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If Zhongli’s kitchen walls could speak, they would jeer at him.
He would prepare a light breakfast when the first ray of light seeped through the windows of his study. He would grab a tea set from the cupboard and place them on the wooden counter. After lighting yesterday’s firewood under the stove, he would fetch some water from the well behind his house in a kettle. As he waited for it to boil, he would pick up a bag of fermented leaves—or any kind of tea he felt like having—from a cabinet in the corner.
This morning, it took him until the kettle shook to realize he had taken two cups instead of one. His hand trembled ever so slightly when he moved the kettle onto the counter and returned the additional cup. He slammed the cupboard door and took several deep breaths. If the kitchen walls could speak, they would probably ask, How could you make such an embarrassing mistake? It’s been a while, so shouldn’t you have gotten used to this life?
It would be impossible to defy their claims because this wasn’t his first, nor was it ever only bout tea. It had been a while indeed, but he still hadn’t escaped the habit of making everything for two. Often, he would purchase two portions of fish, add number two on forms that questioned him about how many people lived in his house, or do something as silly as cooking more rice than needed.
He recalled a burst of familiar laughter echoing throughout the air when he recognized what had just occurred. Widening his eyes, he looked over his shoulder, but nobody was there.
As if ghosts clung to his body, his arms were strained when he brewed the tea for a few minutes and filled his cup. His trip to the front porch was a struggle, but he managed to sit down without spilling a single drop of liquid. Six years ago, he had bought this place on the quieter side of Qiaoying Village, where rows of red maple trees flourished across the street, and the sun could be seen setting every day. It had come entirely furnished, including one of the two chairs he was using now.
Steam rose and caressed his face when he blew the tea in his hand. The warmth was pleasant even in the middle of summer, and the sensation of the distinctive earthly bitterness hitting his cold tongue was indescribable. He glanced over the empty chair beside him with a sigh, but it was just for a moment before some kids ran past his small garden of okra while screaming their plan to swim in the river outside the village—all of which reminded him that it was the weekend.
They didn’t need to attend school, and it would be his turn to thoroughly clean the house. He must dust the animal statues in the living room, handle the dirty laundry he had neglected over the week since his work schedule as a funeral parlor consultant was too unpredictable, and change the bedsheet, even though it hadn’t been used in a while.
If the white dresses Zhongli kept in his wardrobe could speak, they would pity him.
It took him an hour to wipe the furniture on the massive wooden display and rearrange them differently for a change of scenery and another one to sweep the floor and scrub the windows. He grabbed a new bedsheet from the storage room and replaced the old one. The final task would be to wash all the clothes and hang them in the backyard before the sky darkened, but a glance at the three-door wardrobe in his bedroom made him stop in his tracks.
He went to open the leftmost door and saw a dozen white dresses hung neatly next to one another. Obviously, none of them belonged to him, but he dared to swear he had been taking care of them. Half of them that were plainer were nightgowns, and the rest that were embroiled with colorful floral patterns were everyday wear. All ten of his fingers slipped between the flowy fabrics, feeling the silky surfaces with a rubbing motion that most people would consider too careful, but who would have risked destroying this lovely collection?
Before long, he picked one of the nightgowns and gently embraced it in his arms. The sweet scent that portrayed the beauty of spring had vanished, but he shouldn’t worry since it mainly came from his favorite soap bars. Still, he found himself lying in his freshly-changed bed the following minute. His eyes were shut as his grip on the dress became firmer.
Don’t leave. In his mind, he was a year younger. In front of him, a woman in a similar white dress stood with tears streaming down her face. He wasn’t any better. With a choked breath, he squeezed her hand and begged her repeatedly, I can’t let you go. I can’t. Please stay. Her only response was a bite at her bottom lip. Everything else then happened in a flash; her brother’s clap on her shoulder, the growing distance between them, and the illuminated golden portal that disappeared without a trace, leaving him alone amid a sea of ancient pale blue flowers.
He lowered his arms and stroked what must be the waist area of the dress as if he was touching a living person who was resting their head on his chest. If these dresses could speak, they would ask him, Aren’t you tired of doing this? This time, he tugged the corners of his mouth. He allowed light to come into his sight again, rose to his feet, hung the dress back in its place, and continued working.
If time could speak—Zhongli wondered what time would say if it could have a genial conversation with him?
Time was like an old friend, or maybe an omnipotent father figure that had granted him what every soul in the world desired; longer years to live, more chances to experience things, and of course, less fear of failure because death wasn’t guaranteed when he reached a certain age. When the concept was presented to mortals, some would talk about wasting their time by getting drunk or having as many partners as possible. Others would deem that living for too long would lead to total boredom, no matter how privileged and honorable one’s journey was.
Zhongli had never thought much about the two cases, whether he was in pain or in utter bliss. In the last six millennium of his life, he had never questioned what the universe had planned for him, but he had placed a thick book on a carved table outside his study. Right beside it was a brush and inkstone, ready to be utilized each night before he buried himself in countless books.
After having pork and potato stew for dinner, he approached the table and straightened his back. He flipped through the pages until reaching a blank space. A smile formed across his face when he picked the brush, dipped the tip in the inkstone, and wrote the number “366”.
If time could speak, it might ask him to give up after waiting for 366 days. If it was kinder, he would hush it before it let out a word of appraisal.
In exchange for most of his remaining days, he would press on, Will she ever return to my side? Truthfully, the answer didn’t matter for this one because he would persevere. But in exchange for his eternity, he would gladly offer, How about letting me go back in time to spend another eight years knowing her?