Chapter 2 — Four Hundred Kilometers to Home

Its eyes were tiny, black as a single sesame seed, staring intently right at me. Every afternoon, I would stand here, separated by a thin layer of glass, watching the lights glow inside the house. Back at the brick kiln, I used to stand outside the furnace door, gazing up at the sky. Now, I stood outside the balcony, looking into the living room. Always on the outside, looking in.

Do not come here anymore.

I squatted down, speaking to the little creature with a soundless voice.

They cannot hear you, and neither can I.

Do not crash yourself to death.

The swallow tilted its head, fluttered its wings, and flew away. The next day, it did not return. The third day, it remained absent. I assumed it had finally given up. But on the afternoon of the fourth day, my father’s phone rang.

Hello? Who is this?

Hello, am I speaking with a family member of Lan Chi?

My father paused for a fraction of a second.

...Who?

Lan Chi. According to the household registration records, you are her father.

Ah, Lan Chi.

My father’s tone relaxed, as if he were finally recalling something from the back of his mind.

She is staying with her grandmother. Is something the matter?

We are from the Luo Ping County Police Station.

Someone has reported that a brick kiln collapse accident occurred near your mother’s home. We need to verify some information.

Have you been in contact with Lan Chi recently?

No, she is staying with her grandmother. Just ask her grandmother if you need anything.

Why? Has she caused some kind of trouble?

The other end of the line fell silent for a full two seconds.

No, sir.

We discovered certain items at the scene... May we ask if you could provide a recent photograph of Lan Chi?

We need to make a comparison.

Compare what?

Well, the situation is this.

Some local residents discovered items near the collapsed site that are suspected to be human tissue...

Wait, hold on a moment.

My father interrupted, his voice suddenly pitching higher.

What do you mean? Are you saying something has happened to my daughter?

We are still in the process of investigation and cannot definitively confirm her identity at this time.

Therefore, we require the cooperation of her family.

My father sat on the sofa, holding the phone to his ear, a strange, bewildered expression settling across his face. It was not fear, nor was it panic, but rather the profound blankness of someone abruptly reminded of a matter long forgotten.

Where is her grandmother? Her grandmother has not called me.

We have contacted the elderly woman, but she... suffers from severe hearing loss and communication is extremely difficult.

Then have you asked her neighbors? The child Lan Chi has been strong since she was little. Even if a kiln collapsed, she would have run out long ago.

Sir, according to the information we currently possess, the collapse took place eight days ago.

Are you certain that you have had no contact with the child over the past eight days?

Eight days. I had been dead for eight days. My father fell silent for a moment.

We... have been traveling recently and only just returned.

Very well, then please provide a photograph as soon as possible.

If it is convenient, please also make a trip to Luo Ping County.

Understood, I will have her mother call you back.

After ending the call, my father sat numbly on the sofa for a long moment. Then, he picked the phone back up and began scrolling through the photo gallery. He searched for a very long time. I knew what he was looking for. He was searching for a picture of me. He could not find one. Ever since I was sent away at the age of ten, he had never taken a single photograph of me. The only pictures that existed were my school ID photos, stored safely on my grandmother’s old-person cellphone.

Little Tong.

He called out. My mother stepped out of the study.

What is it?

The police just called.

They said the brick kiln over in Luo Ping collapsed and asked us to provide a picture of Lan Chi.

My mother frowned.

Collapsed? Mother didn't mention anything.

How could my mother mention anything when she's that deaf? The police said they couldn't get through to her.

What about Lan Chi?

The police said they need to do a comparison, but I can't find any photos of her.

My mother took the phone and began flipping through the albums herself.

Can we use her student profile picture?

I don't have one of those.

The two of them stared at the screen, searching for five full minutes before finally uncovering a single image buried deep in a family group chat. It was a picture my grandmother had sent during the Lunar New Year three years ago. I was standing in front of the brick kiln, my hair and face stained with grime, my back turned so sharply against the light that my features were virtually indistinguishable.

Just send this one to the police first.

My mother forwarded the image and locked her screen.

It should be fine; that girl has always been tough.

That's right.

My father also laid his phone down.

At worst, the collapse caused her only a minor injury.

We can just have grandmother take her to the village clinic to get checked out.

I stood right in front of them. So close that if I still possessed a physical form, I would have been able to smell the scent of laundry detergent lingering on my father’s clothes. His eyebrows did not even furrow too deeply. She was always tough. A brick kiln had collapsed eight days ago, and not a soul had searched for me, not a single person had called to ask a single question, yet they still believed I possessed some tenacious, enduring fate. The next morning, the phone rang once more.

Hello, sir, we have received the photograph.

The comparison results will still require some time.

Additionally, we would like to confirm a few matters with you.

How long did Lan Chi work at the brick kiln? What was her specific job role at the time? Did she sign any—

Sign what? She only went to her grandmother's place to lend a hand.

Isn't it completely normal for children in the countryside to do a little bit of work?

How old is she this year?

Ten... fourteen.

The other end of the line fell silent once again.