No. 58 A Cry in the Rain at the Crossroads
It rained.
The rain came suddenly and strangely, a persistent, dreary drizzle that shrouded Upper Capital City in a perpetual haze. It had been pouring relentlessly for three days, the sun a distant memory, the air heavy with moisture.
March 23rd. The day we collected her father’s ashes.
The execution had proceeded smoothly. Considering Xiaodie’s age, the authorities had mercifully handled everything—the cremation, the paperwork, the arrangements with the funeral home. By four in the afternoon, Xiaodie, who had stayed home from school, received a call from the funeral home.
“Let’s go.”
I pushed away my laptop, grabbed my hat, and joined her.
Our relationship had evolved into something akin to a real partnership. She had given me a key to her new home, and we often slept in the same bed, our bodies finding comfort in each other’s presence. She wasn’t shy about showing affection, her touch lingering a little too long, her gaze a little too intense. We had crossed all the lines, except for that one.
Xiaodie’s feelings were genuine. She thought nothing of walking around the apartment in the nude, or snuggling up to me in her sleepwear while we watched anime.
But to the outside world, we were just close friends.
“Gal pals,” as they say.
We hadn’t defined our relationship, nor had we denied the knowing glances and playful teasing from others.
I had accompanied her to her old apartment. “Ransacked” was an understatement. Anything of value was gone, and the rest was smashed and destroyed.
The “search for evidence” had been a farce, a convenient excuse for those vultures to pick at the bones of her misfortune.
Xiaodie had been unusually quiet that day, her usual exuberance replaced by a somber pensiveness.
“Yi Yao, are you alright? You seem… off.”
She looked at me with concern as I entered the living room, dressed in black.
“Huh? I’m fine. Why?” I asked, confused.
Shouldn’t I be the one asking her that?
“Don’t lie to me.”
She studied me intently, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I know what’s going on… Hee hee. Make sure you stay warm, okay? It’s easy to catch a chill in this weather.”
I knew exactly what she was referring to, and I couldn’t help but smack her lightly on the head. “Thanks for your concern, but I’m not that fragile.”
Although… she was right.
That time of the month was always a pain. No matter how many layers I wore or how much hot tea and ginger water I consumed, the cramps persisted, a dull ache that intensified at the worst possible moments. And then there was the constant urge to pee, the discomfort of wearing a thick pad in the sweltering heat. It was enough to make anyone irritable.
“Is it true that girls who live together eventually get their periods at the same time?” she asked, ignoring my exasperated expression.
“How would I know? You’re welcome to test that theory.” I shot her a look. “But just so you know, mine usually starts around the 20th, towards the end of the month. That’s when all the important stuff happens—exams, deadlines, you name it. Are you sure you want to synchronize with that?”
“Mine starts on the 7th. I doubt it actually works that way.”
She giggled, pulling out her phone. “Do you know where the Upper Capital City Funeral Home is?”
“Yes.”
“Such a sad story…” she murmured.
“What do you mean?”
She leaned against me, resting her head on my shoulder. “Because that means… in another world, you’ve also experienced the death of someone close to you.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
My mother, my father—they were gone, leaving me to shoulder the weight of their absence.
“We should get going,” I said softly.
She nodded, her cheerful facade slipping for a moment, revealing the raw grief beneath. She was like a child who had lost her favorite toy, trying her best to be brave in front of a parent.
Xiaodie was stronger than I had given her credit for.
Perhaps, as she had said, she had already come to terms with loss. Her grandmother, the closest person in her life, had passed away when she was fourteen. I, on the other hand, had only experienced my first true brush with death at seventeen.
She had known all along that this day would come, that her father’s actions would have consequences.
I didn’t know what they had talked about during their last meeting. Perhaps they hadn’t said much at all, choosing instead to share a simple meal, to watch some television, to savor those last precious moments of normalcy.
The funeral home was deserted, the somber mood amplified by the relentless rain. Two police officers stood at attention near the entrance, holding a long, ornately carved wooden box draped in a red cloth. A black and white photograph of Xiaodie’s father was affixed to the front.
They saluted as we approached, handing Xiaodie the box and a small booklet. “If you need to visit again, just show this booklet to the staff upstairs. The annual storage fee is 100 yuan. We’ve already paid for three years.”
They didn’t ask if she had any other family, or if she had her identification documents. Their faces, however, held a look of quiet sympathy.
A young girl, orphaned by her father’s crimes, collecting his ashes with only her classmate by her side. It was a heartbreaking sight.
“Thank you. You can leave now,” Xiaodie said.
The officers exchanged surprised glances.
“We’ll take it from here,” she repeated, taking my hand and leading me away.
“Where to, Yi Yao?”
“Left… follow that path.”
In my original timeline, I wouldn’t be visiting this place for another year.
But it didn’t matter. Funeral homes were timeless, their somber atmosphere unchanging.
Except for Qingming Festival, the annual tomb-sweeping holiday, the place was usually deserted. It was said that working at a funeral home was one of the easiest and most well-paying jobs, yet few people were willing to do it.
I remembered a train journey I had taken in my previous life, while searching for a job. I had been chatting with a friendly young woman sitting across from me. She was beautiful, and her job, she claimed, paid well. A young man, seated nearby, had been trying to flirt with her. But when he asked about her profession, her response, “Mortician,” had effectively ended the conversation.
For the next several hours, the man avoided his seat. It wasn’t until I returned from the restroom that I noticed him asleep in the hallway, as far away from us as possible.
“Maybe we should come back during Qingming Festival?” I suggested.
We stood in a courtyard shrouded in mist, facing a row of stone statues representing the twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac. Offerings of food and incense had been placed before them, despite the rain. A handful of mourners wandered the grounds, their grief a palpable presence in the damp air.
I didn’t know Xiaodie’s family customs, nor had she elaborated. I only remembered that when my parents passed away, their ashes were kept at the funeral home for a few years before being taken back to our ancestral home for burial.
“No, I need to talk to my father.”
She shook her head and walked towards the statue of the horse, her zodiac sign.
“He told me… this is life.”
She carefully placed the box on a nearby stone table, lit three incense sticks, and stood before the altar, her back straight, her shoulders squared.
“Dad, I never thought you were a good father. You promised to take me out countless times, but you always broke your promises. For two out of my three years in middle school, I was alone.”
“So I started skipping class, getting into fights, dreading the thought of coming home to that empty apartment. It didn’t feel like a home anymore.”
“You tried to compensate by giving me more and more allowance, but you never understood what I really wanted.”
“I don’t need a luxurious life, I don’t need money, I don’t need fame or fortune. I just want a home. A real home, with a loving family, a place where I feel safe and cherished…”
“And now… look what your greed has done…”
My heart ached for her. I held the umbrella over her head, my presence a silent source of comfort.
“Dad, from now on, I’m going to live my life the way you told me to.”
“But I’m not alone anymore. I have someone worth fighting for.”
As if on cue, the rain stopped.
The incense sticks burned low, their embers fading into ash.
“Dad… I’m sorry. I love you.”
She bowed deeply, her body trembling slightly, then turned and walked towards me.
Without a word, she threw her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder, her tears soaking through my shirt.
The staff, accustomed to such displays of grief, simply looked away, perhaps mistaking us for sisters.
“It’s okay,” I murmured, stroking her hair. I forced a smile. “What do you want for dinner tonight? My treat.”
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