He Chengyan, exhausted from the mountain path, leaned against a nearby stone bench to rest. Liang He cleared the weeds from around the grave and knelt on one knee. He spread a layer of newspaper and took out the incense and candles he had bought. He lit the two red candles and placed them on either side of the headstone, then looked back at his mother. "Mom."
He Chengyan walked to the grave with the help of her cane, and Liang He handed her a stick of incense. She leaned down to catch the flame from a candle, lit it, and held the incense between her palms against her chest. She stood silently with her eyes closed for a few seconds; her nostrils flared slightly, and a single tear welled in the corner of her eye but did not fall.
"Old Liang, we’ve come to see you."
Her voice choked with emotion, and she said no more. Holding the incense to her chest, she bowed three times and leaned forward to plant it in the soil before the grave.
Liang He also lit three sticks of incense. Kneeling before the tomb, he said, "Dad, it’s Liang He. Happy New Year." He wanted to say more, but the words felt difficult to utter. He spoke silently in his heart: *Dad, you can see everything from heaven.* Then, he prostrated himself, kowtowing three times before placing his incense in the ground.
Suddenly, a series of sharp cracks erupted—firecrackers set off by other mourners. He Chengyan was startled. Liang He helped her to the side, then cleared a small patch of earth in front of the headstone and began burning the joss paper.
He wasn't actually superstitious, and he didn't know if Liang Kun could truly receive these offerings. But it was the local custom, and He Chengyan insisted on it, so he had bought them to burn. The same went for the firecrackers he was about to light—he felt his father had always preferred quiet and wouldn't have liked such a noisy display—but everyone did it, and He Chengyan believed in it. If he didn't, it would seem especially unfilial. Perhaps it wasn't just this; perhaps many things in life were like this, being pushed along by the current.
He Chengyan watched Liang He silently burn the paper, his six-foot frame crouched on the ground, the firelight casting a deep red glow over his cheeks.
"Do you have any plans for the next few days?" she asked.
"None. I’ll just stay home and keep you company."
"That’s good. Since Zhou Wen isn't here, I’ll make you some of your favorite dishes."
"I should be the one cooking. It’s not convenient for you to move around. When I carried you down just now, I noticed you’ve lost quite a bit of weight."
He Chengyan felt a warmth in her heart. She asked again, "Is Da Chuan back? I thought I heard someone calling your name the other day."
"Yeah, he’s back. We’re all going to get together in a couple of days."
"Back at the compound?"
"Not necessarily. We’ll see. Everyone is still visiting relatives right now."
"Oh," He Chengyan replied softly. The fire crackled as it consumed dry twigs mixed with the paper. "Is the Lu girl going too?"
"Probably."
"If you have any thoughts on the matter... if not..."
Liang He suddenly looked up, interrupting her. "Mom, there’s no possibility for her and me, but it’s also impossible for us to act like strangers. But is this really the right place to talk about this?"
He Chengyan fell silent. From a grave further up the hill, another loud string of firecrackers exploded, filling the air with the scent of sulfur.
Liang He immediately regretted his bluntness. He silently tossed the last stack of yellow joss paper into the fire and stood up. Having crouched for so long, he felt a wave of dizziness the moment he rose. He steadied himself and looked up at the sky. Liang Kun had been gone for a long time, and the sharp edge of Liang He's grief had long since faded, yet whenever he looked at the sky or anything related to the heavens, he still easily thought of his father.
"What’s wrong?" He Chengyan asked, seeing him standing still.
"Stood up too fast, got a bit dizzy. It’s nothing." Liang He took the firecrackers out of the bag, draped them over the mound of the grave with the fuse trailing on the ground, and lit them with a stick of incense.
"Liang He, do you still hate me?" He Chengyan asked suddenly.
The firecrackers began to detonate halfway through her sentence, the "crack-crack-bang" drowning out her final words as red mist and paper scraps danced through the air.
Once finished, Liang He tidied the area around the grave, ensuring there was no risk of a forest fire before leaving with He Chengyan. On the way down the mountain, they encountered many late-risers heading up. A crowd had gathered at the bus stop, and every bus that arrived was packed to the brim. Liang He felt a bit worried; there was no way He Chengyan could squeeze onto a bus in her condition. Just as he was looking for a place for them to rest, a crisp hawking voice reached his ears:
"Incense and candles! Joss paper! Luxury cars and mansions! BP pagers and mobile phones! Villas and farms! We have it all! Come take a look, buy a set for your departed loved ones!"
Liang He found it amusing. He hadn't realized the local farmers had such a keen business sense these days. He couldn't help but look over, and as he watched, something felt off. He took a few quick steps to push through the crowd. Inside the circle stood a young girl hawking her wares with great enthusiasm. He started to call out to her but stopped himself, crossing his arms and watching for a while, finding the scene increasingly entertaining. Only after she finished another sale did he speak up.
"Boss, what are these? How much?"
***
Sima Qiuyun’s New Year was not going well.
The school dormitory only allowed students to stay until the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth lunar month—the very night Liang He had dropped her off. The next day, she was supposed to pack her things and return to 89 Phoenix Street—which was, of course, impossible. After much pleading and promising to clean the hallways for the dorm manager for a month, the woman finally allowed her to move into a different room for a few days. For the duration of the Spring Festival, only one dormitory room remained occupied; including Qiuyun, there were three students in total. Of the other two, one was preparing to go abroad and had used family connections within the school to stay; aside from New Year's Eve, this student had absolutely no leisure time and spent all day buried in books. The other was simply too poor and had sent her travel money home, spending the entire holiday working.
Naturally, Qiuyun hadn't been idle either. While organizing Qiu Xiaoyun’s clothes, she had been struck by a sudden sense of crisis—she was running out of money.
Qiu Xiaoyun’s funds would basically be depleted by the end of this semester. The new semester was approaching; while university tuition was free in this era, there were still miscellaneous fees, and art was a very expensive major. Back in the 21st century, Qiuyun’s classmates used to wail on social media: *Ever since I started studying art, my mom thinks I’m on drugs!* This was an exaggeration, of course, and Qiu Xiaoyun was only a freshman, mostly using pencils and only touching on watercolors for color theory, but there were always daily expenses. It was impossible to spend nothing.
Driven by necessity, Qiuyun clutched the remaining 1 yuan, 2 jiao, and 5 fen in her pocket and walked for an hour and a half to 89 Phoenix Street. Last time, she had been afraid someone would be home; this time, she hoped for it. But the courtyard was silent, with no sign of anyone having returned. She rummaged through all of Qiu Xiaoyun’s belongings but couldn't find a key for the life of her. She thought about finding a locksmith, but realized that during the New Year, even locksmiths were nowhere to be found. She returned to school full of worry, only to find her other roommate—the poor one—carrying back a large bundle of bamboo splints, paper, and glue.
"What are these...?" Qiuyun asked curiously.
"The restaurant where I work is closed from the first to the eighth day of the New Year, so I’m making some grave paper to sell."
Qiuyun watched as the girl deftly unfolded the paper, sorting it into several types with a professional air. In a few motions, she had fashioned a piece of corrugated grave paper. After watching for a while, Qiuyun said, "I haven't introduced myself yet. I'm Qiu Xiaoyun, Class of '87, Oil Painting."
"Oh, hello, Qiu Xiaoyun. I'm Liu Dan, Class of '85, Traditional Chinese Painting." She freed a hand to shake Qiuyun's.
"Hello, hello." Qiuyun stepped forward to shake her hand. "Is this easy to make?"
"Very easy," Liu Dan said, her hands never stopping. She folded the paper, bent the splints, and glued them with practiced ease. Her ten fingers fluttered like butterflies, and a small stack soon piled up on the floor. "See? Fold it like this, bend it, flip it over, glue it, and wait for it to dry."
Seeing Qiuyun staring intently, she smiled. "What, interested?"
"Your hands are so skillful," Qiuyun said sincerely. "It’s like you’re playing the piano. Does this sell well?"
"It’s alright. I buy the incense and candles from farmers, so there’s not much profit in those. It’s the grave paper that makes money; the ones the farmers make aren't as delicate as mine, so mine sell better. I’ve been doing this for two years. Business is good from the first to the third day. If I go on the fourth, business is slow, so I don't bother on the fifth because fewer people visit the graves then."
"How much can you make?"
"The simple ones are thirty cents each, the complex ones are forty cents. Selling one or two hundred over the Spring Festival is no problem. But last year, I noticed other people selling the same thing. After all, the craftsmanship is simple; you can figure it out just by looking. I might not sell as many this year."
Qiuyun’s heart skipped a beat. By that calculation, one could make at least 30 to 50 yuan—equivalent to a month’s salary for a worker in this era. She felt a surge of excitement. Staring at Liu Dan’s flying fingers, she said, "I have a great idea. How about we collaborate?"
***
