Ink Stain

Wang Er from the street corner is dead.

The news came out early in the morning, like a gust of dusty wind skimming the ground, swirling a few dry leaves, then falling silent again. They say he passed away in his sleep, peacefully. But the neighbors exchanged glances privately, curling their lips, whispering, "Isn't it because of that business?"

Which business? His wife's business, naturally. His wife passed away half a year ago, from illness. When that woman was alive, she was sharp, capable, with a bright voice. She kept the home tidy and proper, and even made Wang Er look like a city dweller. And Wang Er? Taciturn, honest, like a paperweight, firmly pressed down onto the stack of papers that was life by his wife.

Once his wife was gone, the paperweight lost its force, and life became like papers scattered by the wind, fluttering chaotically.

At first, Wang Er was just silent. He'd sit on the doorstep for half a day at a time, staring blankly at the half-dead locust tree across the street, as if his wife's spirit were hidden within it. When the neighbors saw him, they'd just sigh and say, "Poor fellow. He'll get over it in a few days."

A few days? Who knew. The days passed like a dull knife cutting flesh – not fast, but painful. Wang Er didn't get better; instead, he grew increasingly strange.

He started talking to his wife. Not to the air, but clutching that faded wedding photo. In the picture, the woman wore a red padded jacket, grinning, showing a row of white teeth. Wang Er would face that smile and ramble on, telling her what groceries he bought today, that the neighbor's cat stole the fish again, that it was getting cold and she needed to put on more clothes. His voice was low, muffled, like talking in his sleep.

Someone tried to console him, "The dead can't be brought back to life. Please accept our condolences and try to move on."

Wang Er looked up, his eyes cloudy, like glass marbles coated with a layer of grease. "She's not gone," he said, pointing at the photo. "She's right here."

The consoler left awkwardly, shaking their head behind his back. "He's possessed, I'm afraid."

Later, Wang Er stopped even sitting on the doorstep. He shut himself inside his room. That room, once kept bright and clean by his wife, now gradually filled with a musty smell, mixed with tobacco and some other indefinable odor, like a jar sealed for too long. The windows were always closed, thick curtains blocking the light and the outside world.

Occasionally, the curious, or the genuinely concerned, would knock on his door. The door would open a crack, revealing Wang Er's emaciated face, stubbled, his eyes sunken. The room inside was dim as twilight; one could vaguely see the walls plastered with photos, all of his wife, from different times, smiling, frowning, like countless pairs of eyes silently watching this living prisoner.

"What is it?" Wang Er's voice was hoarse, tinged with impatience.

"N-nothing... just checking on you." The visitor, repelled by the sight and smell of the room, stammered, taking a step back.

"I'm fine," Wang Er said, starting to close the door.

"I heard... lately you..." The visitor wanted to say more, probably trying to convey the clichés from "family" or "relatives" about "pulling yourself together" and "looking forward."

Wang Er suddenly looked up, his gaze surprisingly frightening, like a dying beast's. "She's waiting for me," he said, then shut the door with a bang, shutting out all concern, advice, and prying eyes.

"He really couldn't let go," someone commented on the street corner, their tone carrying a hint of cheap sympathy and also a subtle, morbid curiosity. "A man in his thirties, with so much life ahead of him."

"Hopeless romantic," another voice chimed in, slightly mocking. "Can't live without his wife."

He couldn't live anymore. Or rather, he didn't want to. His world had collapsed with the woman's departure. What remained was just a shell wandering the ruins, smeared beyond recognition by the ink stains of memory and grief. That ink stain, initially just a tiny dot, had silently bled out, soaking his entire being, darkening even the marrow of his bones.

The family did make a statement, passed along by a few busybodies, generally saying, "Thank you for your concern, he is just overcome with grief, he will slowly get better." The words were official, polite, like a clean but useless gauze placed over a festering wound. Everyone knew the wound was deep inside, already rotten to the core.

The day Wang Er died, the sky was gloomy, like a dirty rag. The light in his room, it's said, was on all night. The milkman discovered him. After knocking for a long time with no answer, he peered through a crack in the window and saw him lying in bed, covered with a quilt, facing the wall. On the wall hung the largest photo of his wife, in a decent-looking frame.

The coroner came, the police too. A brief look, and they called it "sudden death," possibly "heart failure." Neighbors gathered outside, craning their necks to see, then quickly dispersed, as if they had just watched a play that had nothing to do with them.

"Well, he's finally free," someone murmured.

"Isn't that the truth? Living was just suffering for him."

Their words were light and airy, like willow catkins in the wind, never landing solidly. To them, Wang Er's death was just another piece of gossip for after-dinner conversation, proving some preconceived notion – like "deep love is often met with indifference," or "men need to learn to let things go."

Only I, looking at that sealed, tightly shut door with its white tape, remembered Wang Er's words: "She's waiting for me."

Perhaps he didn't die. Perhaps he finally found the door leading to where his wife was, pushed it open, and walked through. The outside world – noisy, indifferent – didn't understand his sorrow, nor did it need to. His death was like a drop of thick ink falling into the murky water of life, creating a small ripple, and then, nothing more could be seen.

Only that faint, lingering musty smell seemed to still hang around the street corner, reminding people that someone here was once drowned alive by something called "longing." And most people, as if nothing happened, hurried past, heading towards their own lives – neither particularly good nor bad, but lives that had to be lived. The sky remained overcast and gray.