Vine

Jiang Man's life is a mirror that was erected prematurely, and the person holding the mirror is her father. Forty-three years have flowed like a quiet river between father and daughter. Only the clouds under his eyes foretell changes in the weather, and the peach wood stick erected behind the door is always stretched by the light and shadow at dusk. At dusk when she was ten years old, Jiang Man lost the brass key to her house. The shiny key slipped from her fingers and fell into the darkness along the gap of the stairs, making a crisp and desperate sound. My father was tending to his epiphyllum on the balcony. When he heard the noise, he turned around and his face darkened little by little, like rice paper soaked in ink. He grabbed the mahogany stick leaning against the wall and stretched it into a dangerous arc in his hand. Jiang Man saw the blue veins popping up on the back of his hand, and saw the wooden stick approaching with the sound of wind - but it suddenly froze the moment it touched the tip of her hair. The wooden stick hung in the air and trembled, like a bird with broken wings. The father's chest rose and fell violently, and finally he threw the stick heavily on the ground, making a dull impact. Epiphyllum drops its white buds in the dusk. "Since the key can be lost, you don't have to stay at this house anymore." Jiang Man was pushed by his father and staggered out of the door. The small figure froze in the corridor, like a plant that was suddenly pulled out of the soil. The roots were still attached to the warmth of the ground, but the branches and leaves were exposed to the cold air. Many years later, on a similar evening, Qin Zhen ran his fingers through her hair, his movements as light as brushing away dust from ancient books. Jiang Man suddenly heard the clear sound of metal hitting the ground deep in her memory - the copper key was still falling, repeatedly measuring the size of her soul.