Silent Ark

Chapter 48: The Jar

There is something on the bottom shelf, in the corner against the wall.

A glass jar.

The size of a fist.

Transparent glass, metal screw cap.

The jar contained dozens of tiny folded stars—colorful, folded from very fine origami paper, each about the size of a fingernail.

Red, yellow, blue, green, purple.

As the light passes through the glass jar, the stars cast small, colorful shadows on the wall.

Yao Chong squatted down and looked at the jar.

He didn't touch it.

He knew what was inside.

Or rather—he knows who gave him the jar.

But he didn't know what was written inside.

Six years.

From BJ to CERN, and from CERN back here.

The jar stayed with him the whole time.

At the very bottom of the suitcase.

Wrapped in clothes, weighed down by books, and blocked by various odds and ends.

He sees it every time he packs his luggage.

Every time he sees it, he puts it back where it was.

It's not that I don't want to open it.

Yes--

he does not know.

He squatted in front of the bookshelf, looking at the jar.

The cool white light of the fluorescent lamp shone through the glass, and the colorful little stars stayed quietly inside, like a group of frozen fireflies.

He stretched out his hand.

When you touch the glass jar with your finger, it is cool.

No one has touched it for three years, and the temperature of the jar has become the same as room temperature.

He picked up the jar.

It's very light.

He walked to the window and drew back the curtains.

A gray sky.

It was neither evening nor morning; it was just grayish-white.

He held the jar up to his eyes.

The little stars stood out vividly in the greyish-white light—red, yellow, blue, green, and purple. They looked like fragments that had fallen from another world.

He unscrewed the cap.

The metal screw cap made a very soft "click".

He turned the jar upside down.

Dozens of tiny stars fell into his palm.

Some were folded very neatly, with sharp edges.

Some were folded crookedly, as if the person folding them wasn't very good at it.

Some are dark in color, some are light in color—they are from different batches of origami.

He picked one up.

Red.

Very small.

When you pinch it with your fingertips, you can feel the texture of the paper—it's become somewhat brittle, as six years have caused it to lose most of its moisture.

He unfolded it.

The creases are deep, and in some places it's almost broken.

He unfolded it very slowly and carefully, as if he were dismantling an old thing that could break at any moment.

When unfolded, it is a red origami paper about three centimeters square.

There are words on it.

Black ink.

It wasn't the neat, small handwriting of Chen Dunli—it was a different kind of handwriting, slightly messy, but you could tell the writer was trying to write clearly.

"Yao Chong, I like you."

Six characters.

No signature.

No signature is required.

He recognized the handwriting.

For three years of high school, he sat next to her. When she passed notes, her handwriting was always like this—slightly messy, but the two characters "Yao Chong" were always written most clearly.

He picked up another one.

blue.

Unfold.

"You fell asleep in class again today."

He picked up the third one. It was yellow.

"You won first place in the physics competition, but you didn't even go to the celebration. Do you think celebrating is stupid?"

The fourth one.

green.

"Have you noticed that the windows in our classroom aren't facing the right direction? The afternoon sun shines directly into your eyes. You always shield your eyes with your hand, but you never change seats."

The fifth one.

Purple.

It's your birthday tomorrow, and I don't know what to get you.

The sixth one. Red.

"Never mind, you probably don't care about birthdays anyway."

The seventh one. Blue.

"I saw you reading Landau at the library today. You were so engrossed that you didn't even look up when someone dropped a book next to you. I think you'll probably never notice me."

The eighth one.

yellow.

"But I still want you to notice."

The ninth one.

green.

"So I folded all these stars. You'll see them when you open it."

The tenth one.

Purple.

"You probably won't open it."

The eleventh.

red.

"But what if?"

The twelfth one.

blue.

"Just in case you open it."

The thirteenth one.

He stopped.

It's not that I don't want to elaborate.

My fingers are trembling.

It's not cold.

He poured all the remaining stars onto the sofa.

Dozens of them.

Colorful little paper balls are scattered on the gray cloth.

He didn't count.

He didn't count.

He sat on the floor by the window, leaning against the wall, clutching the unfurled thirteenth star in his hand.

A gray sky.

The humming sound of fluorescent lights.

There were people talking downstairs, but their voices were muffled and the content was unclear.

He unfolded the thirteenth star.

pink.

It's not red, yellow, blue, green, or purple—it's pink. Only this one is pink.

There are only four words on it:

"I'm in Beijing."

He folded the paper.

It did not fold back into the shape of a star.

I simply folded it in half and stuffed it into my pocket.

It was placed together with Chen Dunli's letter.

He leaned against the wall, looking out the window.

In the grey sky, the enormous shape of the sovereign entity moved slowly above the clouds.

But the ginkgo tree in the flower bed downstairs is still alive.

The leaves are green.

……

Yao Chong sat on the sofa for a long time.

So long that the hum of the fluorescent lights became background noise, so long that the gray-white outside the window changed from light gray to dark gray, and then to an indescribable gray.

He stood up.

It's not because I've figured anything out.

It's because I'm hungry.

There was nothing in the refrigerator—it was emptied three years ago and hasn't been refilled.

He needs to go out.

Buy food, buy clothes.

He glanced down at his T-shirt—a commemorative shirt from CERN, size XL. Three years ago, it looked like a small tent, but now it was stretched taut at the shoulders and the cuffs were stuck at the thickest part of his forearm muscles.

Since the Decameron incident, Yao Chong has felt himself getting stronger and stronger.

No.

He rummaged through the wardrobe.

I can't wear that gray sweatshirt anymore.

The black coat can be buttoned up, but the range of motion is only about 30 degrees—if you raise your hand above your shoulder, you'll hear the fabric making a dying sound.

He needs new clothes.

He went to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water.

The person in the mirror—has broader shoulders, a thicker neck, and a more defined jawline.

The 128-pound clothes rack from three years ago is no longer there.

He picked up his phone.

The power is out.

The charger is in the suitcase in the entryway.

He plugged it in, waited thirty seconds, and the phone lit up.

Three unread messages.

First post: Liu Pan, two hours ago.

"Have we arrived yet?"

Second: Liu Pan, one hour ago.

Let me know when you arrive.

Article 3: Liu Pan, forty minutes ago.

"Yao Chong, are you dead?"

He replied with:

"We're here. He's not dead, but his phone's dead."

Liu Pan replied three seconds later:

"Depend on."

Five more seconds passed:

"I'm at the Ninth Department. Shall I come over tomorrow?"

"tomorrow."

He put down his phone.

Go out.

The streets outside the east gate of the Chinese Academy of Sciences were much quieter than he remembered.

It's not the kind of quiet that comes at night—it's quiet even during the day.

There were cars on the road, but not many.

The traffic lights are still working, but some lights at intersections are out. Cars slow down automatically when they get there, like a flock of sheep that no longer need sheepdogs.

There are people on the sidewalk.

Not many, but some people are walking.

Students in school uniforms, elderly people carrying groceries, and young mothers pushing strollers.

Their expressions—

Yao Chong watched for a while.

It wasn't fear, it wasn't despair.

It is a calm that has been smoothed out, a calm that is ordinary and tinged with weariness.

Like a glass of cooled boiled water.

You wouldn't say it doesn't taste good.

You just won't take a second sip.

He walked along the street.

The gray sky stretched overhead, its boundaries invisible.

The massive forms of the sovereign entities moved slowly above the clouds—you could almost pretend they didn't exist if you didn't look up.

Most people don't look up.