A dead man sent his grandson a text: "Grandpa's gone. Come back quick. Don't let the lights go out." It was sent at 2:14 a.m., even though his grandfather had died at 11:07 the previous night.
My name is Chen Ye. I returned to the town to keep vigil. Beneath the kneeling cushion in the mourning hall were three rules my grandfather had left behind: First, the lights in the mourning hall must not go out before dawn. Second, if anything is missing from the offering table, replace it. Third, before the first rooster crows, never answer anyone calling to you from outside, no matter who it is.
On the first night of the vigil, I heard my second uncle's voice outside the door. I had clearly seen those three rules, but I still reached out and tore up the third one myself.
From that second on, the town's roll call register, which listed 637 people, gained a 638th line. It bore my name, followed by three words: Awaiting signature.
