Frozen soil in my heart
by M1zushiYu Chen had never consciously compared the similarities and differences between the Stump Bird and Bai Ling.
In his view, although these two people shared similar experiences, their temperaments were entirely different.
Perhaps limited by the details of the dream, his impression of Stump Bird was only of the dim, hazy atmosphere of twilight and the arm that awkwardly hid itself beneath a taciturn demeanor, bearing the marks of hardship.
He was a person whose edges had been worn down by life.
Like a shadow reflected through dust-covered frosted glass—so withered, numb, and heavy it pressed down on one’s heart, making it ache just to think of him.
Bai Ling, however, is a completely different story.
He’s a proud, unyielding young eagle, with a broken body yet capable of bursting forth with tenacious strength.
He’s vibrant, unreserved; always ready to quickly get up after falling. He possesses a kind of wild, untamed vitality that’s utterly captivating.
In the dimly lit plant nursery, Yu Chen leaned against a shelf, his deep gaze fixed on a pot of roses before him, just beginning to sprout new branches.
Roses growing in the wilderness have rough leaves, covered in thorns, yet often fail to bloom due to lack of nourishment and water.
In this era obsessed with instant gratification, few have the patience to spend years carefully tending a plant, waiting for a single bloom.
This is precisely what makes the wild rose so controversial, yet also what makes it precious.
But Yu Chen vaguely remembered that the potted flower he had given away in his dream hadn’t received such careful cultivation.
It had always been left in a corner of a shelf, silently taking root in the soil, straining its branches to reach the nutrient mist sprayed by the humidifier. Its coarse leaves, mixed among a riot of colorful flowers, seemed so stubborn, aloof, and inconspicuous.
During one visit, Yu Chen happened to notice its branches, which had nearly stretched out from the shelf.
They resembled the outstretched hands of a dying man.
Yu Chen brought out the wild rose that refused to bloom, but it repaid his kindness with ingratitude, pricking his hand.
The merman’s blood dripped, drop by drop, into the flowerpot.
The next time he came, the moment it saw him, it had, against all odds, burst into layers of bloom.
So impatient, as if trying to prove something to him.
The merman couldn’t understand the language of flowers, but he guessed its meaning, feeling it must be a proud, disdainful snort.
See, with nourishment, I can bloom too.
The frozen soil deep within the merman’s heart was loosened by those thorny branches.
He smiled, a flicker of appreciation showing in his eyes. Such a lovely, unyielding thing. It deserved to grow under the bright sun, enjoying the natural dew, not to be confined in a cramped nursery plant room, lost among other plants.
The merman remembered that child he played chess with said his room was very damp, always carrying a musty smell.
The child probably needs a flower.
Tapping the wild rose’s leaf with his finger, Yu Chen leaned down and murmured to it, “I hope you two get along.”
Afterward, he wrapped it in transparent cellophane and carried it in his hand.
In that dream, this was how Yu Chen had gone to their meeting.
As his thoughts drifted back to the present, Yu Chen gently stroked the wild rose’s branch. The thorns scraped densely across his palm, sending a cascade of shivers through his nerve endings, involuntarily reminding him of the Stump Bird’s hand.
A rough hand, pricking and calloused. If he were to grasp it tightly, the cracked wounds on it would cut him till he bled profusely.
Yet, back then, he hadn’t done that.
Yu Chen’s breath hitched slightly. Suddenly, he gripped the wild rose’s stem tightly, letting the blood from his palm flow in a winding stream down into the pot.
He whispered, his voice resonating within the small plant nursery like the prayer of a penitent:
“This time, I will surely hold on to you.”
The incident at the secret police station had indeed affected Bai Ling. As night deepened, he was dragged into a muddy dream, struggling but unable to break free.
Soon, he realized it must be a memory.
From shortly before his death.
The sky was a gloomy gray, and a fine, persistent rain fell. He stood in a puddle, the clogged drain cover beneath his feet letting sewage seep up, soaking his shoes.
Good thing he wasn’t wearing socks.
That was his first thought. Then, recalling more details, he thought, no… to save money, he hadn’t bought socks at all.
Looking up, the passersby around him had numb expressions, hurrying along, holding their umbrellas and trying their best to get home before dark. Strangely, everything in sight was black and white.
As if he had stumbled into an old movie.
He looked into a shop window; his own reflection was also a blurry gray, especially his straw-like white hair, faded and ugly.
It made him look even older.
A passerby inadvertently lifted his umbrella and muttered, “Out of the way, you old cripple.”
The Stump Bird tapped his stick and stepped back two paces. Accidentally seeing his reflection again, he quickly averted his sickly face. After a moment’s thought, he pricked his finger and dabbed the squeezed-out blood onto his cheeks.
That way, his complexion looked much healthier.
The Stump Bird was quite satisfied, feeling a strange sense of pride. See, he always found a way—these were the wisdom of the poor.
Today was the day of the appointment.
In high spirits, he had gotten up early to iron his shirt. With no iron, he used the hot base of a kettle instead. Padding it with a towel and pressing down with a sizzle, the collar came out perfectly straight.
No one could tell there were two mended holes in its hem.
However, he wasn’t so lucky with his shoes.
The Stump Bird found his least shabby pair of sneakers and first stuffed his wooden foot inside. Lately, it rained often, and the wood had absorbed moisture, swelling slightly. That wasn’t a problem; he could just shave the edges down with a knife.
The trouble was his other, so-called “good” foot.
It couldn’t really be called “good” anymore. Some blood vessel in his body must have clogged again, because the top of his foot was horribly swollen. He had to grit his teeth and force the shoe on, then take three painkillers and walk around in them, hoping to stretch the shoe out a bit.
The Stump Bird shrugged, thinking optimistically, “Maybe I’ve just gained some weight.”
Finally, he picked up his leather jacket.
He jokingly called it his “little tattered coat” because the outer layer of leather had perished, tattered and torn as if a cat had clawed it, looking awful. Thinking for a moment, he turned it inside out, wearing the good side on the outside.
All prepared, the Stump Bird felt he looked rather decent.
Despite the effort he’d put in, compared to his days living on the streets in his twenties, life was much better now. At least he had a shelter. If Mr. D was easy to get along with, he wouldn’t mind inviting him over sometime.
Of course, if the guy dared to curse and complain, he’d definitely snatch his cane and throw it into the sea.
Mr. D rarely revealed personal details. The Stump Bird only knew that he, too, was often unwell and needed a walking stick.
What the heck, just another old fogey.
Though he said this, the Stump Bird felt relieved, or rather, fortunate.
This was better. You’re old, I’m crippled—neither of us can look down on the other.
They had agreed to meet at the station near Central Street.
Limping along, the Stump Bird lightly splashed through puddles as he turned the street corner, his heart practically leaping with joy.
Let him see just what kind of old guy could beat him at chess for twenty years… All along the way, the Stump Bird’s eyes chased every elderly passerby, but none fit his image of the gentlemanly, refined, intellectual Mr. D.
Turning another corner, the station came into view.
At that moment, a public shuttle bus was stopped at the station. The flow of people was relentless, a surging tide pushing off one wave and rushing on another.
As the tide receded, the grayish-white bus slowly pulled away, and a wisp of golden hair was scattered by the floating breeze.
The Stump Bird’s eyes widened slightly. Amidst this heavy, monochrome scene, only that person was colorful.
The other stood tall, holding a pot of vibrant flowers with a dignified and radiant appearance, involuntarily calling to mind the most striking sculptures in the Military Festival flowerbeds.
The kind of sculpture that, after the festival, soldiers would cover and carefully store away in a warehouse.
Such a figure was utterly incongruous at a station in the slums. Even after the bus left, people still pressed against the windows, straining for a look.
The Stump Bird also loved beautiful things like that.
Twenty-some years ago, he might have even gone up and struck up a conversation. But his task now was to find Mr. D, an old gentleman who played chess. He pulled out his terminal with its cracked screen; there was an unread message:
[Desserped]: I’m here. The one holding the flowerpot is me.
The Stump Bird’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. He stood frozen in the shadow of the street corner, staring blankly ahead. His broken umbrella fell to the ground, and the fine, needle-like rain sprinkled down, seeping into his swollen eye sockets.
It must be a mistake.
Something must be wrong.
The Stump Bird hung his head low. What met his eyes were his own dirty, frayed shoe tips, stained with the mud from the sewer, filthy and utterly presentable.
Why…
Why now, of all times?
If only he were still young. At nineteen, he had been young and handsome too. With that appearance, he could have walked out without a care, confidently linked arms with the other, and taken him out for a drink.
So disappointing.
He felt only disappointment in his current self.
Appearing before the other in a tattered leather jacket, with swollen hands and feet, and a sickly face—he’d only scare him, wouldn’t he?
The Stump Bird desperately pressed himself deeper into the shadows. He parted his pale, chapped lips, tilted his head back, and let the rain flow into his eye sockets, drowning the tears gathering at the corners.
He was only a hundred meters from that station, yet he couldn’t take a single step forward.
Twenty years. It had been so long since his leg was broken, since he was injured and disfigured. So long he had grown accustomed to his ruined appearance.
But at this moment, the Stump Bird couldn’t stop thinking—
You could have had a better version of me.
“Cough cough cough….” He doubled over, coughing violently, almost as if he was going to cough up his very insides.
Passersby threw him looks of disgust. The Stump Bird flinched and hurriedly stepped back, forced towards the side of the street. Originally, he had planned to leave without a sound, even thought about sending a message saying… saying he was busy, that he couldn’t make it…
Leaning against the cold, damp wall, he stole another glance from afar, and suddenly his pupils constricted.
He witnessed with his own eyes a speeding vehicle splash muddy water all over Mr. D.
But Mr. D still didn’t leave. He only brushed the water droplets off the flower bag and stepped back slightly, but not too far.
The Stump Bird knew that Mr. D was afraid he wouldn’t see him when he passed by and would miss him again.
He bit his lips until they turned pale, tears welling in his eyes, and suddenly rushed into the rain.
Don’t wait anymore, please, just leave.
The other man grasped his hand. With a gentleness the Stump Bird had never felt before, he asked quietly, “Is it you?”
Mr. D’s eyes were a deep jade, but they held no light. He couldn’t see.
Stump Bird, like a sick bird caught by its wing, fiercely shook off that hand and stumbled backward.
“It’s not me.”
“Then who are you?”
“I… I’m a vendor selling things at the station.”
Mr. D seemed to understand, tilting his chin up slightly, and politely said, “I’m waiting for someone. They haven’t arrived yet. While we wait, do you have anything you’d like to sell to me? Perhaps I might find it useful.”
Such considerate words.
Even when dealing with a reckless stranger, he maintained his respect.
The Stump Bird’s nails dug deep into his palms; he could barely breathe.
I like him so much…
This person before him, separated by a vast distance, was exactly as good as the Mr. D he had imagined through the internet.
With trembling fingers, the Stump Bird searched his entire being, over and over, until finally, silently, he dug out a medal from the depths of his pocket.
This was the only thing on his body that was intact.
“I have a medal… I want to sell it. It’s very cheap, just ten bucks. No… just name your price.”
Mr. D lowered his eyes: “Is this medal your own?”
“Yes…”
“Why do you want to sell it to me?”
The Stump Bird softly replied, “Because it has gold on it.”
The gold on a soldier’s medal, shining brightly, represents the immortal character of the military. Although that honor had long since remained in the past, irretrievable, this medal still gleamed.
Only this could, in some small way, prove his own worth.
Mr. D seemed to ponder: “Is that so…”
Not receiving a definite answer, the Stump Bird just extended his hand stiffly, not knowing what to do. Standing by the street, humbly begging the other to buy the medal, he had already attracted strange looks from passersby. Their stares filled him with shame, and bitter tears welling up in his eyes, but he was too afraid to let them fall.
For a soldier, selling a medal was no different from selling his own body…
Both meant losing dignity.
But when the Stump Bird looked up, eyes blurred with tears, at Mr. D, he seemed to see respect in those sightless eyes.
At that moment, Mr. D suddenly reached out and actively grasped his hand: “Thank you for your contributions to the nation.”
A drop of hot, uncontrollable tears fell onto Mr. D’s vein-lined hand.
That veteran, his voice worn hoarse by war, said in a fluster, “It’s… it’s really raining hard, isn’t it?”
The Stump Bird didn’t know then, that Mr. D had, countless times in the dead of night, hated his own indifference.
Was it really that hard to grasp the wing of that broken-legged eagle and pull him into an embrace?
Yu Chen asked himself this, over and over.
Author’s Note:
This part is from the Little Bird’s perspective, corresponding to Chapter 46 from Yu Chen’s perspective. I’m urgently inhaling oxygen and secretly feeding myself a spoonful of post-marriage sugar (fleeing with my tail between my legs) (comment section, don’t you dare roast me, I protest!)
Adding another update, so Bird’s identity can be exposed directly, hehe.
I’ll add the JJWXC comments to next chapter if you want to skip them
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