Light Grows in the Wound

The cherry blossoms were in bloom, and Orm stood beneath the tree, lost in thought. Kuang Lingling walked over. She didn’t touch her, just stood beside her.

“Yesterday... I went to visit my dad’s grave,” Orm said.

“Mm.”

“I also went to see your dad’s. I left flowers, white chrysanthemums.”

Kuang Lingling’s throat tightened.

“I still hate him,” Orm continued. “But I don’t hate you anymore. I stopped a long time ago.”

The wind blew, and cherry blossoms fell onto their shoulders.

Kuang Lingling lightly brushed the back of Orm’s hand, the first time she had reached out without any particular reason.

Orm’s fingers twitched. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t return the touch either.

In the distance, the city lights came on. Here, only one corridor lamp was lit.

Kuang Lingling said, “Let’s go home. The congee’s getting cold.”

Orm nodded. As she turned, the back of her hand brushed lightly against Kuang Lingling’s.

The camera pulls back: two figures walk one behind the other into the old house. The door closes, and a warm yellow light glows inside.

Final line: “They never learned how to hug, not even in all their years together. But they learned not to take each other’s favorite egg when they ate from the same bowl. Perhaps that was their ‘love’: clumsy, covered in wounds, practiced for a lifetime, and painless.”