The End of the House

The funeral procession stopped in the centre of the graveyard.

The figure in black at the head of the procession turned around slowly. Firelight fell on his face. I recognised him. It was the revenge-seeker — the young worker who had swung his knife in the commercial district, whom I had run down with the car, and to whom I had personally handed the half-bottle of water.

His eyes — the evil spirit's eyes now — found me and held mine. He said nothing, only gave a small nod. Then he turned back, took a torch from someone nearby, and flung it at the base of the coffin.

The fire caught faster than I expected.

Only then did I see clearly: that coffin was not wood. Where the flames touched the edges, they curled and blackened almost immediately, releasing a rapid crackling sound — it was paper. The entire coffin was made of paper, moulded and pasted.

The fire surged high, throwing flickering light and shadow across the surrounding tombstones and figures. In the leaping flames I could see the colour of the coffin clearly.

It was green.

Something detonated in my head.

A green paper box. The green paper box Xiaobao had brought home from kindergarten, covered on all sides with heart-shaped leaves, an oval shape on the lid. The one he had clutched and refused to let go. That paper box was a coffin.

The paper coffin shrank as it burned, and finally collapsed into a heap of black ash, which the night wind scattered across the graveyard. With that, the weeping stopped — a clean, abrupt silence, as though someone had thrown a switch.

In that sudden quiet, I heard another sound.

Scrape — scrape — scrape —

Low and rhythmic: the sound of metal cutting into earth and being pulled out again.

The procession began to disperse. No words, no looking back — the dozen or so figures faded one by one into the darkness. As they cleared, a lone figure was slowly visible behind where they had stood, holding a shovel, digging.

The skeleton-in-skin. Of course he was here. That shack had to be where he lived. Tonight I had to go inside and find out who he really was.

The skeleton-in-skin was absorbed in digging, unaware that someone else remained in the graveyard. I held my breath, skirted wide around him, choosing the softest sand to tread on, and crept step by step toward the shack. Every footfall went down with the utmost care, afraid of any sound from the gravel.

The broken door was leaning against its frame. I turned sideways and squeezed through the gap into the house.

Inside was a main room. The ruined building had no electricity; the only light came from an oil lamp in one corner, projecting a yellow halo across half the wall. I stood at the door and counted several seconds to confirm the sound of digging outside was still continuing, then began to take in the room.

A spartan main room with almost no furniture. Only a short-legged wooden table — one leg broken and bound back with wire — and a tattered woven grass mat spread on the floor.

I stood on the mat and raised my eyes to the walls.

On the mottled plaster hung a few certificates, the paper yellowed and water-stained with brown rings: "Combat Hero," "Outstanding Soldier," "Certificate of Honour for Wounded Revolutionary Serviceman." Next to the certificates was a wooden picture frame. Everything around it was crumbling and decrepit — but the frame alone had been wiped clean, free of a single speck of dust, like the only living thing remaining in the room. Inside the frame, mounted on a square of paper: a newspaper page, the masthead reading "Yunnan Front Line Bulletin," dated March 1979. The headline, in bold black type: "WOUNDED BUT UNBROKEN, ONE SOLDIER HOLDS THE LINE — The Heroic Deeds of Combat Hero Comrade Bao Hui." The body text described how Bao Hui, his leg struck by a bullet and unable to withdraw, had remained alone at his post, drawing his combat knife and killing two enemy soldiers by hand; his leg was left with a permanent fragment of shrapnel; he was discharged and returned to his home village.

Below the frame hung a black-and-white photograph. A young soldier, standing at full attention, gaze sharp. The curve of the brow bones, the deeply set eye sockets — that was the skeleton-in-skin, decades ago.

I studied the photograph for a long time, a thought grazing the edge of my mind, too fast to catch.

Bao Hui. Old soldier. The border war. I tried to find the thread connecting me to him and found nothing at all.

The main room opened into a corridor; to the left of the corridor was a slightly ajar door. I pushed it open. The bedroom. Iron frame bed, military-green thin blanket, bedding folded with sharp, squared corners — decades of barrack habits, not relaxed for a single day. At the head of the bed hung a drip stand, empty now; a short length of cut tubing still dangled from the hook, the residual liquid long dried into a small hard yellow crust. On the table beside the bed sat a test-result sheet: Bao Hui, male, 66, end-stage liver cancer—

He was dying too.

I backed out of the room and continued down the corridor. At the far end was another door. I pushed it open. No light inside — complete darkness. Nothing visible.

I braced one hand on the wall and felt my way in. First I found an iron bed frame, then the pillow and bedding on it. Someone else lived here? The skeleton-in-skin had a companion?

I moved my hand sideways along the wall and found a table. Several objects on the surface. I identified them by touch, one by one — and felt a small cardboard box. I picked it up and shook it: a fine, rattling sound.

Matches.

I pulled one out and struck it against the side.

A flame sprang up, lighting a small space in front of me.

In the light I saw a chair.

Black, on casters, an office swivel chair. A thin crack down the back; the leather of the right armrest worn through, exposing the yellow foam underneath, edges curled and ragged. Like a dried-out wound. And this "wound" — I had made it myself, with my own fingernails.

This was the chair from my office. The very chair I had sat in for years.

A gust blew through from outside and the match went out. Darkness surged back, deeper than before. I stood still, not moving — the shape of the chair still burned in my mind, fading slowly in the dark.

I breathed in once, and struck another match.

The black office chair was still in front of me, but something at the edge of my vision was wrong. I looked down. Two shadows on the floor — one mine, and one standing directly behind it.

I spun around and saw: the skeleton-in-skin's face.

The match-flame lit him intermittently. Those yellowed eyes stared at me without blinking. I stumbled back in shock and fell sitting into the chair behind me.

I tried to stand. I couldn't stand. I tried to shout. Nothing came. My whole body was pressed down by something invisible; the chair seemed to have grown into the ground.

The match was still burning. In the flame's light, the skeleton-in-skin walked slowly toward me, and drew something from the front of his robe.

A scalpel.