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A swirl of smoke rises from the tip of the pipe. It curves and snakes around the white room, floating before him endlessly, as endless as the rain beneath his umbrella.
Xie Bi’an watches as the smoke blurs away the downpour outside the window. He doesn’t know exactly how much time has passed since that fateful day when his friend drowned under Nantai Bridge, but he’s sure it’s been hell of a long time. Sometimes he feels as if he should’ve gotten over it by now.
But old wounds often throb on rainy days, and they’ve sent him beyond retrieve. Only the smoke can contain his pain.
In the unraveling form of the misty smoke he seems to see Fan Wujiu’s figure. He is walking toward him, a simple smile stretching his features, his long, dark hair in a tidy braid.
A hand reaches out and touches Bi’an’s face. Fan Wujiu moves his lips, but Bi’an can’t tell what he’s saying. He just noticed that Wujiu’s clothes are wet—no, not just his clothes. He was soaking wet from head to toe.
Bi’an convinces himself that he doesn’t know why.
Wujiu smiles again, and turns to leave. For some strange reason Bi’an makes no effort to plead for him to stay. He simply watches, with a numb smile glued onto his lips, as his friend walks farther and farther until he fades once again into the smoke. It’s as if he’s all fine with it, almost content, in some way.
It looks like the rain has gotten smaller outside—there was a trace of dawnlight seeping in, penetrating through the cloudiness of the white room. The shadow of a wilting tree falls upon his eyes, painting his face in patternless lines.
The room is not white, it just seems to be.