34: funeral

The coldness of the floor seeped through his thin clothes into his skin, but Lu Jianchuan was completely unaware of it. Extreme exhaustion, like thick mud, held him firmly in the corner against the wall; he didn't even want to move a finger.

His eyelids were heavy as mountains. Images from last night's life-and-death struggle and White Star's dying gaze swirled chaotically in his mind, eventually swallowed by a profound darkness. Leaning against the wall like this, amidst the mess on the floor and the lingering smell of energy bar wrappers, he sank into a near-unconscious sleep.

He didn't know how much time had passed when a sharp, insistent alarm ring, like a cold probe, stabbed fiercely into his chaotic Sea of Consciousness.

Lu Jianchuan jolted violently, waking with a start. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as if he had just fled for his life. He looked around blankly, his vision taking several seconds to focus on a familiar, water-stained corner of the ceiling, confirming he was lying on the cold floor of his rented room.

Then, the ubiquitous muscle soreness, like a delayed tide, instantly overwhelmed him.

But sharper and heavier than this physical pain were the memories that revived along with his consciousness—the image of Uncle Li's chest being pierced, those eyes gradually losing their light yet filled with a resolute determination to push him away, White Star's massive body collapsing before the false ocean, and the cold, heavy ring on his own left wrist.

Today was Uncle Li's memorial service.

This thought, like a red-hot branding iron, seared him, making him instantly sit bolt upright from the floor, ignoring every protest signal from his body. He almost lunged to grab his phone. The screen lit up, the date and time coldly confirming this fact he wished to forget but had to face.

Without the slightest hesitation, even lacking time to compose more appropriate words, he directly used his trembling finger to open the chat dialog with his unit Leader and typed a line of text, brief to the point of abruptness: "Leader, I'm requesting leave today to attend Uncle Li's memorial service."

The moment the notification tone for a successfully sent message sounded, a flood of immense sorrow and indescribable guilt crashed through the composure he had forcibly maintained. He clutched the phone tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force, as if it were the only lifebuoy. Time stretched infinitely in the wait, each second accompanied by the heavy thudding of his heart.

A few seconds later, the screen lit up again. The reply was simple, just two words: "Approved." Followed by a System-default, hands-folded mourning emoji.

There was no extra inquiry, no work-related disturbance. This almost procedural reply, at this moment, felt like a key, unlocking the floodgates of emotions he had been forcibly suppressing. He abruptly lowered his head, his forehead pressing against the cold phone screen, his shoulders trembling slightly uncontrollably. It wasn't to seek comfort, but this external "permission" made it impossible for him to continue evading the inner wasteland named "loss."

After a long while, he finally took a deep breath, wiped his face forcefully, and walked towards the small, cramped bathroom. He turned on the faucet, and icy cold water gushed out. Cupping his hands, he splashed the water onto his face again and again, trying to use this physical coldness to extinguish the burning in his eyes and the turmoil in his heart.

Raising his head, the mirror reflected a pale, haggard face, eyes bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles so thick they seemed indelible. Water droplets slid down from his forehead hair, like tears that could not fall.

He silently took off the crumpled, dusty, sweat-stained dark tracksuit, as if shedding a remnant shell from last night's battle. From the very back of the wardrobe, he carefully took out a meticulously ironed, pure black suit. He had prepared this for certain formal occasions but never imagined that the first time he would wear it so solemnly would be to bid farewell to Uncle Li.

Slowly and carefully, he put on the shirt, tied the tie, and slipped on the suit jacket. Every movement was performed with extreme focus, as if conducting a silent farewell ritual. When he finally straightened his collar, the young man in the mirror had shed some of his usual youthful naivety. Enveloped in solemn black, an air of gravity and grief, unbefitting his age, emanated from him.

He took one last look at his reflection in the mirror, his gaze finally settling on his left wrist, half-covered by the shirt cuff, where a cold, ring-like object clung to his skin.

Uncle Li... he silently repeated this address in his heart. No longer hesitating, he turned and pushed open the door. Outside was the city shrouded in the grayish light of dawn. He started walking, heading alone towards that farewell destined to be difficult.

Lu Jianchuan pushed open the door. The morning air, carrying a crisp chill, hit his face but couldn't disperse the heaviness in his heart.

The street was just waking up. Steam from breakfast stalls was particularly distinct in the cold air. The shouts of vendors, the ringing of bicycle bells—all these vivid, everyday sounds felt separated from him by an invisible membrane. He stopped at his usual stall, mechanically took out some change, and exchanged it for a cup of scalding hot soy milk and two plain buns.

Holding this breakfast, he felt no warmth at all. Taking the first bite of the bun, the dough seemed to have lost all elasticity in his mouth, becoming dry and difficult to swallow. Almost by sheer willpower, as if completing a task, he forced himself to chew and swallow.

With every swallow, his throat felt rubbed by coarse grit, accompanied by waves of nausea. He walked on like this, eating numbly. The warmth of the soy milk couldn't penetrate his icy fingertips; he couldn't taste the bun's flavor at all. He only felt a mass of sorrow-soaked cotton wool clogging his chest, pressing down heavily on his breath.

The closer he got to the funeral home, the slower his steps became, as if each step sank into viscous mud. The familiar shops, intersections, and newspaper kiosks lining the street became silent witnesses, clearly reflecting scenes from the past—Uncle Li patting his shoulder here, laughing at his clumsiness when he first joined the force.

At that street corner, Uncle Li once offered him a cigarette. Though he didn't smoke, the lit flame had once illuminated the Senior's profile, somewhat weary yet still resolute.

And countless times, on this very road, Uncle Li would walk alongside him, chattering about the essentials of handling disputes, details to observe at a scene, the duty a police officer must uphold... Words that felt ordinary, even somewhat nagging at the time, now struck like delayed bells, tolling heavily against the hollow walls of his heart, echoing with endless regret and grief.

Finally, that uniquely spired, solemn building stood unavoidably ahead. Lu Jianchuan stopped, looked up at it. The thin morning sunlight fell on the building's pale exterior walls, reflecting a cold light. He took a deep breath; the air carried the distinctive scent of this place—a mix of disinfectant and floral fragrance.

He stuffed the remaining, long-cold bun into his mouth in one go, chewing forcefully, almost fiercely, then swallowed it abruptly, as if swallowing back the tears that were about to breach the dam.

He straightened his somewhat stiff black suit collar—it seemed to be choking him—then lifted his leaden legs and walked through the heavy doors.

The atmosphere at the memorial service was so oppressive it made one's heart panic. The low, mournful music flowed like an invisible tide, spreading over every corner. Directly ahead, in front of a huge black curtain, hung Li Ming's portrait.

The photo was carefully chosen. He was wearing a crisp police uniform, his eyes beneath the brim of his cap gentle, a faint, habitual, reassuring smile playing at the corner of his mouth. That smile was so vivid, as if he might call out 'Xiao Chuan' the very next second.

The moment Lu Jianchuan's gaze touched that photo, it recoiled as if scalded. His heart skipped a beat, then began to pound uncontrollably, hammering against his ribcage, bringing a sharp pain. An intense sourness surged up his nose without warning, instantly blurring his vision.

He forced himself to look away. Amidst the slightly noisy crowd, his eyes immediately found the frail figure in black standing before the family section.

That was Li Ming's wife, Liu Yuqin. She wore a fitted black suit, a small white flower pinned to her chest. Her originally gentle face was now pale as paper, her eyes sunken, her swollen eyelids drooping heavily, as if standing required every ounce of her strength.

Lu Jianchuan's Adam's apple bobbed violently. He quickly walked through the crowd and stopped before Liu Yuqin. He stood still, then deeply bent at the waist, bowing more than ninety degrees, refusing to straighten up for a long time. He dared not look into her eyes, afraid of seeing the same shattered reflection he knew was in his own.

'Auntie... Auntie Liu...' he finally straightened up, his voice hoarse and dry like sandpaper, 'I'm sorry... I'm late... Please... accept my condolences...'

Liu Yuqin lifted her heavy eyelids, looking at this young man she had practically watched grow up. The grief on his face was so raw and profound, his haggardness and restraint, that even in her own loss, a maternal ache stirred in her heart.

She reached out a slightly trembling hand, gently grasping Lu Jianchuan's icy arm. The touch was light as a feather, yet carried the weight of a thousand pounds.

'Xiao Chuan...' Her voice sounded soaked in tears, so hoarse it was almost just a whisper, 'It's good that you came... Your Uncle Li... when he left... he was probably most worried about you... He often told me you were a promising seedling... just a bit impulsive... He always wanted... to guide you a little longer...' Before she could finish, fresh tears welled up and slid down her haggard cheeks.

At that moment, a figure stepped out from behind Liu Yuqin. It was Li Zhe.

The youth wore a black school uniform that was clearly ill-fitting, his shoulders thin, his body taut like a fully drawn bow. His face still bore the lingering contours of boyhood, but in his eyes, so strikingly similar to Li Ming's, now burned a fire mingled with immense grief, incomprehensible anger, and stubborn questioning.

He stared fixedly at Lu Jianchuan, his jawline clenched tight.

'Brother Lu.' Li Zhe's voice seemed squeezed through gritted teeth, carrying a suppressed, dangerous calm, beneath which churned turbulent undercurrents. 'Everyone tells me my dad died in the line of duty, that he's a hero. Glorious, great! But...'

His voice suddenly rose, trembling uncontrollably, 'How did he die?! What exactly happened?! Why is everyone so vague?! You were right there with him, weren't you?! Tell me! How did my dad actually die?! Tell me!'

The last sentence was almost a shout, carrying the uniquely youthful, reckless collapse and despair.

Lu Jianchuan felt a wave of icy cold instantly shoot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, freezing him stiff. Li Zhe's burning eyes were like two mirrors, reflecting the deepest nightmares in his heart—the swaying shadows in the warehouse, the inhuman growls of the monster, the sickening crunch of bone claws piercing flesh, the look in Uncle Li's eyes—a mix of pain, resolve, and infinite entrustment—as he used his last ounce of strength to push him away, and the liquid, still carrying its final warmth, that splashed onto his face... Every detail was a poisoned dagger, scraping repeatedly at his heart. He opened his mouth, his lips trembling violently, but no clear syllable emerged. The truth was like a red-hot brand, stuck in his throat, searing his internal organs into spasms.

Looking at this youth who was practically like a younger brother to him, seeing the pure, unquestioning desire for truth in his eyes, a massive, almost crushing sense of helplessness and guilt overwhelmed him.

He could only manage, with immense difficulty and excruciating slowness, to shake his head. The motion seemed to drain all his strength.

'Xiao Zhe...' His voice was shattered, carrying a near-pleading tone, 'Don't ask... I... I really... can't say...'

'Why can't you say?!' Li Zhe's emotions completely overflowed. He lunged forward a step, almost crashing into Lu Jianchuan, tears streaming uncontrollably down his young face etched with pain.

'That was my dad! My dad!! Can't I even know how he died?! Is there some dirty secret?! Did you people harm him?! Tell me! Lu Jianchuan! Tell me! Tell me—!'

The youth's hoarse, tear-choked accusations, like a sudden storm, were especially jarring in the solemn mourning hall, drawing all the surrounding gazes—some sympathetic, some puzzled, some disapproving.

Liu Yuqin hurriedly pulled back her nearly out-of-control son, pleading tearfully, 'Xiao Zhe! Don't be like this! Stop making a scene! Your father, he...'

Lu Jianchuan stood rooted to the spot, like a statue nailed to the ground. He endured Li Zhe's heart-piercing accusations, endured the invisible weight of the surrounding stares, and endured the tsunami-like pain and secret churning inside him, threatening to tear him apart.

How he longed to grab Li Zhe's shoulders and tell him his father was a towering hero, how magnificent his sacrifice was! How he longed to pour out the whole truth!

But he couldn't. It wasn't just about discipline; it was about protection. Protecting Li Zhe, protecting Auntie Liu, and protecting this precarious 'normal' world bought at such a great sacrifice.

He clenched his lower lip tightly until the clear taste of iron spread in his mouth. Once again, under the youth's gaze burning with anger, despair, and incomprehension, he heavily, slowly, lowered his own eyelids. It was a silent answer, and a chasm, deep enough to reach the bone, that he himself had carved.

All the storm was forcibly sealed beneath that crisp, black mourning suit. Only his tightly clenched fists, their knuckles turning a deathly pale from excessive force, trembled faintly, uncontrollably.