Xiulan carried Nian'an into the house and laid him on the bed. The boy sank back into sleep—true sleep this time. His breathing was even, his color returning, the new nail on his left pinky gleaming soft and pink in the candlelight. All ten of his fingers were whole, every nail intact. The Nail Borrower had taken five from him, and Xiulan had given ten of her own. Fifteen nails in total, traded for her son's life. At least, for ten days.
Xiulan sat beside the bed and spread her bare fingers across her knees. Without nails, her hands looked strange, like ten tender shoots with their tips sliced away. The nail beds lay exposed, slightly concave, edges smooth. The pain was gone, but a hollow emptiness remained, as if some part of her had been siphoned out, leaving an invisible hole. She tried to touch the quilt with her fingertips. The sensation was dull and distant, as if through thick cloth. She remembered her grandmother's words: nails are the soul's door bolts. Without bolts, the soul leaks from the fingertips.
She did not know how much of her soul had already leaked away. But she knew the Nail Borrower would return in ten days. And when that happened, what would she have left to give?
Chen Wangtian pushed open the door and stepped inside. He said nothing. He simply crouched before her and took her bare hands in his. His hands were large and rough, the palms calloused from years of labor. Her hands looked small and soft in his grip, like a cat whose claws had been pulled.
"Does it hurt?" he asked. His voice was hoarse, barely his own.
"No." She spoke the truth. It really didn't hurt anymore. But the emptiness was worse than any pain.
Chen Wangtian lowered his head and pressed his face into her palms. She felt his shoulders tremble, felt warm liquid seep between her fingers. She said nothing, only stroked his hair gently with her bare fingertips. The sensation was blurred, but she knew he was crying. In ten years of marriage, she had never seen Chen Wangtian cry. Not when Nian'an was born. Not when his father died. Now he wept.
"Ten days," he said, his voice muffled against her palms. "When she comes again, I'll give mine. Ten fingers, ten nails. If that's not enough, ten more from my feet. If twenty isn't enough, I'll beg the villagers. Over a hundred households, two thousand nails—surely that will satisfy her."
Xiulan did not answer. She looked out the window. Moonlight filtered through the paper, pooling silver on the floor. The shadow of the old locust tree fell across the window, its branches tangled like a hand with fingers spread wide.
Then she remembered something.
"Husband, bring me the wooden box from under the bed."
Chen Wangtian wiped his eyes and dragged out a dust-covered wooden chest. It was Xiulan's dowry from her maiden home, carved with crude peonies, the lacquer peeling. Xiulan opened it. Inside lay a few old trinkets—a pair of silver earrings, a peachwood comb with broken teeth, and a palm-sized booklet.
The booklet's cover was pasted with red paper, now faded to a dark brown. She opened to the first page. It was her grandmother's words, transcribed by the village schoolteacher. Vertical brushstrokes, tiny as fly heads. Some characters had been eaten by insects, leaving small holes.
"Nails connect to the soul. The soul is tethered to the ten fingers. Where there is a nail, there is a door bolt. When the nail falls, the bolt falls. When the bolt falls, the soul leaks. If the soul leaks without cease, it will be exhausted in three days."