Embers of the Broken River

Chapter 15 Sticked to the Chest

Wang saw him in the crowd.

The firelight illuminated the courtyard of the Chongtian Division. The escapees gathered in twos and threes in front of the screen wall. Some were coughing, some were brushing the ash off their clothes, and some were looking up at the roof of the west corridor, reduced to a charred skeleton, muttering, "Luckily we ran fast." No one looked towards the stone steps.

Only Wang Shi saw it.

He was lifting the kettle off the stove when he heard the fire alarm in the kitchen. The bottom of the kettle hit the iron rack with a clang, and water splashed onto the back of his hand, scalding him.

He didn't bother wiping himself. As he rushed out of the kitchen, the crowd surged outwards. He pushed against the flow of people towards the west corridor, getting bumped in the shoulder three times. Once, he hit a pillar at the kitchen door, his back tingling from the impact. He didn't stop.

When he arrived at the stone steps, Jia Xianzheng rushed out of the doorway.

The clothes were still smoldering. It wasn't an open flame, but the fabric on the cuffs and back was still smoldering after being burned. Sparks were slowly crawling forward through the fibers, like a very thin red line wriggling on the fabric.

The blisters on the back of my neck had burst, and the water mixed with the rainwater, trickling down my back and into my collar. My knees were kneeling in the puddles on the stone steps, and the purplish-red color of my old wounds peeked through my soaked trousers.

Jia Xian knelt there, panting heavily, his chest heaving. Each exhale carried a faint wisp of blue smoke, the hot air he had swallowed in the fire, now being expelled from his lungs.

Wang Shi ran up to him, squatted down, and placed one hand on his shoulder, feeling the man trembling. It wasn't fear; the trembling came from deep within his bones, as if his bones still remembered the temperature of the fire.

Before Jia Xian could catch his breath, he looked up at him.

Wang Shi saw that his eyes were red from the smoke, his eyelashes were covered in black ash, and tears mingled with raindrops at the corners of his eyes. But his gaze was extremely bright. That brightness was not excitement, not fear, not the relief of escaping death, but the calm and certain light in a person's eyes after confirming that what is most important to them is still there.

Then he heard Jia Xian speak.

"The manuscript wasn't burned."

His voice was hoarse, his throat still choked by smoke, and he hadn't quite caught his breath; his throat was still spasming as he uttered those four words. But his enunciation was extremely clear. It wasn't mumbled, it wasn't spoken to himself, but to everyone in the world waiting to see this triangular diagram.

Wang Shi remained silent.

He didn't know what a triangle was. He didn't recognize numbers, couldn't understand calculations, and couldn't decipher any of the nights Jia Xian had worked over the past three years, any of the counting rods spread out on the table, or the bamboo stick still tucked between his fingers when he fell asleep at the table. But he recognized the weight of those four words.

His father's last words were, "The hammer is still here." That hammer was the only proof of his father's lifelong blacksmithing. His father placed the hammer against his chest and closed his eyes. Just now, as he rushed over, squeezing against the flow of people in the crowd, he was thinking of his father.

So he knew Jia Xian wasn't talking to him. Jia Xian was talking to his father, to the man who tapped his chest in the snowy night and said "center of gravity," to those who hadn't even been born yet. A clerk and a servant knelt in the puddles outside the fire, acknowledging to each other that they were the same kind of people.

The loneliest people in the world are never the ones who are criticized, but those who dedicate their lives to something that no one cares about.

Jia Xian's hand was pressed against his chest. The back of his hand bore red burn marks, black ash was embedded between his fingers, and sparks still flickered from his sleeve. He wasn't covering his heart, but the manuscript paper. Through his soaked clothes and two layers of oiled paper, he could feel the paper being warmed by his body heat. The paper felt like a warmed stone against his chest, its edges still carrying the residual warmth of the fire, but its center dry.

That was the place Father pointed out. It's the center of a person's being.

Wang Shi looked down and saw that the spark on Jia Xian's cuff was still burning forward. He wondered when it would burn through the fabric and reach his wrist.

Wang Shi reached out and pinched the spark between his thumb and forefinger.

The fabric was hot; the spark burned through the fabric just as his fingertips caught it. He extinguished the spark, a white blister forming on his fingertip. The moisture beneath his skin evaporated instantly, leaving his skin pale with red edges. He pulled his hand back, tucking it into his sleeve. Jia Xian didn't notice.

Then he continued to hold Jia Xian's shoulders. He didn't let go.

The two men squatted by the stone steps for a while. The firelight shone on their backs, casting long shadows on the puddles that overlapped, making it impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Someone was calling in the courtyard. Registrar Lu ran over from the screen wall and slowed his pace when he saw Jia Xian being helped. Wang Shi looked up at him, took a half step back, and handed Jia Xian's arm to Registrar Lu. He retreated very naturally, like a shadow that had finished its duty and should leave, without any intention of being noticed.

Registrar Lu helped Jia Xian up. Jia Xian's knees buckled as he stood, and he nearly fell, but Registrar Lu caught him. Jia Xian's other hand was still clutching his chest, where the triangular diagram draft, the old rudimentary copy, and his father's "center of gravity" lay. Once he steadied himself, he told Registrar Lu, "It's alright."

Wang Shi turned around and walked back.

He paused behind the pillar. He pulled the hand that had extinguished the spark from his sleeve and looked down at the white blister on his fingertip. It wasn't a deep burn, but the pain was dull, like a needle pricking down under his fingernail. He put his finger in his mouth, sucked on it, then rolled up his sleeve again and continued towards the kitchen.

The kettle was still boiling on the stove. He pushed open the door, and steam hit his face. Most of the water in the kettle had boiled away, with the rest bubbling and gurgling at the bottom. He lifted the kettle off the stove, filled it with cold water, and put it back on. The flame flickered across his face, and he blinked.

He had nothing to do tonight. He squatted in front of the stove, adding firewood. The fire crackled, and the firelight illuminated the old scars on the back of his hands, making the burn marks flicker. A new white blister on the tip of his thumb hadn't broken yet; tomorrow it would turn into a light brown scab, lying side by side with the old scars, like a group of silent night watchmen.

He added another piece of firewood to the fire. A flicker of firelight danced across his face. Outside, firefighters were calling someone's name, their voices sounding as distant as half a city away. He listened to the voices, but didn't move.

He had nothing to do tonight. He simply squatted by the stove, clenching and unclenching his scalded hand as if holding something invisible. Something heavier than a spark, lighter than his life. He put it into the fire, watching it burn to a blaze, then added another piece. Three pieces in total. Each piece shone only briefly in the flames before turning to ash, indistinguishable from the rest.

The only time in his life he stood in front of everyone's gaze was when he was carrying a tea tray. The only time in his life he extinguished a spark was with his fingers. No one but him remembers these actions. But he did them. He has already done them.

Jia Xian was still kneeling on the stone steps, clutching his chest.

The manuscript wasn't burned. The center of gravity is still intact.