Chapter 488: The Last Day

December 6th, morning.

The window glass in the outer room on the second floor was filmed with condensation. Li Huilan wiped a patch clear with her hand. Outside, the trees were bare black branches.

"The other side's thirty days—when does it end." She slid an arbitration award across the table.

The desk calendar was turned to December. She tapped the days with her pen tip, counting: the foreman's copy had also been served on the 28th. Counting from that day—

"December 28th."

"If he files a withdrawal application before the 28th, we keep fighting. If he doesn't, this piece of paper is final."

Li Huilan copied the date onto the top right corner of the first page of the materials. When she finished, she blew on the ink.

"Copied it there," she said. "Once it's flipped over, it's gone. If I wrote it on the cover of my notebook, I'd see it every day."

"Then write it on the paper."

"On the paper." Li Huilan clicked the pen cap back on, tucked the materials into the file jacket, pulled the drawstring tight, and wound it around twice.

The desk calendar stood at the corner of the table. The box for the 10th was empty. She touched it with her pencil tip, then erased the mark, leaving a faint gray smudge on the paper.

At ten o'clock, the Municipal Legal Aid Center called, asking whether the return receipt for the appointment letter Li Huilan had in hand had come back. Lu Jibai handed her the phone and picked up a rag to wipe the windowsill himself. Li Huilan answered the questions one by one, hung up, and said, "They're waiting on a piece of paper over there too."

At just before 11:40, the exhaust fan downstairs started up. The smell of oil and scallions climbed the stairs, layer by layer. Shen Zhixia got up and closed the window to a crack. The frame was already coated in a thin film of grease. At noon, He Xiufen carried a bowl up to the second floor, a small plate inverted over the top.

"Who's that for?"

"Hers." He Xiufen lifted the plate off.

A poached egg sat on top of the noodles, its edges fried crisp. Shen Zhixia said she didn't eat things that oily. He Xiufen said:

"I fried too many."

The next day the egg was soft-boiled to a molten center—it broke at the first bite. The day after, it had broken in the pan, the yolk running over the noodles and staining the broth yellow. By noon on the 9th, when she bit into the egg, she realized it had been there in her bowl every single day.

"Director He, no need to add extra from now on."

"I fried too many."

"You fry too many every day."

"The pan's only so big." He Xiufen wedged the tray under her arm, turned, and went downstairs, wiping her hands on her apron twice.

On the afternoon of the 7th, Deng Wei posted in the rider group chat: Shen Lawyer, that ten-day deadline—what day does it end. She replied: The 10th. Two "Got it"s popped up below, and no one asked anything else. She set her phone face down on the desk, the screen pressed flat against the wood.

On the night of the 7th, Tang Guo sent a message: I'm not posting anything on the 10th. She replied with an Mm. Tang Guo sent another: I'll just sit there. Not post anything. She turned the screen off and didn't reply again.

On the afternoon of the 8th, Lu Jibai came out of the inner office to refill his water. The glass sat on the windowsill, the kettle spout aimed at the rim, the water line rising to seven-tenths before stopping. He didn't hurry back in.

"Lawyer Li's case—the withdrawal period runs to the 28th."

"You heard."

"The stairwell's a narrow opening," he said. "If he actually files a withdrawal application before the 28th, I'll take that case."

"The materials are with me."

"Then hand them over."

A thread of steam rose from the kettle. He carried his cup back into the inner office, the door not fully closed, a gap left open. She lowered her head to write. When she looked up, she saw a page spread on his desk. Only the date was written on the first line; below it was blank, the pen resting beside the paper.

On the evening of the 9th, she pulled out Volume Eight. After the page for March 22nd, He Xiufen's sheet of manuscript paper was still there, its edge a thin line of white peeking out between two pages. She pressed it inward, but it wouldn't go all the way in, so she let it show.

In those four days, no one on the second floor said the date out loud. She had said it twice, both times to people outside.

December 10th.

No snow fell, and the wind was light. Downstairs, the stove went on at eight. The exhaust fan ran all morning, its sound muffled from the second floor.

In the morning she finished her current work: Li Huilan's stack of materials was paginated, a letter needing a reply was written halfway, and the closing line was revised twice. The desk calendar stood at the corner of the desk. For the days after the 10th, she hadn't written down a single thing—not because she'd forgotten, but because she didn't yet know where she'd be after that.

She fished out her key ring and identified the one that locked the door. Three keys on the ring looked nearly alike; the one with the shortest teeth was the one.

At noon, He Xiufen carried up a bowl of noodles with two eggs in it.

"Two today."

"Today is today." He Xiufen set the bowl down and went straight back downstairs.

At 3 p.m., Li Huilan packed up her bag to go run an errand. At the top of the stairs, she turned and asked what time she should come in tomorrow.

"8:30."

"Then I'll be here at 8:40." She wrapped her scarf once around her neck and added, "Tomorrow's morning market scallions—Director He said she wants two bunches. I'll bring her one back."

At 5 p.m., the sky began to darken. Shen Zhixia closed the window to a crack, wiped down the desk, and pushed in the chairs.

The inner office door was half open, the light on. A stack of papers sat on his desk, the top page spread flat, the first line still bearing that date. She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame.

"I'm locking up."

"Good."

"Turn off the light before you leave."

"Good."

A page turned inside, its edge scraping across the desktop. She waited a moment, but nothing else came, so she pulled the door shut, turned the key twice in the lock, and pulled it out, holding it in her hand.

He had his own key. He could lock up himself when he left. This was how the firm had done it ever since the first year: she left first, and the last one out turned off the light and locked the door.

She paused at the top of the stairs. The sound of turning pages was still there, through the floor—faint, like someone somewhere far away counting paper.

Downstairs in the noodle shop, He Xiufen was closing up for the day. She fished scallions out of an aluminum basin by the handful, gathered them, and shook off the water, which dripped between her fingers. The floor was wet in patches; Shen Zhixia stepped around them.

"Heading back?"

"Heading back."

"The cases I've handled—the hardest time isn't in court," He Xiufen said, setting the last handful of scallions into a basket. "It's after the verdict, waiting out those final days. In court, someone's talking to you. In those days, no one talks to you."

"I know."

"I won't call you."

"Mm."

"Come down for noodles tomorrow morning."

"Mm."

He Xiufen pressed a plastic bag into her hand. She felt it—two tangerines, still cool-skinned from the cold.

A seven-stop bus ride. The bus wasn't crowded; the windows were filmed over too. She sat with her bag on her lap, the cold of the tangerines seeping through the cloth. At the third stop, she took the notebook out of her bag and opened it. The line for the 10th was still blank. She closed the notebook and put it back. She didn't peel the tangerines, either.

She got home at 7:40 p.m.

Zhi'an was in the kitchen. The water was boiling; he shook a handful of dried noodles into the pot, stirred them with chopsticks twice, and leaned the lid tilted against the rim.

"Last day," he said.

"Last day."

"I'll be in my room listening. If you call me, I'll get up."

"You sleep first."

"Tomorrow morning I'll come down for noodles," he said. "I won't go up to the second floor. I'll wait for you downstairs."

The noodles were soft, one bowl each. Halfway through, he set down his chopsticks.

"Sis, that paper—after tomorrow, does it just go into a bag and never come out?"

"It comes out."

"When?"

"When someone asks."

He nodded and kept eating. The bowls were carried to the sink and washed, the water running only briefly. He wiped down the stovetop, wrung out the rag, and hung it back on its hook.

At 7:50, she took the two tangerines out of the plastic bag. One went into the fruit plate; the other she set on the stool outside her bedroom door.

At 8:00, her phone buzzed on the table. She turned it over to look: a package had arrived at the courier hub. The screen still showed a photo Tang Guo had sent that afternoon—the noodle shop's lights, no caption below. She set the phone face down again.

At 8:30, she called Pang Chunlai. It rang four or five times before he picked up; he coughed first.

"It's me, Shen Zhixia."

"Mm."

"Today is the last day."

"Mm."

"By tonight, if no one appeals and no one protests the judgment, this paper is final."

"What does final mean?"

"After this, no one can reopen it."

There was a pause on the line, then the sound of a pipe bowl knocking against something hard.

"Then I'll wait."

"You don't need to wait. Go to sleep."

"I can sleep."

At 9:40 p.m., Zhi'an turned off the light in his room, leaving the door ajar, a thin seam of yellow light spilling out.

She pulled the paper bag out from under the bed. The writing on the bag had been facing inward all along. She turned it over and took out the judgment. Then she folded the mouth of the bag down and pushed it back against the cardboard box.

She spread the judgment on the desk. She switched on the desk lamp; the inside of the lampshade glowed yellow. She set her phone face down at the corner of the desk—when it rang, the sound was muffled.

The wall clock ticked once for each step of the minute hand, pausing on its lower arc, then moving again. Eleven twenty-three p.m.

She knew how the last of those ten days would land: if someone really did protest the judgment, tomorrow a paper would come over from the court. Or a phone call would come first, asking whether she had anything to say. In those ten days, every time the phone rang, her hand reached for it before stopping halfway and pulling back.

She turned the judgment to the first page.

Printed at the top: Chengdong District People's Court of Jiangzhou City. Below it, the cause of action. Below that, "Original Defendant Shen Qian," followed by date of birth, ethnicity, and address—a row of typed characters, neat and regular. The paper was slightly cool to the touch, the corners still flat, not a single crease.

The word printed in the cause of action line—the same word had been on that original indictment nine years ago. When he had represented the Baixi Village residents in their pollution compensation claim, he had "provided falsified water sample test reports, obstructing testimony." The same word, printed on two separate sheets of paper nine years apart. One paper convicted him. The other paper vacated that conviction.

The clock ticked one step, then another.

She angled the desk lamp down a notch, sat down, and rested her hand on the paper. A car passed outside, its headlights sweeping up through the gap in the curtains and across the wall before moving on. The neighbor's pipes ran for a while, then stopped. One floor up, someone turned the TV down; the sound receded into a low hum.

Eleven forty p.m. She paged forward. Her fingers stopped at two places where the paper's edges had been pinched—the marks she'd made herself on November 30th, one at those two articles, one at the earlier section of reasoning. Farther on was the last page. Printed on the final page: "If dissatisfied with this judgment, an appeal or protest may be filed within ten days from the day after receiving the judgment."

There was nothing after that.

She folded the pages back to the first. The minute hand was three marks from the top.

She lowered her head, pressed her fingertip down on that line, and held it over his name.

The clock ticked one step. Then another.