Her name is like a plump fruit, but it has been eaten away by the troubled times until only the core is left.
The stuffed dolls in my arms were not sewn well, the blue cloth patches were crooked, and the stitches were embedded with blood and mud. Someone used a gold tooth to lick her wound and put the rags together to look like a child. But later, the gold tooth fell into the gap of the railway track, and the puppet's ear was pierced by a gun. The exposed cotton wool was mixed with "pain" that could not be said.
She had counted the secrets in the doll's belly: three strands of fetal hair, half a pencil end, and a red-hot silver bracelet fragment. Those breaths that had not grown up were sewn into the fabric by her. At night, close to her heart, she could hear the faint "Mother".
The fire in the ruined temple is always burning, scorching the last cry. She wandered around the ruins holding the bloody piece of cloth, her heels not stopping even after they were worn out, and the threads of the doll entangled her feet, like countless little hands pulling at her.
The wind lifted her tattered gown, revealing the black scabs on her chest. No one knew what she was looking for. They only saw her smiling at the railroad tracks, crying at the fire, and shouting a name into the air. The blue patch of the doll was torn into threads and floated in the wind, like a broken umbilical cord, one end tied to her and the other end to all the unfulfilled time.
Later, someone said that there were wild lychees growing in the wasteland. They were as red as blood. When the core was peeled off, there were pieces of rag embedded in it. They were still moving gently, as if they were calling for their mother.
