envelope was light, and a hand-drawn map fell out when it was opened. The paper was yellowed and the edges were frayed. It depicted a route from People's Square to an old street, with the mailbox and newsstand on the street corner circled in red pen, much like the lighthouse markers in Zhong Hua's grandfather's logbook. In the center of the map, an arrow pointed to a tree, next to which was written: "The tin box under the 17th plane tree." The handwriting was a rounded running script, with small ink smudges at the ends of the strokes, which inexplicably reminded A Yu of the cloud patterns painted by the old master in the dyeing workshop of Wuzhen with bamboo chopsticks dipped in indigo.
"The 17th tree?" Zhong Hua leaned closer to look. The subway suddenly braked, and his shoulder bumped into A Yu's forehead, carrying a mixed smell of laundry detergent and last night's leftovers. "Which tree should we start counting from?"
The rain stopped when they exited the station. Water droplets from the sycamore leaves landed on Ayu's hand, feeling cool and refreshing. They followed the map, passing a breakfast stall selling glutinous rice balls. In the rising steam, Ayu noticed an oil stain on the stall owner's apron, its shape exactly matching the mailbox marked on the map. When Zhong Hua counted to the 15th tree, he suddenly stopped—on the trunk of the sycamore in front of them, the outline of a little prince was drawn in chalk, his pilot's hat tilted at an angle, matching the arc of the ribbons of the flying apsaras they had seen in the Dunhuang murals.
The 17th tree stands at the entrance of the old alley, its roots embedded in half a bluestone slab. Moss grows in the cracks of the slab, its color remarkably similar to the lichen on the volcanic rocks of Weizhou Island. Ayu crouches down, her fingertips just touching the soil beside the tree roots when she feels a cool, icy corner. Zhong Hua uses a key to pry open the rusty lock. The moment the iron box pops open, a musty, bookish scent wafts out, mixed with a faint camphor wood aroma, reminding Ayu of her grandmother's wooden chest, which always contained camphor wood strips for scenting clothes.
Inside the box lay a copy of *The Little Prince*, its cover a faded bright yellow, the gold-stamped stars worn down to mere outlines, much like the star map they had created with pebbles under the Namtso Lake. Ayu opened the title page and suddenly froze—two lines were written in pen: "All grown-ups were once children." The pauses and turns in the handwriting were identical to the character for "longevity" on the indigo cloth from the dyeing workshop in Wuzhen. She remembered that the sun was shining brightly that day, and the old craftsman was carving patterns on the blue cloth with a bamboo knife; the lines where the knife cut, the patterns of indigo dye seeping through, mirrored the rhythm of the pen strokes.
“Look at this.” Zhong Hua pulled a ticket tucked inside the book—a ticket stub from the 1997 Shanghai Film Festival. On the back, a small planet B612 was drawn in pencil, its crater crookedly, yet strikingly similar to a satellite map of Weizhou Island. Even more astonishing were the perforations along the edge of the ticket stub, which, when arranged, formed the contour lines of the sacred waterfall in Yubeng Village—the same map they had seen in the guide's notebook during their pilgrimage to the mountain last year.
On her way home, Ayu hugged the book to her chest. The bright yellow cover shimmered warmly in the setting sun, much like the sunrise over Qinghai Lake. She remembered the old master dyer in Wuzhen saying that indigo needed to be dyed seven times before the fabric would develop its unique ice-crack pattern, just like the yellowed edges of the book's pages—each crease holding the shape of time. Zhong Hua suddenly stopped, pointing to a shop window by the roadside—inside were old-fashioned typewriters. The letter "B" on the keyboard was the most worn, revealing the metallic sheen beneath, its curve matching the horns of the sheep in *The Little Prince*.
Ayu tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep. A ticket stub that had fallen out of the book was clutched in her palm; the rough edges of the paper brushed against her skin, much like the sand of the Gobi Desert near Dunhuang. She got up, turned on the light, and looked at the title page against the light. Suddenly, she noticed extremely fine fiber patterns hidden in the ink smudges of the fountain pen writing—not the texture of ordinary paper, but more like the warp and weft of some kind of fabric. She found a blue-and-white printed cloth handkerchief she had bought in Wuzhen, laid it on the book, and compared it. The indigo dye seeped in perfectly, overlapping the ink smudges of the fountain pen writing.
“Zhong Hua, look at this.” She nudged the person next to her awake, her finger tracing the stroke of the character “child”. “The old master at the dyeing workshop said that when indigo solidifies on cloth, it forms different cracks depending on the warp and weft density. The cracks in this drawing are exactly the same as the ice patterns on my handkerchief.” Zhong Hua took the book and examined it closely by the light of the desk lamp. Suddenly, she pointed to the vertical hook of the character “曾”—there was a tiny ink dot there, shaped exactly like the pebbles they had picked up at Namtso Lake, polished by the lake water.
The next day they returned to the old alley. The soil under the 17th sycamore tree had been turned over, revealing half a bluestone slab. Ayu squatted down and discovered a blurry pattern carved on the side of the slab—the most worn part vaguely resembled a pilot's hat, the curve of the brim matching the outline of the Little Prince on the map. Zhong Hua used a key to scrape away the surface dirt, and suddenly a line of small characters appeared at the bottom of the slab: "1997.7.21," the date on the film festival ticket stub, and the starting stroke of the number "7" was exactly the same as the penmanship on the title page.
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