The Cost of Eternal Rest

Old Zhao Si emerged once again from that grey, dusty building; the sky too was grey and dusty, as if coated in five years of grime. The poplar trees lining the street, however, shone with a vibrant green, seemingly shameless. It was already the fifth year. His daughter, the one whose name he now scarcely dared to whisper even in his heart, still 'lived' in that row of buildings behind the main one, cold and waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for him to settle that 'cost of eternal rest'.

Five years ago, that summer, it had been just as suffocatingly hot. Cicadas shrieked themselves hoarse, as if trying to scatter one's very soul. The terrible news arrived like a piece of red-hot iron, searing itself directly onto his heart. His daughter was gone, taken by that damned beast... The events that followed were a blur; he only remembered endless tears, his wife collapsing from weeping, and that young yet savage face in the courtroom. Sentence was passed, the murderer faced retribution, but his daughter?

His daughter lay there, having become an 'affair', a piece of 'business'. Initially, they thought that once the dust settled, they could at least let the child rest in peace. But soon after, a bill was handed to him. It read 'morgue fees', followed by a string of numbers, like a cold snake, day by day winding longer and longer.

"These are the rules." The clerk didn't even lift his eyelids, pointing to the densely packed documents on the wall. "Charges accrue daily. Whenever you settle the bill, you can take her."

Old Zhao Si tried to argue, his voice hoarse: "But she was murdered! We are the victims! This... this fee..."

"Rules are rules," the clerk repeated, like a pre-programmed machine. "It's the same for everyone. Can't pay? Then she stays here."

And so, his daughter remained 'kept' there. One year, two years... five years. Old Zhao Si went to various 'departments', wore out the thresholds of many doors. Some gatekeepers wouldn't even let him in. In some offices, people sipped tea, read newspapers, and waved him away, saying it wasn't their jurisdiction. Once or twice, he encountered someone seemingly sympathetic, who sighed and said, "Old Zhao, this is difficult. The rules are rigid, and people... people can't do anything about it."

Nothing can be done. These words were like invisible shackles, binding Old Zhao Si, and binding that cold body too. Sometimes he dreamt of his daughter, still as she was in childhood, with pigtails, chasing butterflies. When he woke, his pillow was always wet. His wife had long since cried her eyes dry, her mind adrift, often talking to the empty room.

Neighbors initially came often to console him, but gradually less so. People have their own lives to lead; whose sorrow can occupy another's heart for long? Occasionally, someone would mention it, asking cautiously, "Old Zhao, that matter... still not settled?" Old Zhao Si would nod, or shake his head, something stuck in his throat, unable to make a sound. He felt that he, like his daughter, had also been 'put away', stored in a forgotten corner, slowly decaying.

Today, he went to ask again. The clerk was new, younger, and more impatient. Tapping on a calculator, he quoted an even larger figure. "It's been five years, the interest alone is significant. Old sir, you'd better figure something out soon, or it will just keep piling up." The tone was as if discussing an ordinary debt, not the final dignity of a brutally murdered girl.

Old Zhao Si walked out of the building, the sunlight harsh. He saw someone by the street selling an inflatable castle, brightly colored, children jumping and laughing inside. A gust of wind blew, and the huge plastic monster swayed, looking as if it might float away at any moment. In a daze, Old Zhao Si felt he was no different from that tottering inflatable castle, hollow inside, buffeted randomly by the winds of fate, unsure where he would drift.

He couldn't understand why, after a life was paid for a life, there was still such an absurd bill. Why, after his daughter died, did he still have to pay for her cold 'lodging'? This world, it seemed, was full of invisible walls, full of cold rules. While alive, people are governed by rules; when dead, even their final rest is priced by rules.

He walked slowly, his hunched back like a giant question mark dragging on the ground. He didn't know if he should come back tomorrow, didn't know when this 'cost of eternal rest' could be settled, or if it ever could be. Perhaps, they would just wait, wait until he and his wife also became objects needing 'storage', only then could this account be closed?

He looked up at the sky; it was still grey and dusty, like a dirty rag smothering all the light. Only the distant cicadas continued their tireless shrieking, crying out this suffocating, absurd, yet inescapable summer.