The light on the deck was growing dimmer; the clouds pressed very low, and a mist was rising on the sea. Two of the corridor lights had dimmed, their glow casting intermittent patches of light on the deep red carpet.
Footsteps were absorbed by the carpet, only the faint rustle of skirts remaining.
Dianzi and I walked along the corridor toward the stern. No livestream was on, no camera, only the pitch-black sea beyond the portholes and the occasional flash of emergency lights overhead.
The sea breeze blew in through the vents, carrying the scent of salt and rust. The small gear at my back occasionally reflected the corridor lights in the darkness, a flash that vanished immediately. The tiny cloud at Dianzi's back was almost invisible, only its cotton-white outline faintly drifting in the gloom.
At the end of the corridor was a fire door. Pushing it open led to the open deck. The light dimmed abruptly—only the ship's stern navigation lights glowed in the distance, red and green, like two unblinking stars.
The deck was empty. At this hour, most passengers were in the dining rooms or bars. The sound of the waves was louder than during the day. The ship's hull cleaved the water with a dull, rhythmic thud—over and over, like the heartbeat of some enormous animal.
Dianzi walked to the railing and placed the squirrel on the wide handrail, facing the sea. The squirrel's fur was blown back by the sea breeze, its tail whipping wildly in the wind, like a tiny, matted ball of yarn.
"Lychee, look. The sea is black."
The squirrel didn't answer. Its black-bead eyes reflected the light of the navigation lamps—red, then green, then red.
I stood beside her, hands in the pockets of my short top. My ash-blonde high ponytail was lifted by the wind, the ends sweeping across my cheek. The distant horizon had vanished entirely, sea and sky merging into a single, pure blackness. Only the occasional wave crest reflected the ship's light, flashing once before vanishing.
At the other end of the deck, near the stern capstan, stood a man.
Dark blue uniform, white cap visor. His back was to us. One hand held a phone pressed to his ear; the other gripped the railing, his knuckles bone-white under the light. His shoulders were taut, his whole frame like a fully drawn bow.
The wind carried fragments of his voice over.
"Damn it, we train them for three years, and the other side poaches them at triple the salary."
His voice was loud, not directed at us, but at the person on the other end of the line. There was no anger in his tone, just a hollow, drained exhaustion. Like a well that had been pumped dry, leaving only damp stains on its walls.
"Now there's no one to run the machines in the factory, and orders are backed up for three months. Three months. What do you expect me to do?"
The hand gripping the railing loosened, then tightened again. His knuckles were as white as bone under the light.
"You people in HR only know how to push, push, push. Where the hell am I supposed to find you people? Senior technicians don't grow on trees. You can't just pull one out of the ground like a cabbage."
He paused, his breath heavy in the receiver.
"The ones who can draft don't know the machining processes, the ones who know the processes can't use the new equipment, and the ones who are experts on the new equipment want sky-high salaries. I need team leaders, not students."
My steps slowed for a moment, but I didn't stop. Dianzi also heard it, but she didn't turn her head. She simply took the squirrel off the railing and held it close. The squirrel's ears pressed against her chin.
Those senior technicians he mentioned—they were probably just like him, standing on some deck somewhere, facing the sea, with no idea which way to go.
——The sea won't tell them the answer. The sea only washes footprints away.
We kept walking. As we passed the crewman, he didn't turn his head. His phone screen was still lit, stark against the darkness. The green call button was still illuminated. He didn't press it. I glanced at it; I couldn't make out the content.
After a few more steps, my fingers gave a light flick against my skirt. No sound, just the tactile sensation of fabric being snapped by my fingertips.
Dianzi came closer, her shoulder pressing against my arm. Her body heat came through the fabric, warmer than mine. She didn't speak, just tucked the squirrel into the pocket of her windbreaker, leaving only its head poking out. The squirrel's black-bead eyes peered from the edge of the pocket, fixed on the pitch-black sea.
In the distance, the crewman ended his call. He took the phone from his ear, the screen still lit. He looked down at it, his thumb pausing over the screen for a second. The phone slipped from his hand and fell to the deck, screen-down, light seeping from its edges, drawing a long, thin white line on the ground.
He bent down to pick it up, the movement very slow; his waist paused halfway through the bend, as if that single motion had used up all his strength.
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drew one out, and put it between his lips. The flame of his lighter flared once in the darkness, illuminating his face. Around forty years old, deep lines at the corners of his eyes, prominent cheekbones, lips dry and cracked.
He took a drag; the red glow of the cigarette flared and dimmed with each breath. Flaring, it illuminated half his face; dimming, it swallowed him back into the darkness.
I turned around, leaning my back against the railing, facing the direction of the cabin. Dianzi also turned, standing shoulder to shoulder with me, looking at the faint light filtering through the fire door.
The red glow of the cigarette flared again. Then came footsteps, walking from the far end of the deck toward the cabin. Closer and closer. They paused for a moment as they passed us.
I raised my head and saw the crewman's face, lit by the faint glow from the fire door. The rims of his eyes were red. The whites of his eyes were webbed with bloodshot veins, as though he hadn't slept a full night in a long time. He glanced at us, his lips moving slightly, but he said nothing. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The fire door closed behind him, sealing off the sound of the wind and the waves. A muffled thud sounded as it latched.
Only the two of us remained on the deck. The sea breeze had lessened, but the chill was sharper. Dianzi slipped her hand into the pocket of my windbreaker, her fingers curling up against the inner lining. I took her hand; her fingertips were cold as ice.
The lights of the cargo ship on the sea were entirely gone now. Only darkness remained in the distance, layer upon layer of darkness.
"Your hand is so cold." I squeezed her fingertips.
"The sea breeze," she said, burying her face deeper into the crook of my shoulder. "Sister's hand is cold too."
"Then we'll both be cold."
She didn't reply. After a while, her voice came, muffled against my shoulder. "That man just now—his cigarette went out, and he left. But the sea is still there."
"The sea is always there."
Something flickered on the sea in the distance. Not a light, but a reflection, like a piece of metal. I stared in that direction for a few seconds; the reflection vanished, the sea returning to a uniform blackness.
I pulled her hand out of my pocket, clasping both hands together and rubbing them. Her fingers slowly warmed inside my palm, her nails grazing my palm.
"Let's head back." I released her hand and turned toward the fire door.
She followed, pulling the squirrel out of her pocket and holding it up to her eyes. The squirrel's tail dangled through the gaps in her fingers, swaying gently in the wind.
"Lychee, did you see that patch of sea clearly just now?"
The squirrel didn't answer.
"It's not talking, which means it saw it clearly."
She tucked the squirrel back into her pocket and patted the edge of the pocket. The corridor light was dim yellow, shining on her face; the tip of her nose was red from the cold. She reached out and touched her own nose, then reached over and touched mine.
"Yours is red too."
"So is yours."
"Two red noses."
She slipped her hand back into my windbreaker pocket. We walked back along the corridor, our footsteps swallowed by the carpet, only our fingers occasionally moving inside the pocket. When we reached the room door, she stopped, pulled her hand from my pocket, and tilted her head up to look at me. Through the porthole at the end of the corridor, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds; its light sliced across her face, half light, half shadow.
"Sister."
"I'm listening."
"That man's cigarette went out."
She raised her hand, her fingertip pausing in the air for a moment. Moonlight leaked through the porthole, landing on her fingers, turning her nails a semi-translucent pink.
"But this girl here's hasn't."
Her hand dropped, slipped back into the pocket. She pushed the door open and walked in. I followed. The door closed softly behind us.