Only the low hum of the air conditioning filled the room.
The curtains were half-open. Outside, the sky had faded from pitch-black to deep gray. The sea was calm, like a sheet of frosted glass. The searchlights of the rescue boats had long since gone dark; even the red dots of the stern lights had vanished.
I changed into a white knit cardigan, light blue trousers, and white flats. The buttons of the cardigan were smooth and cold. There was a tiny hole in the knee of the trousers, worn through last year, never mended.
My ash-blonde hair cascaded over my shoulders. I wore no makeup. The face in the mirror was somewhat pale, the lips colorless. I looked for two seconds, then looked away. Long, slender ear threads hung beside my ears; the silver bracelet on my left wrist gleamed faintly in the morning light.
Dianzi was still in bed, wrapped in the blanket, her pinkish-purple hair spread across the pillow. She lay on her side, one hand clutching a corner of the blanket, her breathing steady. Her lashes fluttered occasionally, as if in the midst of a dream. Her pearl hair comb rested on the nightstand; her pink crystal anklet glinted faintly around her ankle.
She didn't wake.
I stood by the window, the light off. A thin layer of condensation had formed on the windowpane from my breath.
Out on the sea drifted that bag. The one the young mother used to carry on her wrist—semi-translucent white, half-sunk, half-floating. The last two diapers were still inside, swollen, waterlogged and heavy.
The waves pushed the bag toward the ship's hull, then pulled it away, like a boat unwilling to dock. Each approach was pushed back, and each pushback brought another approach. It circled near the stern, never sinking.
The sea breeze flipped it over, revealing a small, dried milk stain on the inside. A trace left by the child's leftover milk spilled inside the bag, glowing a faint yellow in the morning light. The shape of the stain was like a leaf, its edges already blurred.
I stared at the bag for a long time. Each time a wave pushed it back, my finger paused lightly on the windowsill.
The rhythm was exactly the same as that crewman on the deck, the one who was on the phone. He tapped his knee; I tapped the sill. The same interval, the same force. I didn't know when I had learned this rhythm.
Behind me, Dianzi turned over, the blanket slipping half off. Her muffled voice came from the pillow.
"Sister, what time is it?"
I didn't answer. She murmured something else and sank back into deep sleep. Her fingers grasped at the air, catching nothing, then dangled over the edge of the bed.
——When that child was held by the crewman, the stillness was unsettling. He just stared with wide eyes, his hands grasping at the air, his palms empty.
I raised my hand and pressed a fingertip against the cold glass, drawing a wavy line. The line's rises and falls matched the ripples on the sea—high and low, without pattern. From left to right, then back from right to left. A thin water trail was left on the glass, stark against the condensation.
At the end of the wavy line, I drew a very small circle. The circle was drawn slowly, my fingertip tracing a full rotation against the glass, as if outlining the contour of something. The friction sound was very faint, swallowed by the hum of the air conditioning.
The instant the circle was completed, an image flashed through my mind. Not the woman who had jumped, but the face of that child. The child wasn't crying. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes wide, his pupils reflecting the lights of the deck. There was no fear on that face, no sadness, just a blank bewilderment. He didn't yet know what had happened—only that he was no longer in his mother's arms.
His hands grasped at the air, catching nothing. That gesture was exactly the same as Dianzi clutching my cuff in her sleep.
My hand stopped on the glass. I didn't pull it back. Left on the glass were a small patch of condensation from my fingertip and that unfinished circle. A gap was left at the edge of the circle, as if intentionally left incomplete. The gap pointed downward, toward the sea.
Why leave a gap? I didn't know. Maybe I hadn't decided if I wanted to finish it. Maybe the gap was the only thing that made sense—a circle that didn't close, like a story that didn't end.
I turned my head and glanced at the nightstand.
The phone lay there, face down. That text message—"The sea will be choppy today. Be careful"—was still in my inbox. I hadn't deleted it, and I hadn't looked at it again. The sender's number was unsaved. I'd tried calling it back; it was a dead number.
Now, the storm had passed. But the sea hadn't truly calmed. It had simply hidden everything deep beneath.
I looked back out the window.
The bag had been pushed far out by the waves, now an almost invisible white speck. The white speck flickered on the gray-blue sea, like a lost eye. Sometimes it was lifted by a wave, sometimes it sank, but it never disappeared.
Beside that gap in the circle on the glass, I drew a short, straight line. The line went straight down, extending from the bottom edge of the circle, like a person standing at the deck's edge.
No feet were drawn. The line simply broke off.
I drew the curtain halfway shut, leaving a crack. Moonlight leaked through the gap, landing perfectly on the face of the squirrel plush on the nightstand.
The squirrel tilted its head, its black-bead eyes fixed on the ceiling, its expression vacant. It would never know what had happened. It knew nothing, and needed to know nothing. It was just a toy, stuffed with cotton and fabric—no fear, no sadness, no waiting.
I sat back down on the edge of the bed but didn't lie down. My fingers paused unconsciously on my knee, then stopped. My palm covered my kneecap, still.
A shallow crease was pressed into the fabric of my trousers at the knee, the same shape as the crease on that crewman's pant leg on the cruise ship. After he'd brushed off the body powder, the mark left on his pants was this exact shape.
I turned my head and looked out the window. The bag had completely vanished. All that remained on the sea was that silver-white ribbon of light carved by the moon, stretching straight into an invisible distance, like a road no one had ever walked. The ribbon was very narrow, only wide enough for one person. The ripples of the seawater cast fine, fragmented shadows on the band of light, like footprints, and yet not.
Dianzi turned over, her arm reaching out from under the blanket and draping over my waist. Her fingers were curled, her fingertips cool. She hadn't woken; she was just confirming in her sleep that I was still there.
She clutched a handful of the knit cardigan at my waist, very lightly, much lighter than when she clutched my cuff.
I took her hand. Her fingers stirred inside my palm, curling tighter, then stilled.
The ribbon of light outside the window was still there.
I stared at it for a long time, until my eyes ached. The end of the ribbon of light was swallowed by the darkness. But the ribbon itself was bright. No matter what was at the end, it was there, spread straight across the sea.
Maybe someone would walk down that ribbon of light. Maybe no one would.
I pulled the curtains shut.
The last sliver of moonlight was blocked out. The room sank into absolute darkness. Only the hum of the air conditioning remained, and Dianzi's steady breathing. The breaths were very soft, one after another, a different rhythm from the finger tapping on the windowsill.
The squirrel's black-bead eyes could see nothing in the darkness. But it didn't need to see.
My hand was still holding Dianzi's. Her fingers were no longer icy; they were warmer now, her palm pressed against mine.
I turned my head and found her outline in the darkness. Her lashes were fluttering slightly, her lips slightly open, sleeping very deeply. I didn't wake her, just pulled the blanket up a little higher, covering her shoulders. Outside the window came the sound of waves slapping against the hull, one after another, like some kind of slow heartbeat.
I leaned against the headboard, not lying down, just sitting like that, holding her hand, listening to the waves. A thread of faint light leaked through a gap in the curtain, casting a long, thin silver edge on the carpet. The ribbon of light slowly moved, crawling from the foot of the bed to the corner of the wall, then climbing up the wall, finally disappearing into the shadow of the ceiling.
Dawn should be breaking soon.