Three Minutes Past Six

The alarm hadn't gone off yet.

Jiang Du was woken by his own heartbeat. His chest felt like a wet towel was pressing on it, each breath carrying moisture, and there was a half-finished sentence stuck in his throat—he opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

A sliver of grayish daylight slipped through the gap in the curtains, landing on the ceiling like an unwashed scratch. Three minutes past six. He didn't need to check the clock; his body was more accurate than any timepiece. He'd been waking up at this hour for seven years.

He kept his mouth shut and began to count.

One, two, three.

This was the rule. Every morning after waking, he'd keep silent for thirty seconds, make sure he was fully awake, make sure he knew exactly what he wanted to say, and only then speak. At twenty-four, he'd first understood the weight of this rule—that morning, half-awake, he'd muttered, "It's going to hail today," and by afternoon, the office courtyard's glass was shattered all over, the old security guard standing among the shards, still clutching half a broom. Later he tried not speaking at all, going an entire day without opening his mouth, but by the next morning, the words still had to come out—if he didn't speak, his throat would tighten, as if something was blocking it, and he had to spit it out to feel better. What he'd learned wasn't to keep quiet, but to choose his words. Pick the most useless, the most harmless, the ones that were equivalent to saying nothing. Since then, he'd never spoken while still drowsy.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen.

The dream still clung under his eyelids. Wet. Cold.

In the dream, he was lying in his own bed, unable to move. Not the kind of paralysis from a ghost pressing down—it was that he knew he shouldn't move. At the foot of the bed stood someone. A woman. She had her back to him, long hair falling past her waist, soaked through, strands sticking together, water dripping from the ends, drop by drop onto the floor. The sound was soft but struck like a drumbeat, pounding on his temples. She wore a light blue dress with a few small embroidered flowers at the collar, the colors blurred from water staining, impossible to tell what they originally were. The hem reached her calves, torn at the bottom left corner, the fabric frayed as if caught on something sharp.

The room was dark, but a faint light surrounded her, grayish, like moonlight filtered through clouds. She wasn't looking at him. She was staring out the window. Her shoulders were narrow, the dress hanging loosely on her, as if empty inside.

But she was breathing. He could see her back rise and fall.

Her lips were moving.

In the dream, he desperately tried to see what she was saying, but he was too far away, his eyes couldn't focus. He only saw her lips open and close, open and close, as if mouthing a name, as if speaking a sentence. When the last syllable fell, he heard it—not with his ears, but in his throat, as if someone was speaking right against his vocal cords.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.

Jiang Du opened his eyes.

No one stood at the foot of the bed. The floor was dry. He exhaled, the sweat on his back sticking his T-shirt to his skin, cold and tight. The air conditioning had stopped at some point, the room stuffy, the air thick enough to squeeze water from.

He sat up and reached for the small notebook on the bedside table. A5 size, the cover worn to a pale white, the first page marked "2026." He flipped to today—June 17—the blank column. Every day he wrote two lines here: the first line, the first sentence he spoke that day; the second line, the weather for the day.

Over seven years, he'd gone through four or five notebooks. The earliest ones were cheap spiral notebooks from convenience stores with plastic covers. Later he switched to hardcover notebooks, then to the current plain-covered ones. In his drawer was an iron box containing the used ones, arranged by year, which he'd shown to no one.

He held the pen, waiting.

Waiting for the thought-out, safe, harmless phrase to surface. Every day he thought ahead: "Cloudy today," "Light breeze today"—such statements, even if true, caused no harm. He never spoke of bad weather, nor overly good weather. He only said the most ordinary things, the least memorable, the most like nonsense. Nonsense was the safest.

Last night before sleep, he'd silently repeated "cloudy" three times. He remembered clearly. He'd said it before closing his eyes.

But this time, as the pen hovered over the paper, what surfaced in his mind wasn't "cloudy," wasn't "light breeze."

It was a sentence he'd never even thought of.

"It will rain blood today."

Even he was stunned when the words left his mouth. His voice sounded distant, as if coming from far away, or as if someone was speaking through his throat for him. Instinctively he covered his mouth, but the words had already slipped into the air of three minutes past six, impossible to take back.

The pen dropped from his hand, hit the edge of the bed, and bounced onto the floor.

He stared at the blank line on the notebook, his fingers beginning to tremble. Seven years. For seven years, he'd counted thirty seconds every day, weighed every word, guarded his mouth like a gunpowder keg—he'd never slipped. Never. Not even on his most exhausted days, not even when his fever hit thirty-nine degrees, he'd held on and counted to thirty before speaking.

But that sentence just now—he hadn't thought it.

He'd clearly wanted to say "cloudy." He'd repeated it three times last night. He remembered. The first time, he was brushing his teeth, toothpaste foam dripping down his chin; the second time, he turned off the light, lay down, pulled the blanket to his chin; the third time, he closed his eyes, finished reciting those two words in his mind, and only then felt he could sleep. He remembered clearly.

But now, "cloudy" was gone. Replaced by "It will rain blood today"—five words, popping out one by one, and he couldn't stop them.

He tried to recall how he'd said that sentence. Had he thought it first, then spoken? No. He'd heard it only after it was already out. As if someone had borrowed his mouth, used his breath, pushed his vocal cords, and pushed those five words out. He was just an exit.

This thought sent a chill down his spine.

A sound came from outside the window.

Very soft, like someone tapping the glass with a fingertip. Jiang Du looked up and saw the sliver of light through the curtains had changed color. Not grayish white, but dark red, like diluted blood.

He stood up, his legs a bit weak. He walked to the window, pinched the edge of the curtain, hesitated, then pulled it open.

Red rain.

Not the kind of red tinged by sunset—it was truly red, falling from the clouds. Raindrops hit the windowpane, streaking down the glass, leaving dark red trails like blood oozing from wounds. A thin layer of water had gathered on the rooftop across the street; the puddles were red. The sycamore leaves downstairs hung with red droplets; when the wind blew, they fell, hitting the ground with a smack, splashing into small red blossoms.

Jiang Du's hand tightened on the curtain.

He'd said "rain" many times in his life. He knew what rain looked like—from twenty-four till now, he'd spoken of rain hundreds of times: light rain, moderate rain, showers, continuous rain, he'd said them all. He'd even said "heavy rain" and "freezing rain." But he'd never said "blood."

This wasn't rain. Or rather, it was rain he'd never seen before.

He pushed the window open. Cold, damp air rushed in, carrying a smell of rust, and something else—a faint, sweetish odor he dared not think about. Rain blew in, landing on the back of his hand. He looked down.

Red.

Not just red.

Something was mixed in the rain. Very fine, very light, falling along with the raindrops, settling on the windowsill, tangling together. Jiang Du leaned in to look, and his throat tightened.

It was hair.

Fine, black, soaked strands of hair, mixed in the red rain, entwined in wisps around the aluminum window frame. When the wind blew, they moved slightly, as if still alive.

Jiang Du jerked back, bumping into the bed.

He thought of the woman in his dream. She stood at the foot of the bed, her long hair dripping water, drop by drop. Her lips were moving.

What was she saying?

He racked his brain to recall that mouth shape. Two characters. The first... he couldn't see clearly; in the dream he was too far away. The second—lips first closed, then slowly opened, the tip of the tongue pressing against the palate.

"Tang."

He heard a syllable escape from his own throat, very soft, almost inaudible. But he was sure: the last movement of the woman's lips in the dream was the ending sound of that character.

Tang.

Zhou Tang?

He didn't know where this name came from. He'd never heard it, never known anyone by that name. But it settled in his mind, like the red rain settling on his windowsill—unreasonable, undeniable. Two characters, crystal clear, as if he'd even seen the stroke order.

The red rain outside was falling harder. In the distance came the first car horn, then a screech of brakes, then someone shouting something—indistinct. The city was waking up, and the first thing it saw upon waking was blood.

Jiang Du slowly crouched down by the window, holding his head in both hands.

He dared not look outside again. But the image was already branded under his eyelids—the red rain, the black strands of hair, and the soaked woman standing at the foot of the bed. Her lips were still moving.

He counted in his mind. One, two, three.

But this time, he couldn't reach thirty.

At the seventh second, he heard that voice again. Not with his ears, but in his throat—someone speaking inside him, using his vocal cords, his breath, saying something he didn't understand.

He covered his mouth, pressing hard, his knuckles digging into his cheeks, hurting.

But those words still leaked out. One word.

"Blood."

Outside, the rain responded by growing heavier.

Jiang Du took his hand away from his mouth and looked at his palm. It was dry, but he felt something on it. Wet. Red. He sniffed it—nothing.

He stood up, walked to the sink, and turned on the faucet. The water was clear. He washed his hands for a long time, until his fingers turned white, then turned it off.

The person in the mirror had a pallid face, dark circles under his eyes, cracked lips. He stared at his reflection for a long time, as if looking at a stranger.

Seven years. He thought he'd managed his mouth well. He thought the thirty-second rule was foolproof. He thought as long as he was careful enough, that door wouldn't open.

But this morning, someone had reached through from the other side.

He walked back to the window. The rain was still falling, red and dense, as if someone was pouring basins of blood from the sky. A thin layer had already accumulated on the road below; a car drove by, tires rolling through it, splashing dark red water.

He grabbed his phone from the windowsill, his fingers shaking slightly, and opened the browser. In the search box, he typed two characters.

Zhou Tang.

The loading circle spun twice, then a bunch of results popped up. He didn't dare click. He stood there, holding the phone, rain coming in from the window, wetting the screen. He wiped it with his sleeve, once, twice.

Then he saw the title of the first result.

His hand stopped.

It was a news article from seven years ago, with a short headline: "Woman Falls from Building in Residential Area, Police Rule Out Homicide." The accompanying image showed an old apartment building, a faded clothesline hanging on the third-floor balcony.

Jiang Du didn't click it.

He placed the phone face down on the windowsill, as if trying to press the news back in. He stepped back twice, sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, head bowed.

The rain kept falling.

Red rain, mixed with strands of hair, had been falling since three minutes past six, with no sign of stopping.

He raised his head and glanced at the curtains. The wind puffed them out, then they fell back, puffed out, fell back. Like something breathing outside.

He suddenly remembered the direction the woman in his dream had been looking.

Out the window.

She had been looking out the window all along.

Jiang Du stood up, went to the window again. This time he didn't retreat. He stretched his hand out, palm up, letting the red rain fall onto his hand.

Cold.

As cold as ordinary rain.

But in his palm, besides rain, there was something else. Fine, soft, winding between his fingers. He drew his hand back and brought it up to his eyes.

A strand of wet black hair was wrapped around his ring finger, twice.

He didn't move. He stared at that strand of hair for a long time, until the rain soaked his sleeve. Then slowly, one by one, he unwound the hair from his finger.

The hair curled in his palm like a question mark.

Outside the window, the red rain poured down.