57: Chapter 57 The Spontaneous Illumination of Jade

The power-outage night was like a piece of velvet soaked in thick ink, wrapping the Old neighborhood tightly. Chen Jie squatted on the threshold of Grandma Zhang's house, the half-burned candle in his hand nearly reaching its end. The flame trembled in the wind like a withered leaf, casting their two shadows onto the mottled wall, flickering on and off.

"Little Jie-zi, could you make that jade stone shine a bit longer?" Grandma Zhang added a handful of firewood into the stove, the firelight reflecting a warm yellow against her wrinkled face. "I can't find my sewing basket, and I still need to sew tiger-head shoes for Brother Li's grandson tomorrow."

The cuffs of her blue cloth shirt were stained with a bit of wood ash. When she spoke, she liked to gently tap the floor with the head of her cane. "Back in the day, when Grandpa Zhang was picking herbs on Suiyu Slope, he relied on that glowing jade stone to light his way at night—he said the light wasn't harsh, like the moon had fallen into his palm. Once, he ran into an injured little fox, and the jade stone's light actually seeped into the fox's wound. When he went to check the next day, the fox was long gone, leaving behind only a tuft of blood-stained white fur."

Chen Jie touched his canvas backpack; the jade stone was unusually "energetic" tonight. Just a moment ago, while helping Wang Lei find the freezer key, this jade stone had emitted a layer of pale green light that seeped out through the seams of the fabric, illuminating the braised dishes in the freezer clearly—it didn't even miss the copper key Wang Lei had dropped in the corner. He suddenly recalled what Old Zhou said about "time dust." Could it be that this light wasn't just for illumination, but could also light up those overlooked minute details?

"Grandma, this jade stone isn't an electric lamp." He stuffed a piece of cotton cloth into his backpack, trying to block the light, but heard a "zila" sound as the green light seeped through the cloth, casting scattered spots of light on the ground like a handful of spilled fireflies.

"I know it's not an electric lamp." Grandma Zhang smiled, revealing her only two remaining teeth. "It's more sensible than an electric lamp." She suddenly added another piece of firewood to the stove, and sparks "crackled" out. "Back in '58, there were frequent power outages, and Grandpa Zhang would keep that jade stone in his bosom to record work points for the team at night. He said the light would follow you; if you bent down, it would lower, and if you looked up, it would rise—it was much more thoughtful than a kerosene lamp. Once, after he finished recording work points, he found a piece of dried wild chrysanthemum on the jade stone. That was something I had sewn onto his lapel during the day, which should have been rubbed off in the mountains long ago—isn't that strange?"

Chen Jie tapped his fingertips lightly on the backpack, a familiar tingling sensation rising in the web between his thumb and index finger. The green light suddenly brightened, crawling along his fingertips onto the back of his hand like a cool little snake. He pointed toward the direction of the sewing basket Grandma Zhang had mentioned, and the green light actually shifted toward that side, casting a hazy halo of light in the corner of the cabinet—the basket was tilted there, with spools of thread scattered all over the floor like a circle of spilled colorful little wheels. The light seemed to have eyes, and Grandma Zhang's words were like a key, suddenly unlocking something. He thought of Grandpa Zhang picking herbs on Suiyu Slope, thought of the jade stone that could change its nest; it turned out that the light of this jade stone was continuing a story that hadn't been finished.

"Look!" Grandma Zhang moved over, leaning on her cane, her withered fingers groping in the halo of light. "It has the same temperament as Grandpa Zhang's jade stone; it knows what people need." She picked up a spool wrapped with red thread, the end of the thread still stained with a bit of gold powder from making tiger-head shoes last year. "That year I gave birth to your dad, I was groaning in pain at night, and your grandfather put the jade stone by my pillow. The light was soft and made one feel at ease. Later, your dad would always fuss at night; whenever he cried, we would give him the jade stone to hold, and he would definitely stop crying—this jade stone is more effective than fever medicine."

Chen Jie didn't reply, just watching that ball of green light. It wasn't glaring like a flashlight, but rather like the faint glow emanating from an old grandfather clock, quietly wrapping around the surrounding darkness. Just now, when passing by Old Zhou's clock stall, he had seen this light seep through the door crack, illuminating the hands of the grandfather clock that had been stopped for half a year. The hands seemed to move, as if meeting this light that had spanned years and months. He suddenly understood: this light wasn't meant to dispel the darkness, but to let those thoughts hidden in the darkness—Grandpa Zhang's herb basket, the work point record book from '58, the jade stone by the pillow—quietly show their faces on a night with a power outage.

"Found it!" Grandma Zhang hugged the basket to her chest. Amidst the sound of rolling thread balls, the green light gradually dimmed, leaving only a faint cyan glow in the backpack. "Don't you think this jade stone has a connection with us? Grandpa Zhang's jade stone was later given to mountain folk who gathered herbs, and now it has found you again, just like visiting relatives."

When Chen Jie stood up, the candle had just burned out, the last spark falling to the ground and extinguishing silently. The green light in the backpack also receded, leaving only the coolness of the jade stone against his waist, like a stone soaked in moonlight. "Grandma, I'm heading back now." He walked toward the door and heard Grandma Zhang muttering behind him: "I'll boil eggs for you tomorrow, with mugwort leaves, the same taste as what Grandpa Zhang used to pick from the mountains back then."

The darkness in the alley was as thick as ink, as if it could never be dispelled. Chen Jie groped his way forward in this pitch-black environment. His hand gently touched the backpack, feeling the wisps of coolness coming from the jade stone. Within that coolness, it seemed to also contain Grandma Zhang's chatter, as well as that ball of light that wasn't harsh at all.

Chen Jie suddenly realized that some light doesn't need to be too bright; as long as it can light the way for people to find their sewing basket, or keep an elderly person company while they talk, it is already enough. Just like those warmths hidden deep in the years, they never need to be ostentatious, yet they silently exist, bringing endless comfort to people.

A gust of wind blew by, sweeping locust tree leaves over Chen Jie's head. That rustling sound was like the whisper of time. Not far away, the sound of Brother Li shouting to close the switch came, sounding exceptionally clear in this silent alley. Hearing this sound, Chen Jie quickened his pace home.

When he reached his door, the green light in his backpack flickered gently again, as if it were an unspoken piece of advice. Chen Jie stopped, silently gazing at the fleeting green light, a surge of indescribable emotion welling up in his heart.