Chapter Two: Rebirth
Clang! Clang, clang, clang...
A sharp metallic sound echoed, drawing Sheng Yao out of darkness. He blinked in confusion, his eyes forced shut again by the harsh light. Instinctively, he raised a hand to shield his face, only then realizing how weak he felt.
His vision was blurry, his thoughts muddled, and his body limp and powerless, as though some long illness had already worn him down till only the faintest breath remained.
The light was moved aside by someone, and a face, or rather only a pair of eyes, replaced it in his view. Perhaps it was the backlight, but the eyes looked blue—so blue, they eclipsed all else in his sight for that moment.
“It’s out. Do you want to keep it?” the doctor asked.
Sheng Yao was still disoriented, uncertain what had happened. He turned, following the doctor’s gaze, and saw a metal tray by his side. On it lay a large molar, streaks of blood clinging to the root. The blood trembled slightly, as if the tooth had just been tossed onto the tray and still held a trace of recoil—or as if some living thing was twisting about.
His first reaction was to shake his head.
The movement was barely perceptible, but whether the doctor had keen eyes or simply didn’t care to wait for a reply, he withdrew, asking no further.
“All right, get up. The anesthesia will wear off soon. You can go,” the doctor said briskly, carrying the tray aside. The tooth was tossed into the yellow bin for medical waste; the tray was washed and set on a rack.
His tasks done, the doctor left.
Sheng Yao sat up, watching the doctor’s retreating back, and glanced around.
He seemed to be in a small private dental clinic. The surroundings were crude—the medical waste sign on the yellow bin was shabbily done, with only three circles drawn. The examination chair beneath him had a gaping hole, exposing blackened yellow foam.
Perhaps the anesthetic hadn’t worn off yet, but Sheng Yao saw the foam writhing slowly.
Had something burrowed inside?
He slid off the chair, his legs immediately buckling so he almost fell to his knees. Struggling to his feet, he moved as if avoiding something filthy in the room, or as if chasing something urgent—though his limbs were still numb, he staggered out.
Across the hall, the doctor sat at a desk, writing quickly.
Sheng Yao steadied himself on the doorframe, didn’t greet the doctor, and simply made his way out, one hand on the wall.
Behind him, the doctor raised his head, watching his back, though his pen never stopped moving.
Suddenly, the monitor on the desk flickered on. A white cursor blinked against the black DOS screen; a moment later, a line of command code appeared. The “Little Turtle Drawing” program launched. The white turtle icon began tracing lines on the screen.
The doctor glanced at it, his writing pausing, and those deep blue eyes grew even darker.
…
Sheng Yao stepped out the glass door, the cold wind waking him a little.
Outside, dawn was just breaking. The morning air was far from fresh—at least not in this crowded housing community, where the scent of fried dough and buns filled the early hours. The asphalt road was barely wide enough for one car; the sidewalk was so narrow that there were no trees planted, and the street shops took up half of it.
The sky was sliced into thin straight lines between the low residential blocks, resembling the “Heavenly Crevice” scenery found in many mountain regions.
People were already out—half elderly and sprightly, half young and weary, all mingling on the narrow road, walking or cycling. No four-wheeled cars would bother crowding into such a lane.
Sheng Yao looked just like the weary young men, eyes glazed, head and shoulders drooping, utterly dispirited.
He glanced back at the clinic’s sign.
The neon sign was off, leaving only the stark words: “Monster Clinic.” On either side, two other shops—one not yet open, “Childhood Clothing,” the other also shut, “Amei’s Boutique”—sandwiched the clinic, making it seem even more out of place. Yet the crude “See a Doctor, Please Enter” stickers on the glass doors suited the environment perfectly.
Sheng Yao felt dazed again.
Choosing a direction at random, he walked on like a man hungover, guided by nothing but instinct.
Before long, he spotted a small shop. Aside from the produce market and breakfast stalls, it was the only place open—well, and the “Monster Clinic.”
The shop’s door was open; the interior undecorated, with two boards propped up and bouquets of yellow and white chrysanthemums at the entrance.
Sheng Yao read the boards inside: schedules and fares for shuttle buses to different suburban cemeteries.
It dawned on him—it was Tomb-Sweeping Day.
He’d been standing at the door a while when the shopkeeper called out, “Young man, going to pay respects? Which cemetery?”
He replied reflexively, “Crane Cemetery.”
But then he froze.
“We don’t go there. Just take Line 14 to the terminal and transfer to the shuttle,” the shopkeeper said helpfully.
At that moment, a group of elderly ladies approached, carrying bags.
“Boss, has the bus come yet?”
“Twenty more minutes. Come in, have a seat, some water. Want to buy some flowers? Burning paper isn’t done much anymore; everyone brings flowers.”
“We still burn paper. Got all the silver foil folded.”
“Only Longevity Garden allows burning now. The new cemeteries forbid it.”
“That’s right.”
“Still, we burn paper.”
After listening a while, Sheng Yao stepped inside.
The shopkeeper turned to him, “Want to buy flowers, young man?”
“No. Do you have a shuttle to Longevity Garden?” Sheng Yao asked.
His grandparents were buried there. He tried to recall when he last visited their graves, but couldn’t remember. Since he was here on Tomb-Sweeping Day, he might as well go.
The shopkeeper, pleased to make a sale, took his money and handed him a plastic stool, seating him among the elderly ladies.
They soon drew him into their conversation.
“Young man, whose grave are you visiting?”
“My grandparents’.”
…
“Empty-handed? The bus won’t be here for a bit—why not grab some joss paper from the shop across the street? It’s expensive at the cemetery. Don’t be shy; just knock, the owner’s always there,” one lady suggested, pointing to the incense and flower shop opposite.
“Maybe not today. The owner’s driving to Fushou Garden,” another chimed in.
“They’re with Fushou Garden?”
“Yes, always have been. The plots are sold out, so now they just run shuttles. The owner drives himself.”
“Now everyone buys plots at Crane Cemetery, right?”
“Right, only Crane Cemetery still has space, but it’s pretty much all sold out too.”
“All gone,” Sheng Yao added, then froze.
Crane Cemetery… How did he know about it? Had he ever been there? His grandparents were at Longevity Garden, his maternal grandparents in a rural village—was there any other relative at Crane Cemetery?
The ladies didn’t notice his momentary confusion and carried on chatting. Sheng Yao fell silent, sat a while, then bought a bouquet of flowers from the shopkeeper. He couldn’t go empty-handed—even if he didn’t believe in burning joss paper or making offerings. He did not believe in ghosts, nor in any afterlife.
…
In the Monster Clinic, the doctor had put down his pen, staring unblinkingly at the old computer screen.
The little turtle leaped tirelessly, each jump tracing a short straight line. One after another, never stopping, it took dozens of minutes to sketch out a curve.
A curve like an oval face—obviously, a woman’s delicate features. The line was so soft and smooth, it seemed impossible it was composed of short, straight segments. The unfinished portrait was surely that of a beautiful woman.
The doctor watched with interest, twirling his pen; the happy expression faded from one fingernail, while on another, the angry and crying faces transformed into laughter and smiles. The faces seemed to swap places, each making its own sound.
The room grew lively, as if many invisible people were cheering the little turtle on.
…
The bus arrived soon. Some people were already aboard; among the elderly ladies queuing, some greeted friends inside.
Sheng Yao, knowing no one, sat alone in the front, flowers on his lap.
As the bus started, the petals trembled. Sunlight warmed the flowers, making them look a little wilted.
The bus stopped at several nearby complexes, picking up more passengers. The seats filled, the atmosphere grew lively. Only Sheng Yao was young—everyone else was old, chatting easily about tomb-sweeping and departed relatives.
He gazed at his reflection in the window, listening to the scattered fragments of conversation. His own reflection, as clouds gathered and dimmed the sky, grew clearer.
His hair was getting long—he needed a cut. A pimple had erupted, likely from late-night gaming and barbecue with roommates. Since college, his skin had tanned again; the pale complexion he’d gained during his hard-working senior year had reverted to a bronze from his days on the soccer team.
“We’re here!” the driver called, stopping the bus.
The old folks disembarked swiftly, moving in small groups toward the same destination.
This was Sheng Yao’s first time taking a shuttle to sweep graves; he had little memory of Longevity Cemetery, where his grandparents lay.
He got off last. By the time he did, the elderly with walking sticks were far ahead, so he hurried to catch up.
Soon he saw the cemetery gates, the crowds, the rows and rows of gravestones.
The cemetery was large, but the stones near the entrance were small and dense, tightly packed in rows. Further in, the tombstones grew grander, flanked by decorative pillars. Even further, winding paths led to shadowy, ornate mounds glimpsed through the greenery.
Standing at the entrance, Sheng Yao was drawn by a distant haze of smoke.
Wisps of smoke spiraled upward, the acrid scent drifting on the wind—both familiar and strange. His eyes stung, but when he blinked, there were no tears.
He shook his head and, clutching the chrysanthemums, walked toward the smoky graves.
Before long, he stopped beside a gravestone marked Row Thirteen, drawn by some invisible force. Turning, he stepped into the row, his gaze passing over the names and photos on the black stones—one unfamiliar name and face after another.
The smell of burning paper grew stronger; faint sobbing could be heard.
Sheng Yao felt his senses blurring.
Before his eyes could focus on the name and photo on the grave, his feet had already halted.
He came to, staring at the tombstone—he’d found his grandparents’ grave.
The photos showed two expressionless old faces, eyes empty. They were black and white, old, making them seem even more lifeless.
“Grandpa, Grandma…” he called softly, then fell silent, placing the flowers before the stone.
He didn’t know what to say.
He had little memory of his grandparents. His grandfather died before he was born; his grandmother passed away before he started school. As a child, his parents took him tomb-sweeping, but later, as schoolwork piled up, he stopped going.
The stone bore their names, with dedications: “Filial son: Sheng Jianguo, Sheng Jiangjun; Daughter-in-law: Sun Wenmin, Qu Li; Grandson: Sheng Yao, Sheng Yang.” Only Sheng Yao’s and Sheng Yang’s names were in red.
His gaze fell on the other names—black letters.
Something felt off.
Each stroke of black seemed weighted, pressing on his heart.
The smoke had thickened, shrouding his grandparents’ tombstone.
Sheng Yao turned toward the source—a deeper part of the row, obscured by smoke, where someone burned paper with such fervor it amounted to pollution.
He could hear sobbing—shrill, almost unconvincing.
He had no desire to argue, so withdrew his gaze.
As he did, he caught sight of the grave beside his grandparents’.
…
The little turtle on the screen sped up, sketching a woman’s hair, then her nose, her mouth…
The doctor leaned closer to the screen, then abruptly stood.
…
A new door had appeared in the clinic.
The doctor rushed through like the wind.
Beyond was darkness. His figure merged into the black.
Snap!
A sudden burst of light. With a crackle of electricity, an old cathode-ray TV flickered on.
It was impossible to tell the size or layout of the room. There were no lights; the only illumination came from the TV, casting a faint glow about a meter around.
Facing the TV was a sofa—old, two-seater leather, its surface peeling like the hide of a sick, dying beast.
On it sat the doctor, watching with keen interest.
As the TV lit, he seemed to appear instantly on the sofa, blue eyes reflecting the screen.
A gravestone appeared on the screen.
…
The gravestone beside his grandparents’ was identical in shape, but bore only a single name and photograph—nothing more.
“Bai... Xiao…” Sheng Yao found himself murmuring, his eyes glued to the photo.
The woman in the picture looked to be in her twenties. The black and white photo revealed only her features, but he seemed to see rosy cheeks, red lips, a gentle smile ready to leap from the frame.
He stared, entranced; the wailing in his ears faded, replaced by approaching footsteps.
…
In the empty clinic, the turtle program still ran tirelessly.
The woman’s eyes had appeared on the screen—just the outlines, not yet the pupils.
…
Half of Sheng Yao’s attention was on the photo, the other half on the footsteps. It felt as if each step pressed into his heart, treading deeper into his soul.
The footsteps stopped.
He turned.
The smoke was blown away by the wind, revealing a girl’s face.
A younger, more radiant face, skin flushed, lips as vivid as he’d imagined—a blossom in color.
She looked under twenty. She didn’t glance at Sheng Yao, nor did his gaze affect her. Calmly, she stood before Bai Xiao’s grave, bowed slightly, and placed a pale yellow camellia on the stone.
Sheng Yao’s heart clenched tight.
Two faces—one in color, one in monochrome; one young, one mature—stood across from each other, separated by the cold stone, like twin sisters divided by life and death.
…
The little turtle paused, a highlight in the woman’s eye.
The portrait was complete—so exquisite it might have been a photograph.
The woman on screen was identical to the one in the grave photo. Both faces smiled gently, tears glimmering in their eyes.
Snap!
The monitor went black, shutting down as if the power had tripped. The clinic was instantly swallowed by the darkness spilling from the TV room next door.
…
Sheng Yao’s heart raced, his mind blank. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the girl’s arm.
Startled, she looked up, then showed concern. “Are you all right? Are you feeling unwell?”
He opened his mouth, unable to express what he felt.
Instead, he blurted, “My name is Sheng Yao. The ‘Sheng Yao’ on the tombstone—my surname is pronounced ‘Cheng,’ though it can also be read as ‘Sheng.’” He foolishly pointed out his name on his grandparents’ grave.
The girl blinked, then laughed. “You’re a strange one…”
His face flushed, but he didn’t let go. His palm was sweaty; her arm was cool as jade.
She didn’t mind, smiling as she replied, “My name’s Bai Xiao—‘Bai’ as in ‘daylight,’ ‘Xiao’ as in ‘Baixiaosheng,’ but without the ‘sheng.’ My friends call me ‘Shengsheng.’”
He froze, glancing at the grave before her.
The same surname, the same name—even the characters matched…
…
A whistle sounded.
At that moment, laughter and sobbing erupted together. The dark room seemed filled with invisible revelers. When the whistle ended, all fell silent.
In the gloom, the doctor’s white mask and blue eyes glowed in the television’s light.
He shifted on the sofa, which groaned under him, as if about to swallow him whole.
But his blue eyes never left the TV, shining with excitement.
On screen, the faded hues of last century outlined a young man and woman. As the camera drew back, row upon row of gravestones and photos loomed behind them, like an eerie audience, coldly watching as the two clasped hands.