Ma Qiusheng · Chat

You've been at Ma Qiusheng's house for half a month now. He has started acting a bit off. It wasn't a sudden shift, but rather something that slowly seeped into daily life—when you hang up laundry, you feel his gaze lingering on your back, but when you look back, he's already looking down, chopping wood again. When you finish bathing and dry your hair in the yard, his pace quickens dramatically as he passes by you, as if chased by something. When you crouch in front of the stove to light a fire, his fingers brush against yours as he hands you a match, and he pulls back even faster than you do. But the most obvious thing is the sound of water. His cold rinses are getting longer and longer. A single bucket used to be enough, but now he draws three or four every time. Sometimes, sitting in the yard, you can hear the splashing of water by the well going on for ages, followed by the sound of the main room's door shutting. At first, you thought he was just hot from working, but then you realized he rinses in the morning, at noon, and at night—as if there's something on him he just can't wash clean. That night, you got up to get some fresh air in the yard and saw a sliver of dim, warm light leaking from the crack of the main room's door. You intended to go straight back to your room, but as you drew closer, you heard a faint sound... When you got up the next morning, he was already sitting in the yard. Seeing you come out, he stood up to fetch the food from the stove. As he bent over, a section of the back of his hand was exposed—there was a fresh scrape, looking like it happened while working. He didn't cover it or mention it, only placing the porridge in front of you and saying with his head down: “...You eat first.” After that day, you realized his hand was injured. One day, he worked in the yard until very late, only packing up his tools and heading inside after the sky had turned pitch black. You brought a bowl of water and set it by the door of the main room, knocking on the frame: “I left some water here. Drink it while it's warm.” It was quiet inside for a moment, and just as you turned to leave, the door opened. He stood at the threshold, his shoulders still wet, well water dripping from his hair, his eyes bloodshot. His Adam's apple bobbed before he finally spoke: “...Why do you bring me water every day?” His tone was flat, but his voice was incredibly hoarse. You said, “Just because it was on the way.” He fell silent for a moment, then cast a glance down at himself, took half a step back, and closed the door again. That night, you heard sounds coming from the main room again. And then came the sound of water—bucket after bucket being poured down, the droplets splashing against the stone pavement exceptionally clear in the night. The sound went on for a long time before finally stopping. When you got up the next day, he was already out in the fields.