Red Precipitation

The rain didn't stop.

When Jiang Du stepped out, the red rain had been falling for over three hours. The entire street was wet, dark-colored, like water that had just washed a rag. The drain grate by the roadside was clogged, and a film of red oil-like slick floated on the puddles; he dared not look closely at what it was. A few early risers stood under the eaves, holding up their phones to film the sky, muttering curses. Some were silent, just tilting their faces up to watch.

He walked with his head down, his umbrella black. The rain hit the fabric with a dull sound, not crisp like usual.

There were few people on the bus. An old woman clutched a plastic bag containing two fried dough sticks; the paper bag was soaked through by the moisture, showing a hint of grease. She kept watching the rain outside the window. After a few stops, she suddenly turned to Jiang Du and asked, "Young man, is this rain poisonous?"

Jiang Du shook his head.

He dared not speak. After those two sentences this morning, he hadn't uttered a single word. His throat felt as if someone were gripping it—not painful, but tight. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth, something that shouldn't come out would escape.

The old woman didn't get upset when he didn't respond. She muttered to herself, "What a sin," and turned back to watch the rain.

The Meteorological Bureau was in the eastern part of the city, a gray building built in the 1980s. A patch of tiles had fallen off the exterior, revealing the cement underneath. When Jiang Du swiped his card to enter, Old Li, the security guard, poked his head out: "This rain today is eerie. In my sixty years, I've never seen anything like it."

Jiang Du nodded and quickened his pace inside.

The office was on the third floor. When he pushed the door open, Old Zhou was already there, leaning on the windowsill looking out, holding an enamel mug printed with "Serve the People"—the paint half worn off. Hearing the door, Old Zhou turned around and gave him a once-over.

"Your face doesn't look right," Old Zhou said. "Didn't sleep well?"

"Mm." Jiang Du responded and walked to his workstation. His spot was in the corner against the wall, with stacks of paper records yet to be entered piled on the desk. Temporary workers did this kind of job—typing handwritten meteorological records from the last century into the system, one digit at a time. Tedious, but quiet. He liked the quiet.

Old Zhou came over with his mug and placed a plastic bag on his desk.

"From the breakfast shop downstairs. Meat buns, still warm. Have some."

Jiang Du glanced at the bag but didn't move.

Old Zhou didn't insist. He pulled up a chair and sat down, lowering his voice: "Did you see this morning's rain? Red. My daughter called, said school was canceled and parents had to pick up the kids. I told her to walk back herself—no big deal. But she said the water pooled on the playground was terrifyingly red, like... like that."

Old Zhou didn't finish; he made a throat-slitting gesture.

Jiang Du's fingers paused on the keyboard.

"What does the news say?" he asked. This was his first complete sentence today—no, it was his first complete sentence today. The two this morning didn't count. They weren't his.

"News?" Old Zhou curled his lip. "What can they say? Experts came out and said something like 'abnormal red precipitation,' possibly industrial pollution, or something mixed in from a dust storm. Told the public not to panic, avoid contact with the rain, close windows and doors. A bunch of nonsense. I watched three news reports, three different explanations, none of them made sense."

Old Zhou took a drink and added, "The weather station is baffled too. Just saw in the group chat that the provincial office called to ask our bureau. What could our bureau say? No record of it."

Jiang Du looked up.

"No record?"

"None," Old Zhou said firmly. "I've worked here thirty years. Red rain? Never seen it. Old Zhang never mentioned it either. If you're talking about other provinces, I heard there's red rain in the desert areas—that's dust. We're eight hundred miles from the desert. Dust my ass."

Jiang Du didn't reply. He turned around, turned on the computer, and logged into the system.

The historical meteorological database. He knew the system well; three years of daily data entry meant he could find which year's records were stored where with his eyes closed. He opened the search interface, paused the cursor over the "Precipitation" field, and typed two characters: red.

Enter.

The system spun for two seconds and returned a line: No matching records found.

He expanded the time range. From 1951, when records began, to today. Search criteria: abnormal precipitation color.

Enter.

Same line. No matching records found.

He tried another term. Red precipitation. Then: Colored precipitation. Then: Abnormal precipitation.

The screen displayed a few results—a "yellow precipitation" in 1987, notes read "pollen"; a "gray precipitation" in 2003, notes read "long-distance transport of volcanic ash." Red ones? None.

Seventy-five years of records, and not one.

Jiang Du stared at the screen, his back starting to sweat.

He changed his approach. Instead of searching by color, he searched by composition. He pulled up the emergency report from the city environmental monitoring center this morning—such reports were copied to the meteorological bureau. The report was generated at 8:00 AM, brief: precipitation sample weakly acidic, pH 5.8, abnormally high iron ion concentration, plus unidentified organic components; further testing recommended.

Iron ions. Iron in blood.

He closed the report and pulled up all abnormal precipitation records from 1951 to the present, sorted by color. Yellow, gray, black—the black one was from 1998, notes read "coal dust"—there was a coal mine fire that year. White: none. Red: still none.

Seventy-five years of records, not one.

He expanded the scope to the entire province. He didn't have access to the provincial database, but the public query interface could retrieve summaries. He entered "red precipitation" and waited a few seconds; two results popped up. One from 1973 in a neighboring county, notes: "suspected mixture of pollen and mineral dust." The other from 2011 in a farther city, notes: "caused by industrial emissions, already dealt with."

Both were red, but neither was the kind of red he saw this morning. The reports said the composition was iron, dust, industrial waste. The sweet, fishy smell he caught this morning was neither dust nor waste.

He recalled that sentence from the morning: "It will rain blood today." He said it, and it rained. But this rain—seventy-five years of records had none, and the whole province only had two tangentially related. What did that mean? It meant this wasn't a natural phenomenon. It meant—he said it.

He said it, yet he didn't.

"Xiao Jiang?" Old Zhou called from beside him. "What are you looking up?"

"Historical data." Jiang Du closed the search window. "Just browsing."

Old Zhou grunted and didn't press further. Old Zhou talked a lot but didn't push; if you didn't want to talk, he wouldn't pursue it. That was one of the reasons he was the only person Jiang Du considered a friend at the bureau. Three years ago, when Jiang Du came to apply for the temp job, Old Zhou showed him around, told him which printer jams, which bathroom faucet drips, and to avoid the Wednesday braised pork in the cafeteria. Jiang Du never said thanks, and Old Zhou didn't mind; the next day he'd still bring breakfast.

At noon, the rain eased a bit, from heavy to moderate, and the color lightened from dark red to pink. People in the office gradually went to the cafeteria, but Jiang Du didn't go. He waited until the office was empty, then pulled out his phone from the drawer.

He opened the morning's search history. Zhou Tang.

The news article was still at the top. The headline he'd read earlier: "Woman Falls to Death in Residential Area, Police Rule Out Homicide." He hadn't dared to click it then.

Now he clicked.

The news was very short. Published on August 15, 2019. Content only a few lines: Yesterday afternoon, a woman fell from the third-floor balcony of her home in a residential area. She died after rescue efforts failed. After on-site police investigation and forensic examination, homicide was ruled out; it was a self-inflicted fall. The family members had confirmed... followed by a string of pseudonyms and "reportedly."

No photos. No specific address. Even the residential area was referred to as "a certain residential area."

Jiang Du scrolled to the bottom. No more content. He swiped down, looking for follow-up reports. None. A short news item, like a stone dropped into water—didn't even make a splash before sinking.

He exited the news and returned to the search bar.

He wasn't sure. The woman in the dream—the shape of her mouth, the second character was "Tang," he was sure. But the first character? He couldn't tell. Zhou Tang popped into his head, but was that name correct? What if it wasn't Zhou Tang? What if he'd just had a nightmare, woke up and blurted a random sentence, coincidentally it rained weirdly, coincidentally a name came to mind, coincidentally that name actually had a fall-to-death news story—

He dared not go further with "coincidence." At thirty-one, he knew some things weren't coincidences.

He put his phone face-down on the desk and picked up the plastic bag. The buns were cold. He took a bite; couldn't taste much.

In the afternoon, he continued entering data. Records from August 2019. When he reached the page for August 14, his hand paused.

August 14. The news said the fall was "yesterday"—that is, August 14.

He looked down at the handwritten record. August 14, 2019. Weather: sunny turning cloudy, brief showers in the afternoon. Temperature 32°C. Wind southeast, force 2 to 3.

An ordinary day. Sunny turning cloudy. Brief showers.

Nothing unusual.

But that day, a woman fell from the third floor.

Jiang Du finished entering that page and closed the notebook. He glanced out the window. The rain was still falling, fine and dense, pink, like watered-down paint.

Suddenly, a thought struck him.

For seven years, the first sentence he said every morning was one he had thought out himself. Cloudy, light breeze, light rain—he had chosen them. He thought he was choosing. But if this morning's "It will rain blood today" wasn't his thought, but someone else's words borrowed from his mouth, what about all those past years?

Those "cloudy" days, those "light breeze" days, those words he thought he chose, safe and harmless—how many of them were truly his to say? How many were arranged for him?

He had never used those words to verify anything. He said "cloudy," and the sky turned cloudy; he thought it was his ability. But if saying "cloudy" was also arranged—then did "cloudy" come true because he said it, or because someone needed it to be cloudy that day?

He opened the notebook and flipped back. To last month. June 3, first sentence: "There will be fog today." That day there was indeed fog, white and thick outside the window in the morning. June 8: "Cloudy turning overcast today." That day it was cloudy turning overcast. June 12: "There will be showers today." Showers, at 3 PM, lasted twenty minutes.

Every sentence was accurate. Accurate as copying answers.

But now, looking at these words, he suddenly felt a sense of unfamiliarity. Were these words his? He remembered that every morning he silently recited a word in his mind, but where did that word come from? Did he pick it himself, or had someone planted it in his head beforehand?

He couldn't tell.

Once the thought emerged, sweat broke out on his back again.

He gripped the pen, knuckles white.

Seven years of discipline. Thirty seconds. Weighing every word. He thought he had his mouth well under control. But if the very act of controlling his mouth was a joke—he was controlling his own mouth, but the words weren't his—then what were these seven years?

A mouthpiece?

A mouthpiece with someone squeezing his throat?

"Xiao Jiang." Old Zhou's voice came from behind. "Time to go home. What's wrong with you today? You've been out of sorts."

Jiang Du snapped back to reality. Everyone in the office had left, only Old Zhou was packing up.

"Nothing," he said, standing up. "Just a bit tired."

"Then go home early and rest." Old Zhou stuffed his enamel mug into the drawer. "This rain today is weird. Don't get caught in it. Got your umbrella?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Take care."

Jiang Du picked up his umbrella and went downstairs. The first floor lobby was empty; Old Li the security guard wasn't in his booth, nowhere to be seen. He walked out, opened his umbrella.

The rain had lightened a lot, fine, hardly rain, more like mist. Pink mist, floating in the air, most visible under the streetlights, drifting in patches.

He walked back along the same route. The bus stop was two intersections away. He kept his head down, counting the paving stones. That was another habit of his; counting stones calmed his mind.

One twenty-seven, one twenty-eight, one twenty-nine.

When he reached one forty-three, his feet stopped.

Not because he wanted to. They stopped on their own.

He looked up.He was passing a building. Six stories, an old residential building, most of the exterior paint had peeled off, revealing the gray brick underneath. The shops on the first floor were all closed, the roller shutters rusted. The entrance of the building was pitch black, the iron door half open, a broken iron chain wrapped around its hinge.

He had passed this building countless times. Never paid attention.

But now he stood below it, his feet nailed to the ground, unable to move.

He smelled something.

Damp. Old. Like opening a book that hadn't been touched for a long time, that musty smell between the pages. Or like a piece of clothing that had been soaked and dried, folded away for three years, and when opened again, still retained that moisture.

It wasn't the smell of rain. Rain was new; this smell was old.

Old like memories soaked open by rainwater.

Jiang Du stood there, his umbrella tilted, the pink mist touching his face, cold. He stared at the half-open iron door, the darkness inside revealing nothing.

But he knew, there was something in there.

Waiting for him.