Chapter 383: The Last Line Left Blank

A ring of dried rice water had crusted white around the edge of the pot lid. Zhi'an had left at seven fifty. Before he went out, he'd turned off the stove and left a note weighted on the table: Porridge's in the pot. Underneath, he'd drawn a circle. When he couldn't be bothered to write his name, he drew a circle.

She ladled out half a bowl, ate it standing, and set the bowl in the basin to soak. Coming back, she straightened the stack of registers on the table. Volume Seven sat at the bottom, a sliver of blue cloth showing. From April 8 to today: sixteen days.

At nine o'clock, the gavel fell.

[Thud. Qingshi Village case, judgment in force.]

[Thud. This entry half recorded.]

[Thud. The other half is in their hands: the ditch to be repaired, the accounts to be paid, the acceptance inspection to be signed.]

She stood still. The window had been cracked open; from somewhere below, an exhaust fan rattled, its noise squeezing through the gap.

The document envelope beside her held the judgment copy. She pulled it out, flipped to the last page, and in the blank space above the header wrote: In force April 24. The characters were small, squeezed in above the line that read Verified against the original.

The second gavel came a while later.

[Thud. The Unsettled Ledger, last page, one more line.]

[Thud. That night, someone saw.]

She waited for it to turn the page. There was no next line.

She braced her hands on the edge of the desk. Someone saw—who? The words came to her lips, and she didn't ask. If she asked, the answer would only be a line of text, shorter than this one.

[Thud. Old Case Retrial: three items still missing.]

At nine twenty, she sat down and turned the notebook to a fresh page. At the top she wrote the date and time the way her father did: April 24, 9:20.

Below it: That night.

Below that, she copied what he'd said: The tape on the box wasn't the same strip as the night before.

She stopped writing, pen resting on the paper. There should have been one more line beneath it. Who had gone into the village committee courtyard that night, when one of the two cardboard boxes had been swapped, why her father had put it down on paper—she didn't know any of it. All she knew was that someone had seen.

In her father's notebook, names were jotted down in passing, events recorded only by date and time, never the why. She'd learned his method. Today, the line below would stay blank too.

Volume Seven sat in the stack behind her. She didn't reach for it.

She sat for half an hour. The pen turned around, cap pressed against the paper. No writing.

At nine fifty, she called the number from the notebook.

"Intermediate People's Court, Case Filing Division."

"This is Shen Zhixia, plaintiff's agent in Qinghe v. Hengyue."

"Go ahead."

"The appeal period ended yesterday. What's the status on this case?"

There was the sound of papers riffling on the other end. "Checked. As of this morning, no notice of appeal received." A pause. "Anything mailed counts by postmark. We'll go through the mail again at month's end."

"How do I get a Certificate of Effectiveness?"

"Write an application, submit it at the window. Bring the original Power of Attorney, a copy of your practice certificate, a copy of the Proof of Service. State clearly which case and the effective date."

"Can I come this afternoon?"

"Today's window slots are full."

"Day after tomorrow, morning."

"Window opens at nine." Then he fell silent.

She wrote it on the back of the notebook: POA, certificate, proof of service, case details.

At ten oh five, she made a copy of the judgment, placed it in the envelope with Qinghe's address on it, and added a line on the front: Certificate of Effectiveness, day after tomorrow, 9 a.m. She pressed the flap flat when she finished.

At ten ten, her phone buzzed—Tang Guo's avatar. First a video, then a message: It's the 24th. Can I post or not?

She opened it. Ditch, grass, water. Small print in the lower left with the date. No music.

She replied: You can post.

Tang Guo: No kids shown. Third shot had someone with a backpack in the distance; I cut it.

She replied: Good.

Tang Guo: Posting at 3. After that I'm not reading comments; I'm taking a nap first.

She set the phone down and turned the page over, closing it.

At 1:50 p.m., second floor of Zhengping Firm.

Li Huilan was sorting files. Seeing her come up, she nudged her stack of papers aside.

"Old Kan's case—the court called asking for a service address for the consumption restriction order."

"Mail it to him himself."

"He wants it sent to his daughter's place. Says he won't receive it at the work site."

"Ask him one thing: does his daughter know he's fighting this case? If she knows, mail it there; if not, mail it to him."

"Fine. He rattled off his daughter's address better than the site's." Li Huilan stepped aside. "Those two sheets on your desk—he dropped them off this morning."

Two sheets of paper sat at the corner of her desk. The first was handwritten: Intermediate Court window says the certificate can be issued. At month-end when they clear the mail, if anything arrives postmarked before the 23rd, any certificate already issued has to be returned. The second was a printout from the enterprise registry, with the Legal Representative field circled in pen.

She first pulled out Qinghe's Remediation Supervision Form. The "Effective Date" box was still empty. The certificate wasn't out yet, so she hadn't filled it in. May 24, October 21—those two dates she'd calculated back on the 20th, just gone over them again in her head.

"The window won't tell you this. You have to ask in person." Lu Jibai looked up from the desk under the window, said this one line, nothing more.

"I called at nine fifty."

"Over the phone they only answer half."

She picked up the second sheet, pulled out the complaint, and filled in the Legal Representative field from the public record. When she finished, she read it over and set the pen down.

"That field's been blank all day," she said.

"The name has to be copied from the public record. One wrong character and the window kicks it back."

"After the month-end mail check—if nothing arrives?" she asked.

"Then nothing arrives."

At 3:20 p.m., Li Huilan stood between the two desks. "Tang Guo's video went up at three. I forwarded it once. Someone asked where the ditch is. She said Jiangzhou, and the court already ruled on it."

"She answered right," Shen Zhixia said. "No need to say anything else."

"That's what I thought." Li Huilan snapped her wallet shut and headed for the stairs.

Shen Zhixia put the complaint back into the envelope marked Qingshi Village. The three characters on the front—stroke by stroke, they were his writing.

"If the certificate gets returned, what happens to the one I've already submitted?" she asked.

"If it's returned, the court will notify you to correct it. Keep the notice. Submit a replacement." He said, "One retrieved, one replaced. Don't panic before there's a reason."

"I'm not panicking."

He grunted, looked back down, and turned the page in his hand.

At four, she went downstairs.

The roll-up door was open. He Xiufen sat at the table by the entrance, washing a small basin of greens. The water had been changed twice.

"That half-pot of noodles from this morning—I ate it myself." He Xiufen didn't look up.

"I had porridge."

"Porridge won't carry you through the day." She wiped her hands on her apron. "Want me to put noodles on now?"

"In a bit."

She walked to the top step, pulled out her phone, and called Chai Guizhi. It rang four times before she answered.

"Auntie Chai, it's Shen Zhixia."

"Hey, Little Shen." The TV volume lowered on the other end. "I'm just snapping beans."

"The judgment went into effect today."

A beat of silence. A bean dropped into the basin.

"In effect. So no more waiting for them to appeal it upward."

"They didn't appeal. The clock starts today."

"Thirty days."

"In thirty days, they have to cap the pipe on Sedimentation Tank No. 3 and separate the stormwater from the sewage. In one hundred eighty days, the ditch, the farmland beside it, the school playground—all have to be restored."

"One hundred eighty days." Chai Guizhi repeated it, pausing in the middle. "I'll mark it in pencil. Thirty days, I draw one circle. One eighty, three circles. I can read circles."

"Put it somewhere you'll see the moment you look up."

"I'll stick it on the rice jar."

"During the repairs, who's watching over the ditch?" she asked.

"Teacher Cai and the others. Measuring section by section—how much filled, whether it's come back to life—all signed on the forms. One copy of each signed form for everyone."

"What about the money?"

"It goes into the court's account. Not through their hands, not through ours. Repair one section, measure one section."

"And my grandson's blood—separate?"

"Separate. The Certificate of Effectiveness comes the day after tomorrow, morning. I'll file in the afternoon. Once the court accepts it, they'll set a date."

"Do I need to be there?"

"I'll call when you need to sign. Not yet."

On the other end, the bean basin was pushed aside.

"That unsigned agreement I have—should I turn it in?"

"It's in the envelope, with dates and provenance. No need to submit it." She said, "If anyone comes to the door saying you signed, tell them you've got an unsigned one right here. Have them come find me."

"Then I'll put it in the bottom of the chest. Won't throw it away."

"Keep it there."

"Little Shen, let me ask one thing."

"Go ahead."

"That paper—does it mention my grandson's vials of blood?"

She switched the phone to her other hand. "The judgment names water and soil. Ditch sediment, farmland along the ditch, the school playground. The children's test results were anonymized in the appraisal materials. Not one name appears on paper. There's no name of his on this paper, and nothing singling out his vials of blood."

No response. A bean rustled in the basin.

"Then one more question. The water in that ditch is toxic—it harms people. Does the court recognize that?"

"They do. Every point in the appraisal was measured, one by one. The isotope ratios match the sediment at the plant's discharge outlet."

"That's enough." Chai Guizhi said it slowly. "The child's blood—someone's acknowledged it."

She stood on the step. The sun slanted against the opposite wall, bleaching the stone steps white.

"Little Shen."

"Yes?"

"If the factory sends people again, asking me to sign something."

"Don't sign. Tell them to come to the firm and find me. If it's got a name on paper, I'll demand it from them one sheet at a time."

"I'll remember." She agreed, then added, "I'll tell him tonight. These days he's practicing his numbers. One forty-seven, he knows it."

"Don't make him remember that number."

"It's better he remembers. Only if he remembers can he know how far it still has to come down." Chai Guizhi said, "Beans are done. I need to get them in the pot."

"Go cook."

The call ended. She stood on the step, unmoving.

Someone passed behind her. An electric scooter pulled up by the curb, then rode off. He Xiufen dumped the water from the basin and set the greens in a basket.

"Noodles or not?"

"Noodles."

She sat on the long bench at the table near the door and laid her phone face down on the tabletop. The exhaust fan whirred to life. The smell of scallion oil drifted from the doorway, spreading across the steps.

The noodles came, steam hitting her in the face. She ate two bites, put the chopsticks down, picked them up again. He Xiufen turned the stove flame to low.

"Noodles again tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll throw in an extra handful tomorrow." She pushed the bowl toward the door side. "Leave the bowl. I'll come get it."

At home, the notebook lay open to the same page. The line at the bottom was still blank.