The Onlooker

Old Wang walked along this road every afternoon. There was nothing special about this road, much like countless others in the city, lined with buildings of moderate height housing various shops. People came and went; traffic flowed endlessly. When the sun was out, the mottled shadows of the plane trees would dapple the sidewalk, giving him an illusion of peace. Today, the sun wasn't particularly bright. The sky was somewhat overcast, and a heavy humidity hung in the air, hinting at a possible rain.

As he neared the intersection, he saw a crowd gathered ahead. This was a common sight in the city; even minor incidents could attract a group of craning onlookers. Perhaps it was an argument, a fender-bender, or something worse. Old Wang usually avoided such commotions. He felt it was a waste of time, and besides, gawking at others' misfortune or disputes always seemed somewhat... well, indecent. But today, somehow—perhaps it was the heavy air that made his chest feel tight too, or perhaps the crowd was larger than usual—his steps involuntarily slowed. Then, as if pulled by an invisible force, he walked towards the crowd.

He wasn't tall, and even on tiptoes at the edge of the crowd, he couldn't see clearly. He could only hear snippets of noisy discussion, intermittent like broken leaves in the wind.

"...So tragic..." "...Looks like a family of three..." "...That car was speeding..." "...Sigh, it's not safe to go out these days..."

These words pierced Old Wang's ears, making his heart lurch. A family of three? He frowned. A nameless unease began to quietly grow. Before leaving home today, his son had called, saying he would take his daughter-in-law and little grandson to the park in the afternoon and would pass by this area. Surely... it couldn't be? He shook his head, trying to dispel the absurd thought. Just a coincidence. This city was so large, so many things happened every day.

He started pushing forward forcefully. The crowd felt like a warm, sticky wall, bodies pressed against bodies, emitting smells of sweat, perfume, and an indescribable collective odor. As he struggled forward, he kept reassuring himself: It couldn't be them. His son's car was silver-grey, driven for several years, very reliable.

Finally, he squeezed into a position slightly closer to the front. His gaze passed over the shoulders ahead, and he saw the accident scene. A dark blue sedan had crashed into a roadside lamppost, its front end severely deformed, the hood buckled upwards like a painfully twisted mouth. Not far away, several shapes covered by white cloths lay on the ground, varying in size. The police had already cordoned off the area with tape and were dispersing the crowd, maintaining order. The air was filled with the smell of gasoline and something burnt.

Old Wang's eyes swept over the dark blue car, and his heart eased slightly. Not his son's car. He was about to back away when his attention was caught by something scattered near the car. It was a small, yellow plastic duck—his little grandson's favorite bath toy, the one he carried everywhere in his pocket. Old Wang's heart sank violently, as if struck by a heavy blow.

Impossible, he told himself. Toys like that are sold everywhere.

He forced himself to look away, yet couldn't stop his eyes from returning to the wreckage. His gaze, like a searchlight, anxiously scanned every detail. Then, he saw it. Near one of the white-shrouded shapes, a small sneaker had fallen off. Red and blue, its laces untied. It was the new pair he had bought for his grandson just last month. The little boy loved them so much he wore them every day.

Old Wang's breath caught instantly. The entire world seemed to hit mute. The surrounding hubbub of voices, sirens, car horns—all vanished. He could only hear the frantic drumming of his own heart and the roar of blood rushing to his head. His legs began to weaken, his vision blurred.

He saw the dark blue car again. Although it wasn't his son's, he remembered—his son mentioned yesterday that his car was in for service, and he'd be driving a friend's car for a couple of days. A dark blue one, maybe this make...

He staggered, trying to rush past the police tape, but an officer nearby stopped him firmly. "Sir, please step back. This is an accident scene." The officer's voice was calm and professional, yet it felt like a cold awl piercing his last shred of hope.

"That... That's..." Old Wang's voice was hoarse, trembling uncontrollably. He pointed towards the white sheets on the ground, his lips quivering, unable to form a complete sentence. He wanted to say, "That's my son," "That's my daughter-in-law," "That's my grandson," but the words felt like scorching irons stuck in his throat, burning him.

The officer seemed to sense something. His expression turned serious, tinged with a mix of sympathy and caution. "Sir, do you know them?"

Old Wang didn't answer. He just stood there numbly, like a statue instantly weathered by the wind. Minutes ago, he had been a detached onlooker, observing someone else's tragedy with a numb curiosity. Now, he was the core of this tragedy, the most anguished, most devastated person involved. The transformation was so swift, so absurd, so cruel, tearing him completely apart.

The crowd still shifted, murmurs and sighs like a distant tide washing against the newly formed island named "Old Wang." Those gazes, previously directed at the accident itself, now partly turned towards him, filled with surprise, pity, and perhaps a trace of relief—relief that it wasn't them or their loved ones lying there.

Old Wang felt nothing anymore. The sunlight seemed to have vanished completely. The sky turned leaden grey, pressing down heavily on his head. He felt like a character from Kafka, drawn without warning into an incomprehensible, inescapable nightmare. He had just gone out for a walk as usual, encountered a crowd as usual, and then, his everyday world had utterly collapsed.

He unconsciously bent over, coughing violently, as if trying to expel his internal organs. Everything around him lost meaning. This road, these buildings, these strange yet familiar faces—all spun, blurred, and finally dissolved into a vast, indifferent vortex, swallowing him mercilessly. He was no longer an onlooker. He had become the observed, shattered center. And this sudden "onlooking," in the end, turned out to be the witnessing of the ruins of his own life.