Chapter 1: The Person in the Painting（2）
The setup was grand. A fire fueled by lychee tree branches burned at the entrance of the ancestral hall. It was around noon, the sun blazing hot. I and a few other kids hid at a distance, watching secretly. Amid the crowd of men, the feng shui master carried out the painting, still wrapped in red cloth. Facing the sun, he began chanting incantations. Being far away, I couldn't make out the words, only see his lips moving. Suddenly, he raised the painting high with one hand and swiftly tore off the red cloth with the other. What happened next was astounding. The entire painting was covered in white hair—no, it was pig bristles, each strand sizzling audibly under the scorching sun. Under the solar scorching, the white hairs gradually turned into blue smoke. The onlookers covered their mouths and noses in horror, watching this spectacle. In less than half an incense stick's time, the white hairs had completely vanished.
The person in the painting was now revealed to everyone, eliciting another gasp of shock. The person depicted was unmistakably my aunt—Third Uncle's wife! Third Uncle, who was present, fainted on the spot upon seeing it. Without a word, the master threw the painting into the fire. The flames consumed it instantly. At that very moment, everyone heard a woman's凄厉 (qī lì: piercingly mournful) wail of agony, followed by wave after wave of weeping. The sound brought tears to the eyes of all present, even as it terrified them.
Daxiong stopped here.
"And then?" I asked, completely engrossed.
"There is no 'then'," Daxiong said.
"How can that be? What happened to your aunt?" I pressed, puzzled.
"What does it matter to you?" Daxiong refilled his glass, still smiling. "It's just a story. Don't take it so seriously!"
"But there's no ending!" The cliffhanger was unbearable; I was itching to know more.
"We can't expect everything to have a clear ending, not even stories. Sometimes, this kind of ending is the best," Daxiong said, his tone meaningful.
"Stop acting all profound! You just made up some nonsense," I retorted.
"Then let me ask you, was this made-up nonsense enjoyable to hear?"
"Absolutely! Left me wanting more," I admitted. Daxiong's stories always captivated me.
"That's enough, then. Who cares if it's true or false? If you believe me, it's true. If you don't, it's false. The line between real and fake isn't that important."
"Then what is important?"
"What's important is the wine is finished, and I'm tired. Time for sleep!" Daxiong stood up and patted his backside.
"Then tell another story tomorrow night!"
"Tomorrow night, you buy the wine."
Daxiong walked out the door and turned right. I watched him open his door and enter. The dim light in the corridor flickered. Our two rooms were the only ones occupied on this entire floor; the other was the landlord's storage room, to the left of mine. Daxiong's room was on the right, mine in the middle, facing the staircase.
Lying back in bed, I mulled over Daxiong's story. Suddenly, a click-clack sound came from the staircase—the sound of high heels on the floor. The woman from upstairs was back.