Chapter Five: A Woman's Voice

That voice echoed repeatedly in my ears, indistinct and fluctuating, sometimes near, sometimes far, never entirely clear.

I woke up in a daze, thinking to myself—who is up so late at night, playing the role of a "tape recorder" instead of sleeping?

The voice lingered relentlessly, making it difficult to fall back asleep. Resolving to find its source, I got out of bed and walked outside.

Stepping out the door, the voice persisted, distant and ethereal, clearly coming from somewhere beyond. Since there was nothing more I could do about it, I headed toward the living room, planning to have a glass of water before trying to sleep again.

As I entered the living room, I noticed the front door was half open. Who would go out at this hour of the night and leave the door ajar? It’s not as if we live in an age when people leave doors unlocked and no one steals. Even in a village, you'd keep two fierce dogs for security, let alone in the city.

I approached the door. Outside, a thick mist had risen, shrouding everything in a hazy veil.

“One stroke brings fortune and longevity, two strokes banish sorrow. Three strokes guard chastity, four strokes bind sisterly friendship…”

The voice became clearer, as if it were just nearby.

I hesitated for a moment. Since the door was already open, I might as well step outside and see who it was. Otherwise, I’d never get back to sleep with this disturbance.

Venturing into the fog, I found all the nearby buildings dark, their lights extinguished. The street was utterly quiet. Aside from that wavering voice, which drifted closer and farther, there was not a sound.

It was oddly silent for the city; one would expect at least the distant hum of traffic, no matter how late it was.

Suddenly, a sharp light appeared ahead. As I drew near, I saw it was the clinic where I’d brought Nest for treatment earlier. It was still open.

Inside, Doctor Huang was packing up, seemingly preparing to close for the night. A large patch of blood stained the ground near the doorway—apparently, someone had come in for treatment after an accident.

He saw me and, recognizing me, remarked in surprise, “You’re still up?”

“That noise woke me, and I couldn't get back to sleep,” I replied, approaching him. “You’re working pretty late yourself.”

“No choice—it’s for a living. But this is the last time,” he said with a faint smile, continuing to tidy up.

“You’re quitting after this?”

He just smiled again and kept packing. I didn’t disturb him further and left the clinic, following the voice onward. No other shops were open along the way.

“One stroke brings fortune and longevity, two strokes banish sorrow. Three strokes guard chastity…”

The voice ebbed and flowed, sometimes as if right beside me, sometimes so faint it was almost lost to the mist. I had wandered far; perhaps it was best to turn back. If whoever went out earlier returned and locked the door, I’d be left out in the cold.

Turning around, I realized I’d somehow wandered out of the urban village. All around me were low, old brick or even mud houses, and the road underfoot was dirt, not concrete—a scene straight out of the countryside of decades past.

I was astonished. The urban village was already a rural enclave within the city, but this place seemed even more isolated, and clearly much less developed than I could have imagined. This shouldn’t be possible!

Stunned by the unfamiliar surroundings, I hadn’t even noticed how I’d gotten here. Now, how was I to find my way back? I prided myself on being clever, but here I was, lost without a clue.

“One stroke brings fortune and longevity, two strokes banish sorrow. Three strokes guard chastity, four strokes bind sisterly friendship. Five strokes for diligence…”

The voice was clearer now, the source evidently close by. Whatever the case, I would have to seek out its owner and ask for directions back to the village.

I followed the sound; it remained elusive but seemed, on the whole, to be drawing nearer.

Mist swirled around me, and through it I could just make out a long river flowing slowly by.

“One stroke brings fortune and longevity, two strokes banish sorrow.
Three strokes guard chastity, four strokes bind sisterly friendship.
Five strokes for diligence, six strokes for harmony.
Seven strokes to honor the Goddess of Mercy, eight strokes to honor one’s parents…”

A slender figure knelt by the riverbank, long hair cascading down so that her face was hidden. She seemed to be combing her hair—one verse per stroke—solemnly and methodically, as if performing a ritual.

The mist above the river thickened, growing dense and impenetrable. My vision blurred.

The chant broke off abruptly. The woman’s figure vanished into the fog.

Startled, I wondered where she had gone so suddenly. I still needed to ask her the way back!

I hurried toward where she had been. Unless she had entered the water, it made no sense for her to disappear so quickly.

But the river, which had seemed so close, now looked strangely distant. I broke into a run. The mist grew heavier, my field of view shrinking with every step.

Just as I reached the riverbank, my foot caught on something and I pitched forward, landing hard on my hands at the water’s edge, my face inches from the river.

A pale face hovered just below the surface, dark eyes staring straight at me!

“Luozi! Luozi!” Wenzi’s voice suddenly rang out from afar.

I opened my eyes to bright daylight.

A towel landed on my face as Wenzi, toothbrush in mouth, called out, “It’s morning! Go wash up.”

Damn it! The foam from his mouth sprayed all over me!

I started to snap at him in irritation, but found my body limp, utterly drained of strength. My head spun with dizziness at the slightest movement.

I knew this feeling all too well. Before I turned eighteen, when I was frail and often ill, I used to feel just like this.

“Wenzi, check if I have a fever,” I said weakly.

He looked at me suspiciously. “Are you messing around? You always used to eat, drink, gamble, and whore, and your health was never an issue.”

He laid a hand on my forehead and exclaimed, “Damn! You’re burning up! What happened? Can’t handle the climate here? I’ll get you some fever medicine.”

“I’ve taken too much medicine already. I’ll just go to the clinic for an injection—it’s not far,” I struggled to get up.

“Don’t bother. There was a murder at the clinic. Dr. Huang was beaten to death. The police are investigating it now!”

I froze. “Dead? How?”

Last night, everything seemed fine when Nest went for treatment.

Wenzi explained that it was his uncle who found out, early this morning, when he took Nest to the clinic after finding him still unconscious and burning with fever. They arrived to find the clinic door open, Dr. Huang lying on the ground in a pool of blood, already cold. Terrified, they immediately called the police.

Nest had already been sent to the hospital. Dr. Huang had apparently died from a severe blow to the head, sometime shortly after we’d left the clinic last night. Wenzi’s uncle and several other parents who had brought their children for treatment were cooperating with the police investigation.

“It’s weird, isn’t it? All the kids who played with Nest at the kindergarten last night came down with a fever this morning. Wipe your face—I’ll go find you some medicine.”