Chapter 328: The Second Well

At the end of the letter was a thin sheet of paper with a single address:

“Yongji Grain Depot, rear courtyard, old delivery room.”

Song Qinghe placed the two letters together and held them up to the green lamp. Sure enough, there was another layer of faint ink on the back of the paper. It had been hidden beneath the envelope, but now a date emerged, from more than twenty years ago.

White Reed stared at the line for a long time without speaking.

“Shen Lanzhi adopted us,” she said softly. “She didn’t know our original names, and she may not have known who our birth mother was.”

“But she knew that some people would use blood ties to force us to acknowledge a claim,” Lu Yuan said. “That’s why she left that sentence in the letter.”

Wang Cheng’an carefully put away the envelope, the wooden horse, and the Herb Shop copper coin separately.

“The letter makes it clear that Shen Lanzhi was Shen Bonian’s younger sister, and later changed her name to Gu Lanzhi. If she ever worked in the rear courtyard of Yongji Grain Depot, the depot may still have records from her early years.”

“Let’s check the depot first,” Zhou Heng said. “Then the delivery room.”

The hundred ledgers in the ancestral hall had been closed, and they had separated the words “Shared Name of the Gu Family Mothers,” which had been crammed together on the spirit tablets. When they left the hall, all the portraits lining the corridor had lost their features, leaving only their separate outlines.

Outside the ancestral hall, the snow had stopped.

The streets of White River Town were still deserted. The name-shadows beneath the lamps no longer followed them. The old man’s shadow at the Herb Shop entrance had dispersed, leaving only the chipped medicine bowl sitting quietly on the threshold.

They followed North Street to its end, went around a low stone wall, and sure enough, found an old courtyard.

A rotting plaque hung above the gate. Most of the characters had been washed away by rain, leaving only “Yongji” legible. The gate was unlocked, and a knotted red cord was tied to its ring.

Lu Yuan reached out and touched it. The cord immediately snapped.

A baby cried out from inside the courtyard.

Everyone stopped at once.

The cry was faint, as if it came from beyond several walls, yet it was so clear that it seemed to be right behind the gate. Song Qinghe shone her lamp inside. A narrow passage led to the rear courtyard, with blackened wooden crates piled beneath it. Damp old paper clung to the corners of the crates.

“Is there someone in the courtyard?” Xu Erxiao asked in a low voice.

Zhou Heng drew his sword a few inches and stepped through the gate first.

“If there’s someone, we’ll ask. If there’s something, we’ll examine it.”

They had just passed the first room when the baby’s cry stopped.

In a corner of the rear courtyard stood a row of brick buildings. A wooden tablet was nailed to the last door, its face marked “Delivery Room.” Beneath it were traces of another old tablet, as if someone had removed it earlier.

Wang Cheng’an took out a sheet of rubbing paper and laid it over the marks beside the door.

“Old delivery room of the Shen residence, later borrowed by Yongji Grain Depot.”

He felt around farther down, and his fingertip touched a shallow groove.

“There are names, too.”

Ink slowly surfaced on the paper:

“Midwife: Granny Sang.”

“Mother: unrecorded.”

“Two infants, carried off separately.”

“Later entrusted to Shen Lanzhi.”

The final line had been scraped with a sharp tool, leaving only a few blurred strokes.

White Reed stared at the words “two infants,” her voice tight.

“Is this talking about us?”

“It’s possible,” Wang Cheng’an said. “But we haven’t found the dates yet, so we can’t be sure.”

“There are footsteps behind the door,” Zhou Heng said.

A wooden board creaked inside the room.

Lu Yuan did not push the door open. Instead, he asked, “Who’s in there?”

There was no answer.

He asked again, “Granny Sang?”

An old woman’s voice came from behind the door.

“You’ve finally come.”

The door slowly opened a crack.

The old woman wore a gray padded jacket and had white hair. She leaned on a bamboo cane. Fine wrinkles covered her face. A cloudy film obscured her left eye, while her right eye was startlingly clear.

She stood just inside the threshold, with no shadow at her feet.

“Are you Granny Sang?” Wang Cheng’an asked.

“Someone used to call me that.”

“And now?”

“Now nobody calls me anything.”

Her gaze settled on White Reed and Lu Yuan.

“You two have the same birth mother.”

The wind in the courtyard suddenly died.

Xu Erxiao tightened his grip on the iron shovel.

“You say so, and we’re supposed to believe you?”

“I delivered you both.”

“How do you know who they are?”

“One had a red cord tied around her wrist, and the other had a wooden horse by his hand. The cord was knotted backward, and the words ‘Little Yuan’ were carved into the horse’s belly.”

The old woman spoke slowly, each word as if dredged from an old memory.

White Reed did not move closer.

“You say you delivered us. Prove first that you’re still alive.”

Granny Sang raised her eyes, seemingly unprepared for the question.

Lu Yuan said, “You have no footprints and no shadow. We can’t assume you’re alive just because you recognized two old objects.”

“How do you want me to prove it?”

“You tell us.”

The old woman lowered her eyes and looked at the ground by her feet.

“The snow is too deep. Footprints won’t last.”

“The snow in the courtyard is only ankle-deep,” Xu Erxiao said. “We left prints all the way here.”

Granny Sang did not argue. She merely held out her hand through the doorway.

“Touch my hand.”

Lu Yuan did not move.

Song Qinghe took out a thin cord, tied one end to an old wooden stake beside the courtyard gate, and handed the other end to the old woman.

“If you’re alive, hold it.”

Granny Sang took the cord.

It pulled taut.

Lin Zhaoxuan scattered a ring of ink powder beside her. The snow at the old woman’s feet remained pristine, without a single fresh mark. Yet a shallow depression appeared at the edge of the powder, as though something heavy were pressing down on the ground.

“There’s weight, but no footprints,” Lin Zhaoxuan said. “That still isn’t enough to prove she’s alive.”

Granny Sang suddenly smiled.

She handed her bamboo cane to White Reed, then held out her palm and scratched it with a fingernail.

A thin split opened in her skin. A red bead of blood slowly seeped out and dripped onto the snow.

White Reed reached out to test it. The blood felt warm against her fingertip.

Granny Sang had a pulse in her wrist, too.

Song Qinghe shone the green lamp on the wound. It did not disperse into smoke, and the drop of blood stained the snow a faint red.

Xu Erxiao still wasn’t convinced.

“Maybe you’re just something that can bleed.”

“Then you can keep testing me, if you want,” Granny Sang said. “I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m only asking you not to write the truth down as a lie.”

Wang Cheng’an took out paper and a brush.

“Let’s get this straight first. What’s your basis for saying they had the same birth mother?”

“I delivered the same woman twice.”

The old woman lifted her head.

“The first time, she gave birth to a girl and left immediately afterward. Some years later, she came back and gave birth to a boy. She refused to leave her name. She only said that if both children survived, they mustn’t be entered in the same ledger.”

“Do you remember her face?” Lu Yuan asked.

“I do.”

“Do you know who she was?”

Granny Sang looked at White Reed.

“Your mother.”

White Reed’s fingers turned slightly cold.

“What was her name?”

“I don’t know.”

“You say she was our mother, but you don’t know her name?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“What proof do you have?”

“There was a scar behind her left ear and a mole on the inside of her wrist. Whenever she spoke, she always looked at the window first, then the door. She was afraid someone would come in.”

Lu Yuan stared at the old woman’s face.

“Did my mother have any other identifying marks?”

Granny Sang did not answer right away.

“Whenever she came into the room, she carried a copper bell. It rang three times, paused, then rang twice. She said it was to let the children know she was still there.”

The red cord around White Reed’s wrist trembled faintly.

The plum-blossom lock in Lu Yuan’s palm also warmed for a moment.

“Three times, then twice,” White Reed said. “I heard that rhythm on the boat.”

“Who rang it?” Zhou Heng asked.

“I don’t know. Back then, I thought it was the side of the boat creaking.”

Granny Sang continued, “The second time she gave birth, someone was chasing her outside. She entrusted the boy to Shen Lanzhi and the girl to Shen Bonian. She told them that if anyone asked, they should say the children didn’t have the same mother.”

“Why would she say that?”

“She was afraid they’d be taken away together.”

“Did Shen Lanzhi know she was the birth mother of both children?” Lu Yuan asked.

The old woman shook her head.

“Shen Lanzhi only knew that the woman had come to ask her to take in a child. She didn’t know it was the same woman.”

“How do you know Shen Lanzhi didn’t know?”

“Because she asked me at the time whether their blood ties could be checked. I told her they couldn’t. I deliver babies. I don’t decide who’s related to whom.”

Wang Cheng’an began taking notes, but stopped when he reached the words “the same woman.”

“You said she came back twice. But the old record says, ‘Two infants, carried off separately.’ That sounds more like one delivery.”

“I didn’t write that line.”

“Who did?”

“Someone at the depot.”

“Do you remember the dates of the two deliveries?”

Granny Sang closed her eyes briefly.

“One was in late autumn, the other in early spring.”

“How many years apart?”

“I can’t remember.”

“What were the children’s sexes?”

“The first was a girl, the second a boy.”

White Reed and Lu Yuan exchanged a glance.

“Was I the girl?” White Reed asked.

“I can’t say.”

“Was Lu Yuan the boy?”

“I can’t say.”

“Then why were you so sure we had the same birth mother?”

Granny Sang gripped her bamboo cane, her knuckles turning white.

“Because I recognize that woman.”

“But recognizing her doesn’t prove she was our birth mother,” White Reed said.

The old woman fell silent for a long time.

“That’s true.”

“Recognizing her doesn’t mean you recognize us.”

“That’s true.”

“Remembering that she gave birth to two children doesn’t mean those two children were us.”

“That’s true.”

White Reed’s voice gradually steadied.

“Then why did you bring us to the delivery room?”

“To show you something.”

Granny Sang turned and went inside.

There was no bed in the room, only a narrow wooden couch and an old copper basin beside it. The window paper was torn in several places, and traces of smoke still stained the wall.

Lu Yuan did not follow her in.

“Tell us what it is first.”

Granny Sang stopped inside the doorway.

“The copper bell she left behind.”

“Where is it?”

The old woman pointed beneath the wooden couch.

Xu Erxiao gently lifted the couch boards with the handle of his iron shovel. A cloth bundle was hidden underneath. The cloth had grown brittle. Inside lay a copper bell with half its body missing, though its clapper remained.

Lu Yuan took out the plum-blossom lock and gently touched it to the bell.

The bell rang.

Three times.

A pause.

Then twice.

White Reed’s eyes reddened at once.

She had heard that sound before.

Not on the boat, and not in a dream, but in a memory so brief it almost seemed nonexistent. Someone had held her and whispered in her ear:

“When you hear the bell, don’t be afraid.”

Her fingers instinctively moved behind her left ear.

There was a very faint old scar there.

Lu Yuan also raised his hand and felt behind his left ear. He had the same nearly invisible mark.

White Reed did not speak right away.

Wang Cheng’an separately recorded the copper bell, the wooden couch, and Granny Sang’s testimony. At the end, he wrote:

“The claim that there was one birth mother is supported by the midwife’s testimony and the bell as physical evidence. The mother’s identity is unknown, and the correspondence between the two children and the two deliveries is unproven.”

He stamped it “Pending Verification.”

A bell tolled from the direction of the ancestral hall.

The copper bell trembled faintly in response.

Granny Sang’s face changed drastically.

“You can’t let the bell toll again.”

“Why?” Zhou Heng asked.

“When the ancestral hall’s kinship register hears the bell, it will combine the two deliveries into one, then assign all the children to a single mother.”

She rushed to the door, panic appearing on her face for the first time.

“You must go to the grain depot’s cellar. The original delivery register is there. It has the dates, and another name as well.”

“Whose name?”

“I don’t know.”

With that, she headed toward the rear courtyard.

Lu Yuan did not follow her.

There were still no footprints behind the old woman. Yet the drop of blood from earlier remained beside the threshold, vivid and startling.

“Granny Sang,” he said. “You still haven’t proved who you are.”

She stopped.

“My name is Sang Suqin.”

“You’re the one who said that name,” Wang Cheng’an said. “Do you have physical evidence?”

The old woman turned and pointed at her bamboo cane.

The shaft had been polished smooth with age. At the bottom, a line of small characters was carved into it:

“Sang Suqin, midwife of Orchid Branch Ward, Year Two of the Republic.”

Lin Zhaoxuan covered the inscription with ink powder and confirmed that the grooves were very old. The cracks at the end also continued naturally from the carved characters.

Wang Cheng’an added this evidence to the ledger.

“You’ve proved that you were once called Sang Suqin and that you once worked as a midwife in Orchid Branch Ward.”

He looked up at her.

“You haven’t proved that you’re still alive.”

Sang Suqin nodded.

“I know.”

She held out her hand, the blood on her palm still wet.

“Then let me take you to the cellar. If I can open the door, bring out the delivery register, and be recorded by you, at least that proves I’m not a shadow cobbled together from a lamp.”

“As for whether I’m alive, you can investigate that at your own pace.”

Her answer left everyone silent for a moment.

White Reed put the copper bell away.

“We’ll go with you.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll deceive you?”

“I am,” White Reed said. “But until we have enough evidence, fear can’t make the decision for us.”

The entrance to the grain depot’s cellar was beside the well in the rear courtyard.

A thick stone slab sealed the mouth of the well. A circle of old Gu family seals had been carved into it. A fresh knife mark ran through the center of the seal, as if someone had once tried to split it open.

Sang Suqin did not touch the slab. She only laid her bamboo cane across the edge of the well.

“There are three locks beneath the slab. The first recognizes the grain depot’s accounts, the second the midwife’s hands, and the third the children’s own names.”

“We don’t have our original names,” Lu Yuan said.

“So the third lock can’t be opened.”

“Then why say you can take us there?”

“I didn’t say I could open it.”

Sang Suqin took a thin sheet of paper from her sleeve.

It showed a drawing of a copper bell, with a line written beside it:

“If you don’t know the children’s old names, first ask what they’re willing to keep.”

White Reed looked at the sentence and took out her name tablet.

“White Reed.”

Lu Yuan gripped the wooden horse.

“Lu Yuan.”

Two points of light appeared in the lines on the stone slab, but it did not open.

“It heard you, but it hasn’t agreed yet,” Sang Suqin said.

Wang Cheng’an crouched down to examine the edge of the slab.

“Their names have to be entered separately. We can’t write both names in the same column.”

He had White Reed place her wooden tablet on the left and Lu Yuan place his wooden horse on the right. The two old objects were neither connected nor pressed against each other.

A thin crack immediately appeared in the old Gu family seal on the stone slab.

The sound of paper rubbing against paper came from below the well.

A narrow old ledger slipped through the crack and fell onto the snow.

Water had soaked through its cover, and the writing had blurred. But the first page was still legible:

“Delivery Room Duty Register.”

The date was Year Two of the Republic.

It recorded two deliveries.

The first entry:

“Twenty-sixth day of the winter month. Female infant. Mother claimed to be Shen Lanzhi.”

The second entry:

“Fifth day of the third month the following year. Male infant. Mother left her name blank and entrusted the child to Shen Lanzhi.”

White Reed looked up sharply.

“Shen Lanzhi was the mother of the first child?”

Sang Suqin did not answer.

A folded slip of paper was tucked behind the ledger page. Lu Yuan unfolded it. There were only a few crooked characters inside:

“If she says she adopted the child, don’t expose her yet. Keeping the child alive matters more than keeping the accounts clean.”

It wasn’t signed by Shen Lanzhi.

It was signed “Sang Suqin.”

Wang Cheng’an stared at the two entries, his brows tightly furrowed.

“This only proves that one female infant’s mother claimed to be Shen Lanzhi, and that Shen Lanzhi took the other male infant away.”

“It still doesn’t prove the girl was White Reed or the boy was Lu Yuan,” Song Qinghe said.

“Nor does it prove that Shen Lanzhi wasn’t related by blood to the second child,” Lin Zhaoxuan added. “The register doesn’t say.”

White Reed gripped the slip of paper, her fingertips turning white.

“Granny Sang, you just said we had the same birth mother.”

Sang Suqin stood by the well, her face pale in the snowy light.

“The woman I delivered was the same.”

“But this register has two different names.”

“Shen Lanzhi was the name she used in public at the time.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”

“Because I don’t know which name was real, either.”

“Then what makes you say it was the same person?”

Sang Suqin lowered her eyes.

“There was a scar behind her left ear and a mole on the inside of her wrist. It was the same both times. She looked at the window before the door when she spoke. That was the same both times, too.”

White Reed instinctively touched behind her left ear.

Lu Yuan looked at her.

Neither of them said anything.

A second bell tolled suddenly from beneath the well.

The ink on the delivery register began to blur.

“Put it away, quickly!” Wang Cheng’an shouted.

Song Qinghe shone the green lamp on it, and the ink stopped blurring, barely. White Reed put the delivery register into an oilcloth bag, while Lu Yuan stored the slip of paper separately.

Before the third toll had finished, the well bottom filled with the voices of many children.

“Mother.”

“Don’t write me down.”

“Don’t put us together.”

The cracks in the stone slab widened rapidly. A line of black characters surfaced within the old Gu family seal:

“Same birth mother. Children belong to their kin.”

Wang Cheng’an pressed down a seal.

“Insufficient evidence. Classification denied!”

The cinnabar seal landed on the black characters, but a force from below the well slowly pushed it up.

Sang Suqin suddenly thrust her bamboo cane into the crack in the stone slab.

The wound in her palm split open again. Blood ran down the cane and seeped into the crack.

“Granny Sang!” White Reed shouted.

“Hold down the well cover!”

Xu Erxiao and Zhou Heng rushed forward at the same time, bracing the stone slab with the iron shovel and their sword scabbard. Lin Zhaoxuan’s ink line wound around the well, while Song Qinghe held her lamp over the crack. Lu Yuan pressed the plum-blossom lock against the center of the old seal, and White Reed placed her wooden tablet on the opposite side.

The voices beneath the well continued calling.

“Mother.”

“Seven-niang.”

“Little Yuan.”

White Reed closed her eyes and spoke firmly.

“We hear you.”

“But we don’t acknowledge it yet.”

The black characters abruptly stopped.

Lu Yuan followed:

“When we have evidence, we’ll come back and answer.”

The well finally fell silent.

The stone slab did not close completely, but it stopped breaking apart. Sang Suqin pulled out her bamboo cane and swayed. When White Reed steadied her, she felt the cold skin beneath the woman’s sleeve.

She still had a pulse.

Faint, but real.

“There’s another original delivery register in the cellar,” Sang Suqin said quietly.

“Where?”

“Beneath the second well at the old delivery room south of White River Town.”

“That isn’t the same well?”

“No.”

She looked toward the depths of the snowy fog.

“The register you have is a later copy.”

“The real one has the mothers’ fingerprints.”

Far away, the ancestral hall’s bell tolled a fourth time.

This time, the copper bell did not answer.

But Sang Suqin’s expression grew even grimmer.

“Someone has taken out the old delivery register.”

“Who?”

She looked toward South Street.

“The midwife with no footprints is no longer here.”

“She went to the second well.”

“And she’s carrying the name left behind by the real mother.”