Walking Downstairs

On the morning of White Dew, Jian Qiu pushed aside her half-written speech.

The first page held only one sentence, the one she had been delivering for ten years: “Step out of your own world, and serve others.” Every year, the applause rolled down. It had rolled for ten years, and this morning she suddenly wanted to ask herself: Have you ever truly stepped out?

Just last month she had given her two-hundredth lecture. As the hall emptied, a young man raised his hand. “Teacher, have you ever lived a single day the way you tell us to live?” The whole room fell silent. She opened her mouth, and nothing came.

She switched off the desk lamp, slipped into soft-soled shoes, closed the door behind her, and walked down from the sixth floor. By the time she reached the bottom, the sky had just turned light. At the mouth of the alley, Old Zhou, the shoe repairman, was bending over to set up his stall. Head lowered as always, she walked past him.

Autumn Equinox.

She passed the stall again, and this time she crouched down, pointing at her heel. “Sir, this shoe clicks when I walk.”

Old Zhou took the shoe, squinting as he tapped and listened, then raised and lowered his awl and drove in two small nails. The heel went quiet. She took out her money, but he waved it away. “Just a loose nail. Not worth charging.” Then he fished two fruit candies from his tin box—orange flavored—and pressed them into her palm, leaving her no room to refuse.

She had come with a whole pocketful of kindly speeches prepared—about the chill of living alone, about taking care of one’s health—and she hadn’t needed a single one. Old Zhou talked more than she did: his granddaughter had been admitted to a teachers’ college, and a letter had come in September; this toolbox had been with him thirty years, longer than his son had ever kept him company. When he spoke of the girl, his chin lifted, and his wrinkles filled with light.

She ate the candies standing at the mouth of the alley. They were sweet.

She thought: So it was never I who came to shine a light on anyone.

Cold Dew.

On the morning rush-hour bus, a young mother held a crying child. The more she soothed, the louder the cries, and the whole bus frowned, sweat beading at the mother’s temples.

Jian Qiu tore a note from her bag and folded a paper frog. She pinched its hind legs between two fingers, let go—and hop. The frog landed on the child’s knee.

The crying stopped. The child’s eyes went round, then burst into giggles. The mother laughed too, though her eyes brimmed. Getting off, she turned back again and again to thank her. Jian Qiu waved her hand. “Don’t thank me. Thank the frog.”

The whole bus laughed. The bus pulled away, but the laughter lingered on the platform a while longer.

Frost’s Descent.

A light rain fell at night. In the elevator she met a food-delivery rider, water streaming off his helmet, leaning against the wall to catch his breath. Jian Qiu said, “No rush. Ride slow—the rain’s heavy.”

The rider started, then smiled. “Sister, this order today was worth it.”

The third floor arrived. Before the doors closed, she heard him softly begin to hum a tune inside the elevator.

The day before Start of Winter.

In the stairwell, Auntie Zhao, the cleaner, was mopping the floor. Jian Qiu stepped aside and said, “Auntie Zhao, your floor shines so bright it could show a person their reflection.”

Auntie Zhao straightened up, startled, then broke into a face full of creases as she laughed. “Bright? It’s just water, that’s all.” But even as she said it, the next morning a small sprig of osmanthus appeared at Jian Qiu’s door, wound with red string, its fragrance spilling down the whole stairwell.

Another day, an old man at the subway exit asked for directions. Pointing the way would have taken three sentences; instead she walked him there slowly, which took ten minutes. When they arrived, the old man drew an apple from his cloth bag and insisted on pressing it into her hands. “For you, miss. It’s sweet.”

That night she thought of old Mrs. Shen at the end of the alley. She had always assumed the woman was lonely, and had been deliberating whether to visit regularly, to keep her company against the quiet. Only later did she learn that the windowsill held dozens of flowerpots, each with its own name, and that the old woman was too busy to touch the ground most days. When Jian Qiu went to visit, the old woman cut a sprig of jasmine and pinned it to her collar. “When someone comes, the flowers bloom happier.”

Walking downstairs, she suddenly understood: all this autumn she had believed she was the one giving, when in truth every time she came back with both hands full. Between people, there was never any need for one to repair the other. A single greeting, a single outstretched hand—and both sides lit up.

A flame, once lit, dims no other flame it lights.

On the morning of Start of Winter, the speech was finished. That first sentence still stood on page one, and beneath it she had added a small line: Not to repair anyone, only to shine together.

She switched off the desk lamp, slipped into soft-soled shoes, closed the door, and walked down from the sixth floor. The sound-activated lights answered her footsteps, one floor, then the next, lighting up in turn, and she descended as though waking every lamp along the way.

At the mouth of the alley, Old Zhou was just setting up his stall, osmanthus blossoms scattered across it. This time she did not lower her head. “Master Zhou, good morning.”

Old Zhou looked up, smiling into a face full of creases. “Morning.” He rolled two fried sugar cakes in newspaper and pressed them into her hands. “Fresh from the pan. Sweet.”

Behind her, the sixth-floor window stayed dark. Before her eyes, the whole alley was waking—the soy milk stall breathing white steam, schoolchildren running past, the warmth of the sugar cakes seeping through the paper, one glimmer, and another, all of them bright.

(The End)

This story is adapted from real events; all names are pseudonyms.