The Light Went Out

In the basement, inside Aunt Mary's workshop. Mary held a cigarette between her fingers, letting it burn down slowly. Uncle Mason stood at the doorway, gripping the back of his son Lunt's neck. Lunt was weeping, stammering over and over, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." Uncle Mason, normally so mild-tempered, now wore a dark, grim expression. At last, as if she could no longer bear the noise, Aunt Mary spoke up: "Go wash up. Don't disturb the little girl's rest." Lunt had skipped class to join the protest organized by Delice, the environmental activist from Wien. They had stormed the power plant, causing a massive blackout across the eastern district, and the blackout had caused complications during the little girl's surgery. Now, she lay here. In truth, Lunt had not committed a crime in any legal sense. Even if he were dragged to the police station, the officers would likely just laugh it off. Life was full of accidents. Perhaps the little girl's surgery would not have succeeded anyway; after all, it had carried considerable risk. What if Hans Hospital's backup generator had functioned properly and restored power in time? Would the surgery have been spared the blackout's impact? Besides, Lunt had merely held a sign outside the plant and shouted slogans with the crowd. In a way, he was just fawning over a celebrity; he hadn't charged inside to vandalize anything. Yet some excuses could deceive a judge, but they could never deceive one's own conscience. Karen had spoken up about what happened today. He couldn't have hidden it, not just because of the bruises on his face, but because hiding it would have left him no way to ask the family for a discount on the girl's funeral expenses. He was only an employed family member who drew dividends, possessing no decision-making power. Once the truth was out, Uncle Mason immediately pulled down Lunt's trousers and whipped his backside with a belt. Upon learning that his actions had caused the death of a girl several years younger than himself, Lunt had only wept through the beating, never once crying out in pain or begging for mercy. After the thrashing, Uncle Mason brought Lunt before the little girl to "apologize." To outsiders, this might seem foolish, so deliberate as to resemble a staged performance. But what kind of show was staged at home purely for family to see? At the end of the day, the Inmerlais family had always possessed upright character. Lunt limped up the stairs. At the top of the ramp, Mina met him and wiped his face with a warm towel. "Sis... I was wrong..." "Sigh." Mina didn't know how to comfort her younger brother either. Especially knowing that the little girl's body lay below, words of comfort simply wouldn't come. "How should we calculate the bill?" Uncle Mason asked his wife. "Her family requested Package B," Aunt Mary said. Ron had pointed out their car earlier, saying it was a lucrative contract. Normally, whenever a Package B came in, Aunt Mary would walk with a spring in her step, but tonight, she couldn't bring herself to feel pleased. Aunt Mary stubbed out her cigarette and continued, "I discussed it with Winnie. We'll proceed according to Package B standards, but when we give them the detailed quote tomorrow, we'll offer a steep discount." "Oh." Uncle Mason nodded. "Just that?" Aunt Mary brushed back a strand of hair and sighed. "Let's do this one without making a profit. In fact, let's take a small loss." "All right." Uncle Mason's expression finally softened. If they made a profit on this order, his conscience would trouble him. Taking a slight loss would make him feel somewhat easier. "I'll go upstairs and call those suppliers." Certain items, like caskets with special requirements, had to be ordered on short notice. The Inmerlais family kept some common stock on hand, but couldn't keep everything. After all, they were more like consumers of upstream suppliers than distributors. Aunt Mary shook her head. "It's so late. Arrange it tomorrow." With that, Aunt Mary waved her hand, gesturing for her husband to get out of her sight. She was feeling thoroughly irritated. "Mm." Uncle Mason left. Aunt Mary began to wash the little girl's body with her own hands, her movements exceedingly gentle. Once finished, Aunt Mary dressed her in a set of undergarments, then pulled over a round stool, sat beside the bed, and massaged the girl's scalp with her hands. In reality, the vast majority of rituals and procedures at a funeral were meant for the living, including the massage Aunt Mary was performing now. The little girl was already gone and certainly couldn't feel it, but though she was the one receiving the touch, it was Aunt Mary's own heart that found relief. After finishing the head massage, she moved to the rest of the body. Once the entire routine was complete, Aunt Mary began the embalming process so that on the day of the funeral, the girl could say goodbye to her loved ones looking as natural and beautiful as possible. The mortician's purpose was to preserve the deceased's dignity and decency upon departure. Another purpose was to allow the deceased's family and friends to clearly remember their face. When someone recalled another person, what surfaced in their mind was often a frozen photograph. Why did people place so much importance on seeing someone one last time, considering it an immense regret if they missed it? Because in daily life, people rarely took the time to truly look at and remember the faces of those around them. Often, the closer the relationship, the easier it was to overlook, naively believing there would always be plenty of time, that the days ahead were endlessly long. Only when an abrupt farewell arrived did they realize that the face in their memory—that photograph in their mind—had long since grown outdated, faded, and blurred. The real terror was not the loss itself, but being unable to forgive oneself for having forgotten when one ought to have remembered. Aunt Mary's work was to prevent such regrets as much as possible. She didn't plan to rest, nor would she allow herself to. She intended to spend the rest of the night completing everything for the little girl. Besides, it had been a long time since she had worked with such care and devotion. *** At three in the morning, Karen, having already slept and awakened, walked down to the basement carrying a coffee pot and offered a cup to Aunt Mary. Aunt Mary took a long sip. Her thoughtful nephew had added plenty of sugar for her, which pleased her greatly. Karen pulled up another round stool nearby and sat down. By now, the little girl lying on the cold steel table had been dressed in a lovely pink dance dress. On her feet were a pair of new white ballet slippers. "Her parents left these behind. They originally planned to give them to her as a gift after a successful surgery." "Oh, really?" Aunt Mary began styling the girl's hair, smoothing it with curling tongs very carefully, as if terrified of scalding her scalp. One had to remember that Aunt Mary was someone who used a blowtorch to singe body hair off other clients. Yet this time, she was extraordinarily gentle. "Pretty, isn't she?" Aunt Mary asked. Karen nodded. "A very lovely little girl." "Her parents said she loved ballet and practiced very hard." "Is that so? That couldn't have been easy." "Yeah, it couldn't have been easy." Aunt Mary glanced up at Karen and asked, "The bruises on your face?" "They're fine now." Karen shook his head. "I was careless. I should have tended to them for you first." "It's fine. Those are just wounds from life—hard to avoid." As Aunt Mary continued curling the girl's hair, she turned the words over in her mind. "Wounds from life. Karen, sometimes I really wonder, are you truly only fifteen? Or does surviving a severe illness really change a person that much?" "I should be turning sixteen soon." "Your birthday hasn't arrived yet, though it's close. We should celebrate it properly for you." "It's not a milestone birthday. There's no need." "Come now. When circumstances permit, one shouldn't compromise if it can be helped. Otherwise, how could you face those wounds from life?" Karen nodded. "All right, Aunt Mary." Today's case had been an accident. Even if it hadn't been Karen who went to Hans Hospital, but Uncle Mason instead, it likely would have turned out the same. Such was life—just as jagged rocks lay hidden beneath a tranquil stream. "Aren't you going to rest?" Aunt Mary asked. "I already slept." "Seems like something's weighing on your mind. I could tell when you came back. Lunt made a mistake, and your uncle already punished him." "I know." His uncle had beaten him on the second floor, but Karen had heard it loud and clear from the third. Even so, Karen said, "Actually, Lunt isn't entirely at fault." If it had been an unreasonable, overly protective mother hearing Karen say this, she probably would have blown her top. *You were the one who snitched, you were the one who got him beaten, and now you turn around and say he wasn't really at fault?* Instead, Aunt Mary nodded. "Indeed. He just needed a beating." Without a thrashing, he wouldn't feel right, and his elders and guardians would feel even worse. Blind conformity wasn't always a great sin, because the law didn't punish the masses. But if one didn't repent and reflect, one would probably follow the herd again next time. It still wouldn't be a crime, but it would be utterly foolish. "I'll discount the funeral fees. We'll take a loss on this one." "Thank you, Aunt Mary." "I'm Lunt's mother. It's my duty. If I could, I'd bring Lunt and your uncle to kneel before that girl's parents. "Yet that would be pointless. Aside from easing our own guilt, it wouldn't help her parents at all. "In fact, they would even have to force down their disgust just to comfort you. "Sigh. "It's just like when it snows outside. Watching from inside through a window, you think, *Oh, look at all the snowflakes drifting down.* "It's only when you step out and a snowflake slips down your collar, sending a shiver through your spine, that you feel the real cold." "Aunt Mary." "Mm? What is it?" "I thought I was used to corpses, caskets, wreaths, black veils, and all that sort of thing. "Yet for some reason, this time, I feel deeply affected. "Not just because of Lunt, "but because of how I felt in the hospital corridor today." Karen still remembered how, when the little girl was wheeled past him toward the operating room, she had smiled at him shyly. He suddenly wondered if he was being overly sentimental today—no, far too sentimental. He had clearly witnessed far stranger and far more horrifying things, yet today of all days, he felt melancholy. "What, does working in our trade mean we have to be hard-hearted? Cold-blooded?" "That's not what I meant." "I know. But it's like a painter who must paint and create every single day. What they seek is a work that satisfies them and moves them. Who would ever think a painter becomes numb, losing their inspiration and emotion just because they've painted too many pieces?" Having finished styling the hair, Aunt Mary set down the tongs and lit a cigarette. When she offered the pack to Karen, he shook his head in refusal. Exhaling a smoke ring, she said, "We're only used to seeing dead people, not used to seeing life and death." Standing up, Aunt Mary pointed with her free hand at the delicately adorned little girl before them. "What a pretty little girl. What a lovely dress. She's just lying here... If only she could sit up and dance one more time, how wonderful that would be." Karen fell silent. Aunt Mary walked over to Karen, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Take it in stride. Learn to process it yourself, all right? Just like when you provide psychological counseling for others. You should understand this better than I do." "I understand, Aunt Mary." "Want a late-night snack?" "Yes, please, Aunt Mary." "Mm. I'll go prepare it. When you come up later, remember to turn off the light." With that, Aunt Mary walked out of the workshop. Karen remained seated on the round stool, gazing at the little girl whom his aunt had made up so exquisitely. After a short while, Karen stood up, walked to the gramophone, and pressed the lever. The cheerful melody of *Elf of Rojia* rang out, drifting through the entire workshop. His aunt's parting words echoed in Karen's ears: *What a pretty little girl. What a lovely dress. She's just lying here... If only she could sit up and dance one more time, how wonderful that would be.* *If...* *you want to dance,* *I can help you.* Karen walked up to the little girl and extended his left hand. This was his first time actively attempting to use his ability. He hadn't truly mastered it yet; every previous use had occurred either by accident or abruptly. In a calm, peaceful state of mind, he had never done it once. Yet the moment he reached out his hand, Karen felt an inexplicable sensation. He seemed able to sense the emotions of the little girl lying before him; he seemed able to hear her voice, even though she couldn't speak; he seemed able to feel her warmth, even though she was already cold. It didn't feel like an illusion, but rather an extreme, fabricated reality. *I am fortunate.* *I was clearly dead, yet because of Diss, I woke up again.* *And you...* *were not as fortunate as I was.* *Please tell me,* *is my perception correct?* *Are you calling out to me, or is this merely my own wishful thinking?* *Do you remember?* *In the corridor,* *you smiled at me twice.* Karen placed his fingers against the little girl's neck. *If you want to dance one final time, I will grant you this wish.* Karen closed his eyes, and then, slowly opened them again. He saw a little girl standing right in front of him. She still wore that shy smile, looking at him. What Karen failed to notice was that beneath his feet, black vine-like patterns were slowly spreading outward, gradually conforming to and seeping into the grain of the workshop's floor tiles. Up on the third floor, on the windowsill, Purr, who had already fallen asleep, suddenly raised his head, an expression of astonishment on his face. "Diss?" Immediately after, the shock on the black cat's face deepened drastically: "It's not Diss!" Inside the study, Diss, who was writing by candlelight, suddenly stopped his pen. He stared at the flickering flame before him and murmured, "Order?" Then, he reached out, steadying the candle's flame, and said, "No... it is Order." *** This time, Karen did not step back, nor did he shift his perspective to zoom in or out. Instead, he naturally reached out his hand. The little girl smiled faintly, biting her lower lip with her white teeth. She seemed a bit bashful, but ultimately couldn't resist placing her hand in Karen's palm. Her hand possessed neither weight nor warmth, yet it felt so real. Karen gestured that she could return to her body... her mortal remains. The little girl floated up, lying flat in front of Karen, and then slowly drifted downward, finally merging into one with her body. The lovely little sprite lying on the steel table opened her eyes. There was no pale blankness, no bloodshot hue, and no violence—only clarity and peace. She slowly sat up. She remembered Karen, for he was the only stranger who had left a deep impression on her as she was wheeled toward the operating room. She spoke: "Big brother, you really are handsome." "Heh." Hearing this, Karen smiled. He reflexively reached out to pat her head, the way he usually did with his younger cousin Mina. Then, remembering that Aunt Mary had just finished styling her hair, he hesitated. However, the little girl took the initiative to nuzzle her head against Karen's palm. "Daddy loves patting my head like this too." "Oh, really?" It was a pity her parents couldn't be here to see her sit up again. It wasn't that Karen intentionally wished to hide it—at least, not merely for the sake of secrecy. Rather, if her parents were to see their daughter sit up only to watch her inevitably lie back down, it would be subjecting them to the agony of losing her a second time. "*Elf of Rojia*—I loved using it as accompaniment when practicing my dancing. "Big brother, can I dance for you?" "Sure." Karen sat back down on the round stool. Wearing her brand-new white ballet slippers, the pink dance dress, and the exquisite makeup, the lovely little girl began to dance to the melody. Her movements could hardly be called perfect. Even to an untrained eye like Karen's, her steps showed clumsiness and slight flaws, yet she danced with earnest devotion—absolute devotion. This was not the real her; the real her was already dead. Yet this was indeed the real her; they were one and the same. Karen watched with sincere appreciation, while she danced with utter absorption. Time seemed to slip into a kind of eternity, yet cruelly, eternity was often meant only as a prelude to something brief. At last, the tune came to an end, and the dance was finished. She took her final bow. Karen felt as though he had lived through a vivid dream. When he looked up in a daze, he realized that after taking her bow, the little girl had already lain back down on the steel table with quiet obedience. The slightly disheveled hair, the faintly smudged white slippers, and the minor creases in the dress silently testified to what had just occurred. Karen began to applaud. Then, he stood up, walked to the workshop door, reached out, and touched the light switch. He hesitated for a moment, but in the end— *Click.* The light went out.