Chapter Three
But some tales don’t stay buried. Ten years later, I found myself back in the town where they began.
I pressed my forehead against the cool bus window, searching for a landmark, a familiar tree, anything. But the landscape was almost unrecognizable. New buildings stood where the woods once were, and wide, smooth roads had replaced the dirt paths. It felt as if nothing of my childhood remained.
As the bus stopped, I spotted Zheng Yu.
Now a college student, he stood waiting at the station. His face had lost its boyish roundness, sharpened by time, but his eyes still held the same warmth. When our gazes met, a silent understanding passed between us.
For a moment, it felt as if the ten years had never passed, as if we were still children sharing secrets under the shade of the old persimmon tree. But now, we shared something heavier, the weight of our fathers’ absence.
The silence stretched, and I realized I didn’t know how to comfort him. I didn’t want to say, “I know how you feel” or “I understand,” because no one truly could. Instead, I simply patted his shoulder. He patted mine in return.
He turned to my uncle with a respectful nod. "Uncle Ma," he greeted, then took the luggage from him. "Let's go home. My mom's been waiting."
On the ride back, we filled in the gap of a decade. The Zheng family’s old house had expanded into a courtyard home. The surrounding woods had retreated to the mountain’s edge, replaced by a small street lined with tall poplars. Their courtyard gate now faced the roadway, next to a shuttered restaurant.
Zheng's Family Cuisine, now closed.
“Dad’s cooking,” Zheng Yu said softly, his eyes lingering on the restaurant sign, “was what brought people here.”
Inside the courtyard, the old persimmon tree stood bare, its last fruits clinging stubbornly to the branches. Yellow leaves blanketed the ground, swirling in the wind and creeping into neglected corners.
Hearing our voices, Aunt Shen hurried out of the main house, her figure silhouetted against the faded crimson “Fu” character on the door, a symbol of good fortune and blessings, now a quiet reminder of what had been lost.
“Come in, come in,” she said, slightly breathless but still warm. She ushered us inside, then caught Zheng Yu’s arm. “You’ll take the luggage, won’t you? And you two… you must be starving. There are dried plums and peanuts on the table. Have a little something before dinner. Then rest. You both look exhausted after such a long journey.”
Looking at the snacks on the table, I felt a strange disconnection. The sweet, sticky dried plums and the crunchy roasted nuts had been my childhood favorites. I reached for a peanut, and as my fingers brushed its textured shell, I slipped into a trance-like state.
The present seemed to fold away, and suddenly, I was six years old again. Uncle Zheng was laughing, cracking the shell, tossing nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth, urging Zheng Yu and me to try.
My uncle’s voice brought me back to the somber present.
"It’s hard to believe he’s gone," my uncle sighed, his eyes wandering to the bare branches of the persimmon tree outside the window. "He should’ve had more time."
Aunt Shen traced the rim of her teacup, her voice barely above a whisper. “Who would have thought something so small…” She hesitated. “We argued that night… something trivial, just chores.” Her gaze dropped. “If I had known…”
Like any couple, they’d had their share of minor disputes over twenty years of marriage, but they never let them linger. Usually, Uncle Zheng defused things with his signature dishes and Aunt Shen’s favorite: egg soup noodles and pot-baked pork. But that night was different. The argument sat heavy between them, and instead of cooking, Uncle Zheng stormed out to take out the trash.
Across the street, a small, tree-lined platform served as the dumping site. Days of rain had turned the ground treacherous, potholes brimming with murky water.
A neighbor, returning from a late-night dog walk, paused at his doorstep. His dog had gone rigid, whining as it dug its paws into the ground, refusing to move forward.
Uneasily, the man scanned the darkness, and then he saw Uncle Zheng. He had just tossed the garbage and turned to leave when he slipped. It was a minor fall, seemingly nothing.
The neighbor blinked, expecting Uncle Zheng to simply stand up and brush himself off. But he didn’t. Instead, he thrashed, arms flailing as if trying to swim. The neighbor froze, unsure how long he stood there, his mind blank.
Then, the dog’s whine turned into a yelp, and the neighbor snapped out of it. He realized something was terribly wrong.
He dropped the leash and ran toward Uncle Zheng, just as his dog yelped and bolted in the opposite direction.
By the time he reached him, it was already too late.
Days later, the dog was found, but it refused to go anywhere near the street. Defeated, the man had to ask a friend to take care of it.
Aunt Shen exhaled sharply, frustration tightening her voice. “Everyone said that dumping site needed fixing, but nothing was ever done. People slipped there before… got dirty, twisted ankles… but nothing serious.”
Her gaze searched ours. “The water barely reached his knees. Why didn’t he just stand up? He was strong, healthy like a bull.” She hesitated. “How could this happen?”
The medical report found only minor scratches. No heart attack, no stroke, nothing to explain why a man in perfect health had drowned in such shallow water.
Why couldn’t he pull himself up?
Or worse, what had made him swim?
I quickly pushed those thoughts away. Spending too many hours drawing talismans recently must have left my mind wandering into strange places.
“I can’t stop thinking about our argument, about that day…” Aunt Shen whispered, holding her cup with both hands as if seeking warmth. “Those two weeks… we fought more than in all our twenty years together. He was different. Irritable. Snapping over the smallest things. I didn’t understand why. If only I had…”
Zheng Yu shifted uncomfortably, glancing at his mother. “Mom… it wasn’t your fault,” he said softly, moving closer and wrapping an arm around her.
She shook her head. “He mentioned you warned him once.” Her eyes settled on my uncle. “It was so long ago… is it true?”
My uncle sighed, choosing his words carefully. “Years ago, before you married, I read his fortune. The turtle shell showed a strong omen of danger. I couldn’t pinpoint the specifics, only that it would follow him until he turned forty-nine. His best chance of avoiding it was to stay steady, to never let anger get the better of him.”
“To help, I made him a howlite talisman, carving a calming symbol into it. It was meant to help him keep his temper in check.”
Aunt Shen rose abruptly and disappeared into another room. Moments later, she returned, her hand closed around something. Slowly, she opened her palm.
The howlite stone, smooth and luminous from years of wear, gleamed faintly. The etched symbols had softened, worn down by time and touch. A frayed, dark red silk cord, now broken, hung loosely from the stone.
She looked at my uncle, her expression urgent. He nodded.
“He never took it off… not for twenty years,” she said, swallowing hard. “Then, two months ago, it broke. I told him I’d fix it, but…” Her fingers clenched around the talisman. “So this is why he was so on edge… snapping all the time… Changing a cord is nothing. Why didn’t I just do it? I should have… It’s my fault.” Her voice cracked, her gaze locked on the broken cord. “It’s my fault.”
“The timing… these things are beyond our control,” my uncle said gently. “It wasn’t your fault, Shen. It was his fate.”
A heavy silence filled the room. Zheng Yu’s fists clenched. Aunt Shen lowered her head.
I stared at the floor, my chest tight. I had grown up surrounded by my uncle’s rituals, his talismans, his unwavering belief in unseen forces. I went along with it, not out of faith, but because he insisted. To me, it was tradition, nothing more.
Yet, this conversation unsettled me. Was there really something to all of this? A force beyond logic shaping our lives?
No. Coincidence. Nothing more. I told myself firmly. Even a charlatan could be right once or twice. Not that I’d ever call my uncle a charlatan; he was too earnest, too grounded. But shamanism had always felt like an elaborate fiction to me.
I held my breath, afraid that even the slightest exhale might shatter this fragile moment, might force me to confront questions I wasn’t ready to face.
I didn’t know how long the silence stretched before my uncle finally turned to Aunt Shen and said, gently but firmly, “Don’t dwell on it too much. You need to conserve your strength. Tomorrow is the Final Seven. It’s important, for him and for us.”
That night, I went to bed early but couldn’t sleep. I drifted in and out of strange, fragmented dreams until, at 2:30 AM, voices from the yard yanked me fully awake. I quickly dressed and rushed to investigate.
Aunt Shen was paralyzed. She had woken from a nightmare to find she couldn’t move her legs.
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