Numb Echoes

The afternoon sun slanted across the greasy tabletops of the "Lao Yutai" teahouse, dust motes lazily swirling in the beams of light. Inside, it was the usual crowd of regulars: Second Master Zhang, carrying his birdcage; "Big Mouth" Zhao, with his booming voice, who loved to discuss national affairs; and Mr. Qian, who drank his tea quietly, occasionally interjecting with a startling remark. The teahouse owner, Lao Wang, with his slight paunch, carried the long-spouted copper kettle, leisurely refilling everyone's cups.

"Have you heard? Down south, no, southwest, over in Myanmar, the earth dragon turned over!" Big Mouth Zhao took a sip of scalding jasmine tea, lowering his voice slightly, yet still managing to drown out the chirping of the thrush in the birdcage. "Tsk tsk, heard on the radio, it was quite a commotion, lots of houses collapsed, people...唉!"

Second Master Zhang, fussing with his precious thrush, didn't even lift an eyelid. "Natural disasters, man-made calamities, they've happened since ancient times. If it gets you, it's fate. If it doesn't, you drink your tea, listen to your opera." He paused, as if remembering something. "Speaking of which, my yellow bunting didn't eat much yesterday, could it be it sensed something too?"

Mr. Qian put down his teacup, his eyes behind his spectacles sweeping over the group. Slowly, he said, "Many people died. Behind the numbers, they were all living people." His voice wasn't loud, but it pricked everyone like a fine needle.

The teahouse fell silent for a few seconds. The air seemed to stagnate, the dust motes in the sunlight stopped dancing.

"Isn't that just the way! Truly pitiful," Lao Wang chimed in, trying to ease the atmosphere. "The heavens have no eyes. But then again, it's thousands of miles away from us, we can't reach it even if we wanted to. Come, Master Zhao, let me refill your cup!" The spout of the copper kettle lifted, and hot water poured into the covered bowl, sending up a wisp of steam.

As if on cue, the teahouse buzzed with noise again. Big Mouth Zhao immediately changed the subject: "Speaking of the weather, I reckon there'll be plenty of rain this summer, my patch of peanuts..." Second Master Zhang started discussing the merits of different pigeon whistles with someone at the next table. Mr. Qian picked up his teacup again, silently gazing out the window at an old locust tree, where a few withered yellow leaves were swirling down.

Lao Wang leaned against the counter, watching it all. The radio was still reporting on the earthquake's aftermath – cold statistics, unfamiliar place names, the choked voice of a reporter. But these sounds, as if filtered through a thick layer of cotton, reached the small teahouse muffled and distant. He tried to imagine the devastation in that land: ruins, displaced people, the anguished cries of those who had lost loved ones... But what kept running through his mind was the zhajiangmian his daughter wanted for dinner, whether there was enough sauce, if the diced pork should be fattier.

He suddenly felt a pang of unease, as if he were missing something. Was it compassion? No, he felt sorry for those people. But that pity was like watching characters in a play, separated by a vast distance, unable to touch the deepest chord in his heart. Everyone seemed the same, paying lip service to "pity," but turning around, the trivialities of life immediately filled their minds. Numbness? Perhaps. But who was qualified to point fingers? In these times, just managing one's own little plot of land was already a monumental feat.

Just then, he noticed the old pendulum clock hanging on the wall seemed to be running slow. He leaned closer; the second hand ticked by, seemingly with more effort than usual. Was it his imagination? He glanced again at an inconspicuous stain in the opposite corner – today, why did it look so much like a distorted human face? Lao Wang shuddered, shook his head; he must have been lacking sleep recently.

"Mr. Qian," Lao Wang couldn't help asking, "do you think there's this layer separating people?"

Mr. Qian put down his teacup, glanced at him, his eyes holding a kind of all-seeing sorrow. "A layer? Perhaps. Or maybe, there's nothing separating us at all, it's just that people are unwilling, or perhaps afraid, to look." He paused, then added, "When the noise is too loud, you can no longer hear."

What noise? Lao Wang didn't understand. Was it the distant cries, or the nearby clamor?

The sun set, casting a warm, golden-red glow over the old teahouse. Customers gradually left, leaving behind a floor littered with melon seed shells and empty teacups. As Big Mouth Zhao left, he was still shouting, "Tomorrow I'll bring that map of Myanmar, we'll study it properly!" Second Master Zhang left, carrying his birdcage and humming a little tune.

Mr. Qian was the last to leave. He reached the doorway, looked back at Lao Wang, said nothing, just sighed softly, and melted into the deepening twilight.

Lao Wang began clearing the tables, wiping away grease and tea stains. The radio in the corner was still crackling, reporting some trivial international news. He turned it off. The teahouse instantly fell silent, leaving only the sound of him clearing the dishes and the "tick-tock, tick-tock" of the old clock, which seemed to be slowing down even more.

He walked to the window, looking out at the indigo sky and the dim yellow streetlights in the alley. The distant tremor seemed to have transformed into a silent echo, lingering here in the quiet teahouse, in his heart. The echo was hollow and numb, as if emanating from a soulless abyss.

"It's getting cold," he rubbed his arms, murmuring to himself, "Time to close the window."

Outside, the night descended like a vast, heavy black cloth, absorbing all sound.