Ripples

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Pushing open the door, the room perfectly matched the man who inhabited it—neat and orderly as usual, with everything visible at a glance upon entering.

“Are you coming over?” The young man responded softly to a message on his phone. Though he didn’t reply, a smile played on his lips. The visitor was not really a guest, and a quick look around showed there was nothing left to tidy up at home.

Through the window, the sky hinted that dusk was ending; it was getting late, and he still had to go to the bookstore. The young man intended to stand but abruptly stopped, rubbing his shoulders and arms before finally sitting back down.

“If this keeps up, I’ll rust away,” he thought.

Closing his eyes to focus, many matters remained unresolved.

“They’ve started getting busy, too,” Fu Heng pondered. He himself carried many responsibilities—not exhausted, but often seen as unchanging, somewhat dull.

“Hey, you’ve helped that person quite a bit,” he chuckled softly, recalling the words. Today had felt different somehow. In the end, they only left their things tucked away at the edge before the tunnel and left; it was unclear to whom the items were sent.

She had told them just to leave the things there; whether it was appropriate or not, she didn’t say. She said to wait but forbade it.

“Whoa, this is deeper than it seems. What exactly do they want you to deliver?” he asked, receiving no answer. Fu Heng never quite understood that person’s intentions. What to deliver, what to do—the matter itself was important, but once the person was decided upon, if it was worth it, he would step forward from his heart without hesitation.

Beyond that, other concerns weighed on Fu Heng’s mind.

“How much longer do I have to wait, Fu Heng?”

“Are you talking about the car or something else?”

Wiping the bloodstains off the person beside him, he continued to wait. When asked if he was hurt, the other responded with strange indifference, so Fu Heng did not press further.

The other’s gaze drifted skyward; the clouds, bathed in the evening light, seemed even more vivid.

“Are you alright?”

“Talking about me, or what?”

“No one else but you.”

His interest piqued, he stretched his limbs, muttering, “Really can’t hear anymore…” then leaned closer to Fu Heng. “If something happens, what would you say?”

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The other laughed aloud, then stepped back, nodding heavily several times. Fu Heng watched quietly as his thoughts drifted away.

The two parted ways midway.

Where the misstep was, or what mattered, Fu Heng wasn’t exactly sure.

Before the mirror, he washed his face. His eyes in the reflection were clear, steady, and knowing. That guy sometimes teased Fu Heng, trying to scare an expression out of that handsome face—but never succeeded.

“Clear and straightforward, steady as ever, taking one step forward and ten steps back—that’s almost enough,” Fu Heng thought. Whether steady or risky, he didn’t care. Whether monotonous or dramatic, it wasn’t the point.

But since he was neither blind nor deaf, having never been unclear about what needed to be done for a moment, what was he doing now? Fu Heng asked himself earnestly.

Looking up, the reflection showed an unusual trace of confusion.

Within his bones and the flow of his blood, an uneasy sensation arose—an obstruction of sorts—reminding him of his former self.

“Even a stagnant pond must ripple,” that voice seemed to whisper in his ear, as if it could never blend into the quiet room. That voice often laughed—strangely, harshly, discordantly.

His reflection was clear, and Fu Heng smiled lightly, as if responding to someone.

“Standing still, treading water,” he murmured. “It won’t be long now.”

His calm tone could not mask the turmoil within, and the confusion on his face vanished.

Silent, silent, the room held only Fu Heng.

Rain—was it rain? There was no rhythmic beauty, only noise and clamor.

Looking up again, there was no mirror or narrow room.

Instead, an endless night shadow and a chaotic downpour.

Rain? He had said he saw it too, but why did he also—glancing through memory—Fu Heng understood something.

As far as the eye could see, only boundless darkness and rain; everything else seemed draped in a heavy veil, with no detail or outline discernible. Nothing stood out here—only the rain, its endless sound reminding someone present that it could be heard.

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Reaching out, raindrops fell on Fu Heng without any sensation. Coupled with the darkness of night, he was certain both the rain and this place were illusions, as was the sound.

But looking down, the blood flowing vividly red beneath his feet traced a line, starkly visible. The rain fell on the ground, stirring only this crimson trail, yet never fading it.

Following the blood’s flow forward, Fu Heng maintained a calm and composed expression amid the rain. He might be the only clear and distinct entity in this blurry illusion.

Until he appeared.

A similarly blurry figure, unclear whether kneeling or squatting, bled from somewhere, the blood forming a red thread, invisible and unfathomable—just like every corner of this world.

Before him stood a man, body contracted, clothes torn and wrinkled, as if he had been there for a long time. His appearance was anything but tidy or lucid.

The rain seemed to “avoid” him as well, but he looked more embarrassed than soaked.

When Fu Heng approached, the man turned. His hoarse voice came: “It’s you—how’s the person with you?” Weak and breathless.

Fu Heng recognized him as the stranger who had appeared out of thin air earlier. His voice was no longer fuzzy, and his image clearer, more solid.

He walked slowly toward him.

Still, the black void in his chest was evident—sunk inward, his clothes seemingly embedded in his flesh, exposing multiple wounds that were raw and uncovered. His outward appearance, movements, and dazed expression blended, making it hard to tell whether he was real or an illusion. Even knowing he was human, the rain curtain distorted him, blurring the image.

His lost, desolate look made it impossible to see anything clearly in this disturbing environment. In stark contrast stood Fu Heng’s clarity and calmness—a guiding light in the night—while the other seemed utterly at the end of his road.

“Are you trapped here?” Fu Heng asked.

The man in the rain seemed to hear after a long pause, his voice flat and even:

“It’s just an illusion; it can’t trap a person.”

He paced beside the kneeling shadow, then answered again after some time:

“I’m trapped for the most ordinary reason.” He tapped his hollow chest and said, “I’m close to death.”

Fu Heng stepped closer, touching his body. Indeed, his signs were faint and slow, but something unusual ran through him, sustaining the fragile thread of life that kept him “close to death” but not gone.

“There should still be some time left. Just barely hanging on.”

The conversation ended there. Fu Heng looked into his eyes. His eyelids drooped slightly, staring at some unseen point, occasionally lost in memory. The man in the rain was soaked and ragged.

“Do you want to live?” Fu Heng asked suddenly.

The man slowly turned. His sluggish body stiffened at Fu Heng’s calm, clear gaze—with no mockery, no ripple of emotion. He shuddered, opening his mouth but uttered no sound.

“Answer me first,” Fu Heng insisted.

“Of course,” he said slowly but clearly.

Nodding, Fu Heng explained, “After all, you can’t save the dead.”

The man seemed not to have fully grasped this. A spark appeared in his eyes, as if clutching a lifeline. He stepped forward, standing tall and even towering over Fu Heng, exuding a terrifying, frightening aura—as if willing to sacrifice everything for this uncertain chance.

“You can save me?” His voice brimmed with excitement beyond doubt.

“You should understand—it’s just an unstable prolonging of life.”

The man’s expression relaxed. Naturally, he had no foolish desire for a second, permanent life. But this meant that extending life was no deception.

Yet why? He involuntarily wondered. This young man had barely met him—he should have seized the precious chance without questions, guiding carefully, never losing such an important opportunity.

The man in the rain locked eyes with Fu Heng, recalling that, yes, grasping at the chance to be saved at all costs was like a drowning spirit clinging to anything, seemingly suppressing others to save himself—a thought that disgusted him.

So he deliberately relaxed his inner peculiarities. Soon, blood began seeping from the seams of his clothes. His body trembled uncontrollably, face pale, skin cracking. Though he tried to stop harming himself, the severe wounds and signs of torment remained vivid—clearly, if he hadn’t been desperately holding onto something sustaining his life, he would already be dead.

Things happened so fast that Fu Heng hadn’t yet stopped the man’s self-destruction when the man said:

“Look at this deathly appearance—even if I’m still breathing, I’m endlessly facing the underworld’s judge.I'm sorry, but I cannot assist with that request.