Chapter 487: The One Who Came Early

She pulled the judgment out of the paper bag under the bed. The paper was still flat, not a single page creased.

She held it up to the window and looked at the seal by the signature line. One edge of the stamp was blurry. She slipped it into her bag between two folders. Under the glass desk pad, that sheet of paper still lay face-down. She didn't turn it over.

December 4th. Dawn came late. She left at seven-fifty. The mailbox downstairs was empty, a ring of dust around the keyhole.

Zhi'an was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. Blue jacket, a line of white thread showing at the cuff where two stitches had caught. He held a plastic bag with an old towel and a bottle of water inside.

"Drinking water?"

"For rinsing the headstone," he said. "Last time I only got halfway. There's still a line of green in the carved grooves."

"Bring two bottles."

"One's enough. I'll carry it."

At eight-twenty they changed to the suburban line. The windows were fogged with condensation. Zhi'an drew a line through it with his finger. Outside, the road slid past in segments.

Eight-forty. The cemetery gate.

Only one flower stall was set up beneath the stone archway, three sides wrapped in blue plastic sheeting. The wind puffed the plastic out, then let it sag. The seller was a man in a knit cap, tucking the wrapping paper around a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums. White chrysanthemums soaked in a bucket, two petals floating on the surface, a few shards of ice settled at the bottom.

"How much for the white chrysanthemums?"

"Thirty."

"Twenty-five back in August."

"August was August." The man wiped his hands on his apron. "This time of year, the flowers come up from the south."

She pulled out a bunch, slid the paper sleeve down, and checked the centers. The petal bases were still white. Zhi'an stood beside her, hands tucked into his sleeves, stamping his feet twice against the ground.

"Three bunches."

The man pulled out three bunches and tied them together with straw twine. She untied it, separated them one by one, then re-tied each one, looser this time.

He Xiufen arrived at eight-forty-five. Dark gray padded coat, one hand tucked into her sleeve, the other carrying a cloth bag. A section of flower stems wrapped in newspaper poked out of the top. She hadn't taken the bus. She'd walked from the stop before, mud on the edges of her shoes.

"I'm not coming up here empty-handed," she said.

"Director He, your flowers—"

"I sold noodles for twenty-some years. I can afford a bunch of flowers." She lifted the cloth bag. "Picked them at the morning market. They said the petals are big."

The newspaper held loose stems. Five of them, uneven lengths. She drew the three bunches closer to her chest and walked through the gate.

"Which row?"

"West end of the slope, the very last one."

"Got it."

The steps had a layer of melted slush, pine needles scattered on top, dark and slippery underfoot. Zhi'an took two steps at a time, then stopped every dozen or so to wait. He Xiufen held the railing, one step at a time, pinching the cloth bag's strap shorter with two fingers.

Halfway up, an old man was crouched in front of a grave, touching up the inscription. He worked with a small can of red paint, stroke by stroke. After each stroke he'd step back half a pace to look, then crouch down again. They passed behind him. He didn't look up.

Nine-twenty. They reached the top of the slope.

In front of the last headstone, a bunch of white chrysanthemums stood in the porcelain vase.

Water still beaded on the petals, droplets gathered at the tips, each one holding, not yet fallen. The water in the vase had been freshly changed, clear to the bottom. A single drop clung to the vase's side, slowly making its way down. The face of the stone was wet, the carved grooves clean, no moss. The stems were cut neatly, the angled cuts all facing the same direction.

She crouched down and checked inside the vase: water filled to eight-tenths, two small stones at the bottom, washed pale.

Zhi'an stopped on a step above, took half a step forward, then pulled back and looked at her.

"Put them in," she said.

Only then did he walk over and set the plastic bag by the base of the headstone.

On the inner side of the base sat a small bundle of dried flowers, tied with straw twine, bound neatly. The bunch from August. The petals were bone-dry, browned, not a single one loose.

Zhi'an's hand stopped in midair. He looked back at her again.

"Put it away," she said.

He handed her the small bundle. She took it, squeezed the straw twine once, and tucked it into her bag, pressing down on it briefly with her hand.

Zhi'an unwrapped the three bunches and took the five stems from He Xiufen, flower heads toward the stone, arranging them one by one. The three bunches pressed against the vase, but the mouth was narrow—two stems in and it was jammed. The rest leaned outward. When the wind rose, the outermost stem slid down.

He Xiufen crouched and fished a small knife from her cloth bag—the kind on a keychain—and trimmed each stem to an even length. Then she pulled a length of hemp cord from the bottom of the bag, looped it around the stems and the vase, tied it twice in a slipknot, and tucked the ends in.

"Tied down, the wind can't scatter them," she said.

She straightened up and let her eyes rest on the headstone, from the name to the small line of characters below, reading slowly, then back to the name.

"Nine years," she said. "In my heart I've done things for him. My feet never came here."

"Director He—"

"I'm not going to talk about it." She waved a hand. "Doesn't matter if I say it or not. He's still in there."

She put the knife back in her bag and brushed her hands against the front of her coat.

Shen Zhixia set her bag on the stone platform in front of the grave and pulled the judgment out from between the two folders. The paper shifted in her hands, and the wind flipped a corner. He Xiufen reached out and held the bottom edge down.

"Which part are you reading first."

"First the two holdings, then those lines near the front."

"Read slowly," He Xiufen said. "He can't hear you. But the rest of us are listening."

She found the passages after flipping twice. The paper had two fingernail creases pressed into the edges—one at the holdings, one at the reasoning before them.

She read.

First, about that night: the batch of samples had left the sealed location the night before they were sent for testing. Someone had opened it, swapped them. The sample handover form, the testimony of two witnesses, and the internship log from that year all corroborated one another—the two cardboard boxes placed in the village committee office on the night of March 20th had been re-sealed by the morning of the 21st.

She paused, lifting the paper half an inch.

Then about the re-tested original: expert appraisal confirmed the seal matched the specimen on file from the testing center that year, and the signature was written by the original director himself. The conclusion on that original matched the one her father had submitted back then.

Then about the confession in the original trial: aside from the defendant's own statement, no other evidence corroborated it. The witness's testimony in court contradicted the documentary evidence in the file and contradicted the accounts of others. It was not accepted.

The final line: "The original judgment was based on erroneous findings of fact, and the evidence used to convict was insufficient."

The wind came down the slope, pressing the page's corner flat and then releasing it. She raised the paper to eye level and read the holding:

"One: The criminal judgment of the Chengnan District People's Court of Jiangzhou City against Shen Qian in the case of obstructing testimony is revoked."

"Two: The original-trial defendant Shen Qian is not guilty."

After that line, she didn't move. The wind shifted the flower stems half an inch. He Xiufen's hand stayed where it was, holding the paper down.

"Dad. Not guilty."

She pressed the judgment to her chest and stood there a moment before closing it.

He Xiufen said, "Read the holding again."

"You don't need to memorize it for me."

"I'm not memorizing it for you," He Xiufen said. "Hearing that line once, it might not have sunk in yet for him."

She opened it again and read: "The original-trial defendant Shen Qian is not guilty."

He Xiufen crouched down. With one hand braced against the base of the stone, she reached into the seam beneath it with the other and picked out the pine needles one by one. Each needle she removed went into her other palm. By the end, a small handful.

"This seam," she said. "The frost has cracked it open."

Zhi'an unscrewed the bottle cap and poured water over the face of the stone. The water ran down through the carved grooves. He took the towel from the plastic bag and wiped from the top of the stone downward, stopping midway.

"It's already been wiped," he said.

"What?"

"This side is wet. Been wet all morning." He lifted the towel and wiped again. "No moss either."

She looked down at the stone's face and didn't answer.

He Xiufen stood, dumped the pine needles from her palm into the plastic bag, brushed her hands on her coat front, and stepped up in front of the grave.

"That page is with you," she said.

"With me."

"I don't need to see it," He Xiufen said. "I know it by heart."

She raised her eyes and looked at the line of characters on the headstone. She recited it very softly:

"Shen Qian ate noodles at my table for three years."

The wind rattled the flower stems.

"I asked him how it was up on the mountain. He said: the water isn't good."

When she finished, she closed her mouth and stood there a while. Then she lifted her hand and pressed the back of it beneath one eye.

"I sold noodles for twenty-some years," she said. "This man ate at my shop for three years, and I never asked a single question past that. Today I came up to see. This place is windy. The stone gets the sun."

She tilted her head and looked at the sky for a moment.

"I don't know if he can hear," she said. "But I said it. So I've said my piece."

Zhi'an stood at the side of the headstone, hands hanging at his sides. He spoke suddenly:

"Dad. My sister read it."

He didn't say anything else. He lowered his head, folded the towel into quarters, put it in the plastic bag, and rolled the top down twice.

He Xiufen wiped her hands on her coat and stepped half a pace forward.

"Shen Qian," she said. "It's me, He Xiufen. The one from the noodle shop."

At ten-oh-five, they started back down.

Zhi'an went first, two steps at a time, stopping every dozen or so to wait. He Xiufen held the railing, one step at a time.

Halfway down, He Xiufen stopped to catch her breath and looked back up the slope. That row of stones—the last one—the white chrysanthemums stood tied against the porcelain vase. The wind passed, and the flower heads all tilted together.

"Those flowers. Who put them there."

They went down a few more steps.

"Someone who came early," she said.

He Xiufen made a low sound of acknowledgment, switched the cloth bag to her other hand, and kept going.

Halfway down the steps, the old man was still painting the inscription. The red paint can sat by his feet. After each stroke he scraped the brush tip against the can's rim.

At the gate, the flower seller was closing up, pulling the remaining white chrysanthemums from the bucket in handfuls, shaking off the water, laying them into a cardboard box. He Xiufen stopped under the stone archway and wrapped the cloth bag's strap once around her wrist.

"I'm heading back to the shop," she said. "Lunch rush. Need to get the scallions chopped first."

"Director He, take it slow."

"I know this road better than you." She set off. "I'm not taking the bus. Two stops on foot to the intersection."

Zhi'an stood beside her and said suddenly:

"Jie, after the tenth, I'm coming up again."

"Come."

"I'll touch up the characters on the headstone."

"The characters don't need touching up."

"I'm afraid they'll fade."

"They won't fade," she said. "Characters carved in stone, they fade slowly."

"Then I'll bring a brush next time," He Xiufen said. "I'll paint one stroke for him too."

She'd already walked several paces ahead. She turned and called back: "Zhixia, you two hurry up. It's windy at the intersection."

The brother and sister caught up. By the stone archway, the empty bucket still stood at the stall. Two white petals clung to its rim. The wind passed. One fell into the bucket. The other stuck to its side.