When the Red Thread Wrapped Around My Wrist: Grandma Called to Me Beneath the Pagoda Tree

It's 3 a.m. I'm sitting in front of my computer, clutching a red string. It's no ordinary red string: there's something blackish wrapped inside its core, like dried blood. The recorder on my desk is still running. Along with my voice, there's a woman's soft humming, with exactly the same melody as the old Republic-era tune my grandmother used to sing. This is what I “brought back” from the old locust tree at Luomapo, and the first time I've ever felt that some things might really be more than “a trick.”