“The pastor died two years ago.” Cheng Gong looks out the window, frowning, trying to bring something into focus. His hand sinks into his pocket. “I’m going out,” he says. “Cigarette.”

Jiaqi watches him go, then turns back to her grandfather, Li Jisheng.

“The nail. Do you remember the nail?” she asks.

The man in the bed looks at her. An enormous force seems to be pulling him into a world behind him, a world whose gates will soon be shut forever. She strokes his forehead gently.

“Do you feel guilty?”

He stares at her, though his gaze passes right through her to some cavernous space.

“Turn off the light, it’s too bright,” he says.

Jiaqi goes over to the wall and puts her hand on the switch, but doesn’t press it. The light is already off. In the gloom, she hears the man sigh. She goes back towards the bed, but pauses in the middle of the room. She listens. Silence here, silence outside. The walls vanish, the room is limitless. Jiaqi kneels and buries her face in his side. Through the blanket, her temples sense the shape of his hand. Jutting bones, which might conceal strength that hasn’t yet ebbed away.

Jiaqi stands. On the TV is a village dirt road, a dog standing by a field. Subtitle: In 1921, Li Jisheng was born to a farming family in this village. His mother had been widowed three months before this. All the villagers knew about her was her name, Liang. The dog turns to glance at the camera then sprints away. A black-and-white shot of scattered village houses, which could still be in 1921. They’ll dub this with a baby crying, Jiaqi thinks. It’s so quiet in here. She hears another sigh, or maybe that’s the wind shaking the curtains.

She walks out and sees Cheng Gong standing in the corridor, an unlit cigarette in his hand.

“It’s all over,” she says.

Cheng Gong lights his cigarette, saying nothing.

“I’ll phone Peixuan later. She should still come back,” says Jiaqi.

“Yes, I’m sure the funeral will be a big production.” Cheng Gong stares at the flame in his hand.

“Hang on, I need to close the windows.”

She comes back out, and shuts the door behind her. They go down the stairs. At the ground floor, Cheng Gong pauses and looks around the empty hall. “The social dance we saw that time—that was here?”

“Yes.”

“The music teacher liked sitting by the east window. The overhead light made her look like she was in a Rembrandt painting. She must have known, that’s why she always chose that seat.”

“You boys all thought she was beautiful.”

“And the girls?”

“We thought she was so-so.”

“She got esophageal cancer later. I tried to see her while she was dying, but she didn’t want any visitors.”

“She didn’t want to say goodbye in those circumstances.”