That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep again.

But this time it was out of happiness.

That day, Auntie Zhou had taken me out shopping. Zhou Haiyan wanted to tag along, but Auntie Zhou told him to go be somewhere cool and out of the way.

Then she took me to a women’s underwear shop I had never once set foot in.

For the first time, I learned that girls’ underwear came in so many types and colors—that different stages of puberty called for different kinds of bras, that having no cup at all wasn’t normal.

Auntie patiently had me try on piece after piece, without a hint of impatience, until we found ones that fit me properly.

She taught me, step by step, how to wear different bras correctly, how to fasten the straps behind my back.

She said that breast development was a completely normal biological process, that it meant Qingqing was growing up, and that I should hold my head high and not feel any shame.

She said that choosing the wrong bra could easily lead to problems, especially with the accessory breast tissue near the underarms.

That day, I got my first and second real, proper girls’ bras—gifts from Auntie.

Perhaps because she was so meticulous and attentive, the shop clerk remarked how devoted she was to her daughter.

Auntie didn’t correct her. She just pulled me into her arms.

Smiling, she said, “How could I not dote on such a good girl?”

Auntie Zhou felt more like a mother to me than my own mother ever had.

I buried my face in the soft quilt that night, feeling almost dizzy with happiness.

From now on, I too would be a child with pretty, comfortable underwear!

Underwear!

Oh no!

Something occurred to me, and I bolted upright in bed.

The new bras were still on the sofa downstairs! Auntie had said they needed to be hand-washed before I could wear them.

I put on my slippers and tiptoed downstairs, planning to wash them that very night.

A dim yellow lamp lit the living room. On the sofa, a man’s figure sat half-hidden in shadow, thin white smoke curling slowly from his lean fingertips. He didn’t move at all, as if his soul had been drawn out, leaving nothing but a shell for the smoke to consume.

I froze in place.

As if sensing something, he stubbed out the cigarette.

“Hungry?”

I shook my head, then realized he couldn’t see that, and spoke instead.

“No, I came to get a small bag—I forgot to wash something inside.”

“You mean those two little undershirts? I already washed them and hung them up.”

Wait, what?

I was stunned.

Glancing sideways toward the balcony, I saw them hanging neatly on the drying rack, damp and wrinkled, clearly hand-washed.

An inexplicable, strange feeling washed over me.

Why did he have to be so diligent about it—it made me look like a lazy good-for-nothing.

He patted the spot beside him, gesturing for me to sit.

His tone puzzled, “You can’t hand-wash them yourself?”

I propped my chin in my hand, nodding and then shaking my head. “It’s not that—your grip’s just really strong, I was worried you’d scrub them to shreds.”

He: “…”

“I’ll be more careful next time, then.”

At the time, in his eyes I was just an unfinished child, and I had no real experience being around men either—he saw me as a little sister, I saw him as an older brother, and neither of us realized there was anything unusual about any of it.

As it neared midnight, he urged me to go back to my room and sleep.

I refused.

Because of my family circumstances growing up, in order to avoid beatings, I’d trained myself to read my father’s moods—and over time, I’d become very perceptive of people’s emotions in general.

Zhou Haiyan was in a very bad state right now.

He was almost like a prisoner in despair, waiting for something, keeping watch over something.

It made me feel that, right here, right now, I should be by his side.

Looking back on that night countless times afterward, I’ve always been grateful my instincts were right.

The clock struck midnight.

Suddenly, from upstairs, came the sound of a door opening—Auntie Zhou came down.

But she didn’t seem to notice us at all, walking straight across the living room, out into the courtyard, until she stopped beneath that osmanthus tree.

I thought she was sleepwalking. I didn’t dare make a sound, terrified of disturbing her.

The night was heavy and deep, and as the wind passed through the leaves, it set the wind chimes at the branch tips ringing—a crisp, hollow sound magnified endlessly in the silence, again and again.

That slender figure turned, looked back, took a step, and began to dance to the rhythm of the chimes, every movement thrown with everything she had.

As if all of life and all of hope were burning, and she herself was willing to be the moth diving into the flame, dying in that inferno with the most tragic, sorrowful grace.

The cold wind whispered, and the world fell utterly silent. Zhou Haiyan and I sat by the door, quiet witnesses to this dance of life.

When the dance ended, her body tilted backward, as if entrusting herself into someone else’s arms.

But what followed such overwhelming hope was an equally overwhelming disappointment, an utter despair.

There was nothing behind her. She fell to the ground in a heap, her hands pounding wildly against the earth, tears streaming down like rain.

“Why—why do you never come back to see me. I’m afraid of ghosts, but I’m not afraid of you.

“When you’re not here, they all bully me.”

I wanted to go to her, to stop her, but a large hand caught hold of me from beside me.

His voice, low and hoarse with exhaustion: “If you go, she won’t wake up.”

Suffering flows through everyone in the same way, yet each person crosses that river of suffering differently—some sink into it and never wake again, others shoulder their burden and walk on alone.

Letting go is a path everyone must eventually walk in life.

That night, not until Auntie had cried herself completely spent did Zhou Haiyan finally go to her and carry her back to her room.

I took a warm, damp cloth and carefully wiped Auntie’s face and hands, cleaning away the tear tracks and dirt—but I knew I couldn’t wipe away the wound in her heart.

Once Auntie had fallen asleep, Zhou Haiyan sat back down on the sofa, and I quietly stayed beside him.

Under the lamplight, the man tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling, his eyes rimmed red.

After a long while, he asked, “Scared?”

I said, “No.”

Legend says that if you hang wind chimes on a tree, the wind will carry their sound and call the departed home.

Right after my mother died, I hung a string of wind chimes by the door every night.

But for two whole years, I never once dreamed of her.

Instead, it was my father who smashed the chimes to pieces on the ground, warning me not to mess around with such things—said it unsettled him, gave him nightmares every night.

So what was there to be afraid of?

The thing you fear is something others long for, day and night, and still can never see again.

I wasn’t afraid, but I was sad.

I was sad that they, barely able to hold themselves together, still tried so hard to give me warmth.

I was sad that this world was riddled with wounds, and yet there were still people trying to mend it.

I was sad that we all seemed to be gripped in the jaws of different sufferings, stumbling through the same human world.

Zhou Haiyan carried too much bitterness in his heart—so much that just sitting beside him, I could feel myself sinking into a pain and loneliness beyond words, as though standing right at the boundary between life and death, abandoned by both at once.

And there was nothing at all I could do.