Red Tiles and the Whispering Smoke

Namjiang in the late autumn days of 1945 carried a melancholic air, like an old man just waking from a nightmare. The city had narrow streets scattered with gravel and puddles of mud; the chipped tiles still bore the traces of soot from last night’s bombardment; flags and old banners fluttered and torn, like advertisements from a bygone era. Smoke from stoves mingled with the damp air, carrying the scent of tar and old paper, making every sound seem absorbed into a thick curtain — the footsteps of people, the creak of carts, the whispered rumors. Dian Lei walked along the street with familiar steps, his hat worn low, coarse coat dusted with dew. He was not a native of the city; the strong features of Shandong were etched into his angular face, his nose seeming carved by wind and sand. In his eyes lay a coldness that did not come from cruelty, but from things long withered — friends lost, orders that never asked about one’s heart. People said he was a police officer; more accurately, he was a mirror reflecting order in chaotic times: rigid, upright, sometimes indifferent to keep what remained from shattering completely. That day, his mission was to sweep through the outskirts — a row of low-roofed houses where Namjiang High School was located. Intelligence suggested a few fugitives might be hiding within the school — perhaps members of a rebel group or traders of banned documents. The order was to inspect, and arrest if necessary. In Dian Lei’s hand, a simple flashlight acted as a tool of judgment: to illuminate thoroughly and see deeply into what people tried to hide. Namjiang School lay quietly beneath a cluster of trees, its windows mossy, the brick courtyard bearing traces of old bullets. Children had finished classes, a few lingered at the gate, eyes wide as they watched the uniformed figures of men in police attire. Inside the first-floor classroom, the late morning light fell on the blackboard, the dust from chalk forming a thin layer like snow on the edge of the desk. There, a young man stood before the class, slender, dressed simply, black hair still soft, slowly drawing Chinese characters with white chalk. Zi Du tapped the chalk lightly against the edge of the board, then looked at his students with eyes that seemed older than his twenty-three years. Fresh out of college, he carried verses and educational ideals in his mind as a mission. His parents had borne the disgrace of the previous regime, but he refused to let it mark his heart. For Zi Du, the classroom was a place to sow seeds; knowledge could guide people through long fractured nights. Today he read a passage about humanity, his voice warm, unhurried. The students sat quietly, their eyes bright, as the words fell like rain on soft earth. When footsteps and voices echoed at the classroom door — deep, male, firm — Zi Du did not immediately turn. He maintained the calm of a teacher: no matter what happened outside, the classroom remained a sanctuary. But when the door opened, a tall man stepped in: Dian Lei, eyes like river stones, scanning with the look of one accustomed to tracking. No greeting, only the order of inspection. “Is anyone hiding here?” — his voice curt, though not harsh. Zi Du stood lightly, bowing politely. His figure was slender, carrying no intimidation against an officer, yet within his composure there was something that made Dian Lei pause: an open book on his desk, pages folded at the edges, a few lines crossed out. On the cover, faint ink revealed the title: a discourse on society, not propaganda, but ideas that authority found unsettling — “strange ideas.” “You’re a teacher?” — Dian Lei asked. “I am,” Zi Du replied, his voice as calm as when lecturing. “I only teach these children their letters.” Dian Lei’s gaze swept across the students’ faces, tender and naive, small hands gripping each other. He thought of comrades lost on the battlefield, their hands still covered in mud. Order, to him, was meant to protect lives like these — lives not yet grown. Yet such order was not always clearly defined; it could suffocate faith, silence voices. Dian Lei looked at the book, then back at Zi Du. “In times like this, forbidden books can ignite fires,” he said. “You know that.” Zi Du smiled, a touch of sadness in his expression. “People fear fire because it burns houses. But no one says one shouldn’t light a fire to keep warm.” He placed his hand over the page, as if over a heart. “If you want, you may take me for questioning. I won’t resist. But what wrong have the children done?” A pause fell between them, not from hesitation, but from recognition. In Zi Du’s eyes was unbroken faith; in Dian Lei’s, the gaze of one who had seen too many things shattered. Their eyes met like two needles — sharp, yet not necessarily to stitch; perhaps only to test the thickness of the fabric of history they wore. Dian Lei’s comrades, standing in the hallway, tapped lightly on their rifles, keeping distance. The classroom air was not suffocating, yet there was a feeling of a thin glass separating two worlds: outside were orders, inside were words. Dian Lei fell silent — he knew that obeying orders rigidly could endanger this young man; showing leniency might brand him weak. His history left little room for honorable choices. He looked at Zi Du once more, and this time curiosity appeared: the young teacher was neither afraid nor naive. There was a quiet courage in him, not the courage of guns, but of someone willing to stand in the storm to shield others. Dian Lei remembered an old verse his mother recited: “The keeper of the flame, even with burnt hands, never lets go.” He wondered if he still held any flame himself. “What’s your name?” — Dian Lei asked, voice firm but softer than before. “Zi Du,” he replied simply. The name like a bamboo shoot: slender, flexible, yet not easily broken. Dian Lei glanced around the classroom, then nodded, as if concluding the inspection rather than passing judgment. “I’m just passing through. I need to know everyone is safe for my report.” “Safety is when no one starts shooting,” Zi Du said, his voice matter-of-fact, not mocking. “If you need a place to rest, come in. There’s tea, old bread. Not abundant, but enough for a day without starving.” The simple, rustic offer surprised Dian Lei. In the midst of chaos, this man still preserved the courtesy of ordinary humanity. He declined. But before leaving, he lingered at the doorway, as if taking one last glance. Light fell on Zi Du’s face, highlighting delicate lines, the soft curve of his lips. A warmth, unexpected, coursed through Dian Lei’s chest — like an old cloth found beneath ashes. As the door closed, the classroom returned to the soft sighs of the students. Zi Du sat down, placing his hand on the page as if holding a child. He looked out the window, seeing Dian Lei standing in the yard, shrouded by wind, back slightly bent, a figure both familiar and strange. In Zi Du’s mind, a line he once read surfaced: “The one who arrives like the wind leaves the scent of damp earth.” He did not know if it was an omen or the prelude to rain, but his heart lay still like a lake at dusk. In the corner of the street, Dian Lei lit a match, watching the tiny flame flicker. The small fire pulsed like a fragile faith. He recalled how he once believed order was the only thing worth keeping. Now, before the doorway of a young man guarding knowledge for children, he wondered: should order also be measured by the heart? His footsteps receded into the mist, but his gaze returned once more to the classroom, where a sheet of paper, a streak of chalk, remained — evidence that someone still believed in more than guns and orders. His heart could not name the feeling; it only trembled like a small bell, resonating faintly in a weary city. And Namjiang, on that afternoon, continued to sink into wind and smoke — like any other day — yet within a classroom with a blackboard, and in the heart of an officer, faint traces of change had begun. Dian Lei’s visit to the school was but a brief pause in his duties; yet for both, it was the first time their paths had touched — lightly, yet profoundly, like two threads newly tied in the knot of history. No one knew how tightly that knot would draw them together. That afternoon, the sky unleashed the first rain of early summer. Rain traced long streaks down the school’s window, where Zi Du continued teaching the few students left after the war. Each plip-plop on the tiled roof sounded like the heartbeat of the city — heavy, yet alive. Zi Du paused mid-stroke, looking down at the empty rows. More than a dozen students had been sent home to the countryside by the bombs, some had joined the militia, leaving only a few small faces huddled in the dim light. He smiled gently, his warm, low voice resonating amidst the rain: “Children… even when it rains, don’t forget to learn to live as if the sun still shines.” A student raised her hand, asking innocently: “Teacher, what if the school closes tomorrow?” Zi Du gazed outside; the rain had whitened the sky. He did not answer immediately. His mind returned to the eyes of the officer he had met last week — a man with a stern exterior, yet a distant sorrow hidden within. Finally, he said softly: “Then we must still live, as if tomorrow will bring sunshine.” Night fell, and the alarm sirens blared from the south of the city. Dian Lei was on duty at the station. A map was spread on the table, his fingers tracing the areas marked in red. “They’re moving toward the old school,” an officer reported, his voice urgent. Dian Lei stood, pulling on his raincoat, eyes cold and sharp: “Move immediately. Don’t let anyone get hurt.” The truck lurched through the night rain, its wheels churning the muddy road. In Dian Lei’s mind That afternoon, the sky unleashed the first rain of early summer. Rain traced long streaks down the school’s window, where Zi Du continued teaching the few students left after the war. Each plip-plop on the tiled roof sounded like the heartbeat of the city — heavy, yet alive. Zi Du paused mid-stroke, looking down at the empty rows. More than a dozen students had been sent home to the countryside by the bombs, some had joined the militia, leaving only a few small faces huddled in the dim light. He smiled gently, his warm, low voice resonating amidst the rain: “Children… even when it rains, don’t forget to learn to live as if the sun still shines.” A student raised her hand, asking innocently: “Teacher, what if the school closes tomorrow?” Zi Du gazed outside; the rain had whitened the sky. He did not answer immediately. His mind returned to the eyes of the officer he had met last week — a man with a stern exterior, yet a distant sorrow hidden within. Finally, he said softly: “Then we must still live, as if tomorrow will bring sunshine.” Night fell, and the alarm sirens blared from the south of the city. Dian Lei was on duty at the station. A map was spread on the table, his fingers tracing the areas marked in red. “They’re moving toward the old school,” an officer reported, his voice urgent. Dian Lei stood, pulling on his raincoat, eyes cold and sharp: “Move immediately. Don’t let anyone get hurt.” The truck lurched through the night rain, its wheels churning the muddy road. In Dian Lei’s mind, Zi Du’s face appeared unbidden — calm, like candlelight in a quiet room. A strange feeling crept over him: part worry, part longing. When they arrived at the school, the gate was barely ajar. Dim light spilled from the classroom at the far end. Dian Lei signaled his team to spread out. He stepped lightly along the hallway, his wet shoes blending with the sound of the wind. The door opened quietly. Inside, Zi Du was gathering his books, looking up in surprise at his visitor. “Again, Officer Dian,” he said, voice as soft as a breath. Dian Lei removed his hat, standing in the pale yellow light. Rain streamed down his collar, but inside him, a storm raged far more complex. “I heard there might be strangers hiding around the school. I had to check.” “There’s only me and the students here,” Zi Du replied, wiping the desk gently. “You can rest assured.” A moment of silence passed. The rain outside seemed endless. Dian Lei looked around — a modest room, blackboard, stacks of yellowed books. He spoke: “Strange. Everywhere I go in this city is filled with smoke and fire. Only here… can you still hear voices.” Zi Du gave a faint, sad smile: “Because here, words still exist, and words are never afraid of bullets.” Those words stunned Dian Lei. He looked at the young teacher, a feeling rising — like seeing a sliver of light at the horizon. He said nothing, only nodded slightly, and quietly placed a small package on the desk: “These are some dry biscuits. For the students. The next few days may not be safe.” Zi Du looked at the package, then raised his gaze. Their eyes met in silence. The lamp flickered lightly, illuminating their eyes — one resolute, one gentle, yet both hiding the same loneliness. “You’re always worried about others,” Zi Du whispered, “but has anyone ever worried about you?” Dian Lei pressed his lips together. The question pierced through the armor he wore. He replied softly: “No need. Just staying alive is enough.” Zi Du stared at him for a long moment, then turned, murmuring: “No, you’re only surviving… you’ve never truly lived.” Outside, thunder rolled, echoing in the earth. The downpour intensified, spilling onto the corner of the desk. Dian Lei stepped forward, closing the window. In that instant, his hand brushed lightly against Zi Du’s. Cold, yet it set his chest aflame. They stood there, only a breath apart. Neither spoke. The rain acted as a rhythm for an unspoken melody. That night, when Dian Lei left, the flooded streets reflected the lantern light. He looked back — the classroom still glowing, a figure by the window watching him go. For the first time, in years amidst smoke and gunfire, Dian Lei felt a desire to live — not for duty, but for someone. That afternoon, the wind blew down from the northern mountains, carrying the pungent scent of earth. In the schoolyard, old wooden desks were stacked atop one another, chalk dust still clinging to the surfaces of the chairs. Zi Du paused as he heard familiar footsteps along the corridor — heavy military boots, firm, yet slowing slightly as they neared the classroom door. Dian Lei stood at the threshold, his old dark police coat damp from the rain, holding his hat, eyes scanning the room before settling on Zi Du. “The teacher hasn’t left yet?” he asked, his voice hoarse from smoke. Zi Du smiled faintly, his voice low: “It’s still daylight. I wanted to copy some lessons for the students. Yesterday they were too scared of the bombs to come.” Dian Lei nodded slightly, looking toward the blackboard, where faint traces of unfinished writing remained: “The human heart is like the wind — it may change direction, but it does not disappear.” He read it quietly, then asked, “Do you teach literature?” “Yes, but now there’s no one left to listen.” Dian Lei fell silent. The last birds of the day beat their wings across the tiled roofs, flying westward. Since the campaign in Shanxi, Dian Lei had been temporarily assigned to this town, responsible for the security of the school area — the clinic. Every day he patrolled here, partly out of professional habit, partly for a vague reason he did not want to name even to himself. The past few days had brought light rain, leaving the school entrance flooded, footprints smeared with mud. Zi Du usually swept the yard in the morning, brushing fallen branches into the gutters. Every time he saw this, Dian Lei would stand at a distance, silently smoking, saying nothing. Night fell, and the town’s power went out. The entire place was bathed in the dim glow of oil lamps. Dian Lei was assigned a small room next to the old principal’s office; Zi Du stayed in the room beside it, separated by a thin wall. The scratch of pen on paper drifted through the thin barrier, rhythmic, strangely comforting. One evening, when the wind blew out the lamp in his room, Dian Lei walked over and knocked. “Zi Du, may I borrow some oil? My lamp went out.” Zi Du opened the door, holding a small lamp. The light fell on his face — pale, tired, yet gentle. “The wind is strong tonight. Be careful not to break the chimney.” Dian Lei took the lamp, the light trembling slightly in his eyes: “I’m used to darkness, only afraid the wind will make people remember too much.” They were silent. Only the sound of rain hitting the roof, steady, like a slow breath. Zi Du whispered: “I used to be afraid of the dark. When I started teaching here, every time the power went out, I would tell stories to the students, so they would forget the thunder.” “And now?” “Now… there’s no one left to tell.” Dian Lei looked at him, a fleeting pang of sorrow in his eyes. He placed the lamp on the table; its glow reflected on the walls, casting their shadows — two figures sitting together in the wind. The next morning, alarms sounded from the town. A small unit of Japanese soldiers was retreating through the outskirts, engaging with local militias. Dian Lei immediately left the post, only managing to instruct: “Stay in the room, don’t go outside.” Zi Du stood at the door, eyes following the gray coat disappearing into the smoky mist. By noon, the gunfire had ceased. The rain fell again. When Dian Lei returned, his shoulder bore a smear of blood, but he said nothing. Zi Du panicked and helped him inside, searching for antiseptic. “You’re injured!” “Just a scratch,” he said, keeping his tone steady. But when Zi Du’s warm hands touched his shoulder to bandage it, Dian Lei shivered slightly. Not from pain — but something deeper, more intangible. The space between them was very close. The scent of rain, blood, and medicine mingled. Zi Du leaned down, his hair brushing Dian Lei’s shoulder. The pale yellow lamp light fell across their necks, illuminating each breath. “I never thought,” Dian Lei whispered, “someone would bandage me… with such trembling hands.” Zi Du paused, smiling but silent. He only said: “Hands tremble not because of blood.” The words were light as the wind, yet left a tremor in Dian Lei’s heart he could not name. Three days later, the conflict had moved on. The town grew quiet again. People cleaned the market; the sounds of ox carts and children returned, sparse but lively. Zi Du swept leaves in the yard, while Dian Lei sat on the steps, smoking. Each puff of smoke brought the faint image of Zi Du’s face, distant like in a dream. “You’re leaving soon?” Zi Du asked. “Yes. Orders. Maybe in a few days.” “And… this place?” “You keep it. I belong nowhere.” A cold gust blew, lifting a piece of paper from Zi Du’s hands. They both reached for it, and in that moment, their fingers touched. Neither pulled away. In the golden afternoon light, Zi Du’s hair swayed; his eyes lifted, revealing something unspoken. Dian Lei turned slightly, whispering: “If the war ends, will you teach again?” “Yes. If anyone is left to listen.” “Then there’s me.” The brief exchange was like a quiet promise. On the last night, the sky cleared. A faint moon hung behind the trees. Zi Du sat by the window, finishing his lesson notes, the oil lamp flickering. Dian Lei came by, silent, leaving a fresh cigarette and a small piece of paper — his orders to leave the post. He stood, watching Zi Du for a long time. No farewell words, no embrace, only gazes — like two rivers flowing on separate banks, yet reflecting the same moonlight. As he turned away, the wind extinguished the lamp. Only the scent of oil remained, and the soft rustle of paper in the night. Zi Du read the last words Dian Lei had left: “If I survive this autumn, I will return — to hear the teacher tell stories about the dark.” Moonlight fell across the page, spreading a streak of light. Zi Du looked up, eyes wet, but lips curved in a faint smile. Outside, a late rooster crowed, heralding a new day. A day without Dian Lei, yet with a promise — and the oil lamp’s glow had yet to fade in the heart of the one left behind. That autumn morning, fog lay thick like a white veil, hiding broken rooftops and the bare trees left after the war. The road leading to the school was muddy, scattered with old wheel tracks. Zi Du pushed open the wooden door; it creaked across the quiet courtyard. The school now had only three small classes, each with a few children. The desks were patched together, the blackboards blotchy, yet the sound of reading echoed steadily in the morning light. “Teacher, which passage should I read today?” Zi Du smiled, his voice soft as the wind: “The last page — where the sun rises.” The children bowed their heads and read; their voices mingled with the wind through the window. Every time he looked at them, Zi Du remembered what Dian Lei had once asked: “If the war ends, will you teach again?” He had answered, “If there’s anyone left to listen.” And now, amidst cracked walls and leaking roofs, he was still teaching — to small souls who did not yet know fear, who had not yet learned memory.