Entwined Lotus on a Rainy Night

The rain began at midnight.

It wasn’t a satisfying downpour, but a chilly drizzle, like countless fine needles pricking the mottled walls of the old building and the back of Chen Yan’s neck. He clutched the rusty ring of keys and only got one to fit the lock on his third try. The “302” engraved on the key’s handle had long since worn blurry, and its jagged edges hurt his palm.

The moment the door opened, a mixture of mildew and dust swept out, making him stagger back half a step. By the light of his phone’s flashlight, he could see a thin layer of dust covering the living-room floor. Sunlight probably hadn’t visited this place in more than a decade.

“This is it?” His assistant, Xiao Lin, clutched a file folder behind him, her voice wavering. “Professor Wang really lived here before he disappeared?”

Chen Yan didn’t answer. His gaze settled on the antique grandfather clock in the corner. Its pendulum had stopped at 3:17, and a crack in the glass across its face looked like a bolt of lightning frozen in place. He remembered his mother telling him that his maternal grandfather had treasured this clock above all else. He wound it every night at eight sharp, and for decades it hadn’t been off by a single second.

That is, until his grandfather disappeared on a rainy night thirty years ago.

“Mr. Chen, look at this.” Xiao Lin’s voice trembled. She pointed to a sweater draped over the arm of the sofa. Its dark red yarn had faded, but the pattern embroidered on the cuff was still recognizable: a long-lost “twining lotus,” its petals intertwined like countless hands knotted together.

Chen Yan walked over. The instant his fingertips brushed the sweater, he heard a soft click.

It came from the grandfather clock.

He whirled around.