Red Tiles and the Whispering Smoke

Episode 2: The fragrance of autumn lingers on the ashes

At noon, after the students had gone home, Zi Du went to the well to wash his hands. The clear water reflected the overcast sky. He saw his own reflection — thinner than before, hair longer, eyes holding the weight of the rainy season.

His pocket watch had stopped at some moment — the hands rusted, yet he still carried it. Each time he opened it, he thought of Dian Lei.

The sound of heavy boots, the smell of tobacco, the tall figure in the mist — all now only alive in memory.

Sometimes, at night, he still imagined hearing a knock on the next-door room — where Dian Lei had once stayed.

It was only the wind, yet his heart tightened slightly, as if waiting for a miracle.

On the third day of October, a stranger arrived.

He wore a worn uniform, an old badge pinned to his chest.

“Excuse me, are you Zi Du?”

“Yes.”

“Someone asked me to deliver this to you.”

The soldier took from his coat a small, faded cloth bag.

Inside was a scratched silver lighter and a carefully folded piece of paper.

Zi Du accepted it, hands slightly trembling. He recognized the lighter immediately — Dian Lei had used it every night, lighting a cigarette in the dark, the flame reflecting in his eyes, warm yet distant.

The soldier said, “I met him at the northern border about two months ago. He was slightly wounded but said he would return to this town. Before we scattered, he asked me, if I survived, to give this to someone named Zi Du.”

Zi Du was silent. The wind outside blew, loosening a few yellow leaves.

“And him?”

The soldier lowered his head: “I don’t know. After that, we went separate ways. I just… hope…”

He paused, then whispered, “I hope you keep it. He treasures you greatly.”

Afternoon fell slowly.

Zi Du sat by the window and unfolded the letter.

The paper was yellowed, the writing slanted yet strong — Dian Lei’s handwriting.

“Zi Du"

When you read this, I may be somewhere beyond the reach of children’s voices, beyond the sight of oil lamps glowing through school windows.

These past few days, the rain has been heavy, and the tobacco smoke wouldn’t burn. I remember the night you bandaged me, the golden light on the walls, and the words you said — hands tremble not because of blood.

I keep thinking about that. Perhaps that is why I am no longer afraid of war.

I don’t know if I can return, but if I do, I want you to continue telling the story about the dark.

Don’t worry about me. I am used to walking in the wind.

Keep that light, don’t let it go out.

"Dian Lei.”

Zi Du read to the end, eyes blurred in the twilight.

The wind slipped through the cracks in the door, making the paper flutter like a breath.

He placed the letter on the table, then lit the silver lighter. The faint blue flame flickered — small, but steadfast.

The light fell on the wall — right onto the empty space where Dian Lei had once sat.

Zi Du whispered, voice breaking slightly:

“You told me to keep the light… I still do.”

That night, he could not sleep.

The rain began again, fine and persistent.

The sound of raindrops blended with the scratching of pen on paper — Zi Du was copying the letter, stroke by stroke, afraid the words would fade with time.

He added one line at the end:

“I still tell stories every night"

If you can hear them, remember to come back.”

Then he folded it carefully, placing it in a small wooden box along with the silver lighter.

In the following days, Zi Du continued teaching.

Occasionally, when the weather cleared, he led the children to the yard, teaching them to read poetry.

His voice remained as warm and calm as before, only his eyes sometimes drifting toward the end of the path — where white clouds hung like footprints left behind.

The townspeople said that many nights they saw a faint light from the teacher’s room — the oil lamp never extinguished.

Some claimed it was because Zi Du was afraid of the dark.

But only he knew, that darkness once had company — someone sitting beside him, sharing it.

Winter came early.

In the morning, fog covered the courtyard.

Zi Du went to the well; the water had grown cold. He looked at his reflection — now his smile was softer, more serene, as if he had learned to live with longing.

On the desk, Dian Lei’s letter was pressed in a glass frame, right next to the oil lamp.

Sometimes, he would light the old lighter, watching the flame flicker, imagining someone standing behind him, smiling kindly.

In the afternoon, the children ran in, shouting:

“Teacher, they hung the victory flag in the fields!”

Zi Du paused. A gust of wind blew strongly, making the lamp flicker.

He did not run outside, only sat down, placing his hand on the letter, whispering:

“Can you hear me, Dian Lei? The war… is over.”

The oil lamp cast light on the window frame, reflecting his shadow — thin, solitary, but peaceful.

Outside, the church bell rang, resonant and clear.

Zi Du looked up at the sky, lips curving into a quiet smile:

“So… when you return, I will tell you the story again — this time, about the dawn.”

Night fell.

On the desk, the silver lighter flickered briefly — then went out.

But the oil lamp still burned, as if never to die.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of new rice, the fragrance of a post-war season, of those who were still waiting.

Autumn came slowly to the land scarred by war. Early in the morning, fog hung like a thin veil over the soot-darkened rooftops. The path to the school was covered in yellow leaves, and in the empty courtyard, tufts of green grass struggled to push through the hardened soil. Zi Du opened the classroom door; the hinge creaked softly, like a sigh. He still came here every day, though fewer than ten students remained.

The children were quiet, writing with white chalk on the blackboard, while he sat by the window, gazing outside, where the light shifted with the hour. His voice remained deep and clear when teaching, though sometimes it faltered, as if a fragment of memory intruded. That name — Dian Lei — still lingered somewhere in the space between the sounds of a normal day.

The war had ended, yet the echo of gunfire never completely left the heart. The pockmarked walls had been plastered over, but he remembered every mark. Some nights, he dream of flashlights sweeping across the schoolyard, of the sound of boots pounding the tiles, and of a figure pausing under the eaves, whispering, “Are you still awake, teacher?”

This morning, the wind carried the scent of damp earth. He walked down the corridor and stopped at the cracked step, where Dian Lei had once stood, wiping blood from his sleeve. Was it a year ago, or just a few months? Time during war was warped, flowing both long and short. He still remembered the day that person left — no words, only a slight nod, as if speaking would shatter everything.

In the afternoon, after the school bell had rung, a stranger came to the school. He wore an old military uniform, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, face tanned by the sun. He stopped in front of the classroom, looked around, and asked:

“Is Teacher Zi Du here?”

The voice made Zi Du turn. He stepped forward, chalk dust still on his hands. The stranger bowed, then opened his bag and took out an object wrapped in gray cloth.

“I… found this in the northern forest. There’s a name engraved on it, and it was said to be returned to the teacher in this town. I think it’s for you.”

Zi Du took it. It was a metal lighter, scratched and dulled, with the small inscription: “Lei.” He recognized it immediately — Dian Lei had used this lighter many times, pausing by the classroom window to light a cigarette, watching the smoke drift through the bars.

The soldier added,

“There’s also a piece of paper, but it got wet. I could only save a few lines.”

Zi Du unfolded it. The paper was yellowed; the handwriting shaky, yet familiar.

“If I don’t return soon, please don’t be sad. I’m likely just taking a detour. It’s foggy here, but when the wind clears, the light will appear. You once said that waiting doesn’t mean standing still, but keeping a lamp from going out. I carry that with me.”

That was all. The final line stopped mid-sentence, as if written in haste. Zi Du held the paper tightly, feeling a warmth spread through his fingertips. Outside, the afternoon sun lowered slowly, glittering through the willows.

The soldier remained silent for a moment, then said:

“He is a good man. He saved me and my comrades from encirclement. We owe him our lives.”

Then he left, his figure gradually disappearing at the end of the path.

Zi Du sat on the step. The lighter was cold but heavy in his hand. He flicked it — the flame rose, weak but defiant. The small light illuminated his eyes, and in the trembling golden glow, he seemed to see a faint figure. He smiled softly.

Night came, and rain fell. The sound of raindrops on the tin roof blended with the chirping of insects in the garden. He placed the lighter on the desk, next to the attendance book and the damp paper. The dim yellow oil lamp cast glimmering streaks on the wall like breaths. He opened the book, intending to write something, but hesitated. Finally, he wrote a small line in the margin:

“There’s still fog here, and I am still waiting.”

Night deepened. Outside, the flame tree shed its leaves. A faint set of footsteps passed through the alley, careful not to wake the street. He did not look, only sat quietly listening. Perhaps it was a passerby, or perhaps — in a fleeting moment — it was him.

In the days that followed, Zi Du lived as usual. Morning lessons, afternoon watering the plants, evening copying books for the children. But there was something different now: in his gaze, in his voice, a gentle warmth had appeared. It seemed that, within him, a lamp had been relit.

One day, the children found a sparrow with a broken wing. They brought it to him, saying, “Teacher, save it.” He bandaged the little bird and placed it in a wooden box by the window. The next day, the bird flew away. He only smiled, saying,

“It is enough that it is still alive.”

To him, these words were not just for the bird.

The town entered autumn, yellow leaves covering the paths. By the river market road, people rebuilt the market, opened tea stalls. Occasionally, Zi Du went there, listening to stories of soldiers. Some said Dian Lei’s unit was in the distant mountains; others claimed he went missing after a major battle. Conflicting reports, but he did not ask further. He believed that as long as that person still existed in the world, wherever he was, he would return one day.

On a late autumn afternoon, while tidying the classroom, a strong gust of wind blew, scattering papers everywhere. As he bent down to pick them up, the lighter fell, rolling to the foot of the blackboard. He picked it up, wiped off the dust, and flicked it on — the flame flared. In that golden flash, he briefly saw a figure standing outside the classroom: military uniform, cap pulled low, eyes deep and warm.

He looked up, but there was only emptiness. The door shivered as the wind passed through, carrying the faint scent of tobacco. He was neither afraid nor in pain, only standing still. Perhaps, far away, that person was lighting this same flame, looking in the same direction.

Night fell, the crescent moon hung suspended. Zi Du lit the lamp and sat down to write a letter, unsent, kept in the desk drawer. He wrote as if speaking, each line slowly:

“Lei, it’s cold today. The children have learned a poem about autumn. I read it aloud, remembering when you sat by the classroom window, saying, ‘Autumn is when people realize they are alive.’ I still teach, still wait, still keep the lamp lit. If you see this light, even for a moment, know that someone still calls your name in silence.”

He folded the letter, placing it next to the lighter. Outside, the wind rattled the window frame. Moonlight fell on the paper, and somewhere in the night, there was a faint sound — like the flick of a metal lid, then silence.

Zi Du closed his eyes and smiled softly.

The lamp still burned.