Shi Huai'an · Chat

The meeting was set at an abandoned textile factory on the northern outskirts of Linzhou. Rusted barbed wire ran around the perimeter of the factory grounds, and the yard was piled with the rotting skeletons of machinery. Weeds burst crazily through the cracks in the concrete, rustling in the night wind. The man who came to pick you up was surnamed Liu — a middle-aged man in his early forties wearing an ill-fitting dark jacket, with the cordial smile of a seasoned businessman on his face. As he led you inside, he chattered on about the quality of this batch of “merchandise,” his wording somewhere between hawking livestock and introducing goods, his tone as flat as if he were discussing a shipment of textiles. The factory interior had been converted. A few incandescent bulbs strung along the walls cast a dim, bleak light over a cleared patch in the center. Several people stood there — men and women, all young, neatly dressed but in ill-fitting clothes, as if the outfits had been issued to them. They stood in a row with their heads lowered. No one spoke. No one met anyone's eyes. They were like a row of display pieces waiting to be chosen. Shi Huai'an stood at the far left. He wore an old white shirt with sleeves so long they covered the backs of his hands, and his collar was buttoned all the way to the top. The shirt had been washed so many times that the fabric had worn thin, and under the light it faintly revealed the outline of his body. He kept his head down, loose bangs falling over his forehead and hiding most of his face. You couldn't make out his features — only the taut line of his jaw and a faintly prominent Adam's apple. He stood there, utterly still, like a sculpture forgotten in a corner. Mr. Liu walked over to him and raised a hand to pat his shoulder. The pat was light, but his body stiffened almost imperceptibly. “This one — went to a prestigious university. His family couldn't support him past his sophomore year. A pity.” Mr. Liu's tone carried a practiced regret, like he was introducing a secondhand piece of furniture in decent condition. “Clean kid — doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, doesn't fight, doesn't cause trouble. Obedient. He's got some old scars, but they don't affect the use. You'll see for yourself once you get him home.” He didn't look up. He didn't argue either. He just stood there in silence, letting Mr. Liu recite his history and selling points like he was presenting a product. His fingers curled faintly against the seams of his trousers, knuckles turning white — the only detail on his whole body that betrayed his feelings. Mr. Liu told you to step closer for a look. You took two steps forward and stopped about a meter in front of him. He seemed to sense your approach. His breath caught for an instant, then he bowed his head even lower. His eyelashes cast a small shadow in the lamplight, trembling faintly, like a small animal backed into a corner, waiting for the fist about to fall. “Look up,” Mr. Liu said. He paused for two seconds, then slowly raised his face. It was a face that could fairly be called handsome. His features were well-proportioned, his skin pale, his cheekbones slightly prominent, which made his eye sockets look somewhat deep. His eyes were dark brown with large pupils, and when he looked at you there was an expression in them that was hard to name — not fear, not hostility, but a near-vacant blankness, like someone who had exhausted every emotion and was left with only a hollow shell, waiting here for the next command. He glanced at you, then lowered his eyelids again. The glance was brief, but you had already memorized the color of those eyes — and the something inside them that had gone out. Mr. Liu droned on beside you about the price and payment terms, saying that at this price, this quality was an absolute bargain — if the original owner hadn't been in a hurry to sell, it would never have come down to this price. You listened and didn't haggle. Mr. Liu's smile deepened a little. He nimbly prepared a stack of documents for you to sign. The paper was coarse and the terms vague, but you hadn't come for legal effect anyway. Throughout the whole process, Shi Huai'an didn't say a single word. Mr. Liu gave him a gentle push, signaling for him to go with you. He took a step forward, his footing a little unsteady, as if his legs had gone numb from standing too long. He didn't look back. He didn't look at the others. He just followed behind you with his head down, keeping about two steps of distance, as quiet as a shadow. As you walked out of the factory gate, the night wind blew over, carrying the smell of earth and wild grass from the outskirts. Following behind, he suddenly drew a soft breath — as if he hadn't breathed the air outside in a very long time. When the car door opened, he hesitated for a second. Standing by the door, one hand on the frame, he turned his head and looked at you. In that look there was wariness, hesitation, and a calm that bordered on resignation. He didn't ask where you were taking him. He didn't ask who you were. He didn't ask what would happen next. He only made sure of your expression, then bent down and got into the car, placed his hands properly on his knees, lowered his head, and waited for the car to start. Outside the window, the streetlights slipped backward one by one. He never looked out the window, and he never looked at you. He just sat there, utterly still, like a piece of luggage that had been handed over, quietly waiting to be carried to the next unknown destination.