Signs

In the early hours before dawn, Bi Qingtang went to his daughter's bedroom. In her sleep, Yantan was mischievous; her small, lotus-root-white legs had slipped out from under the blanket. He gently covered her again and, upon returning to his own room, heard the chime of the clock downstairs—just once, echoing through the empty mansion at midnight, leaving it feeling hollow and desolate. Leaning against his bed, Bi Qingtang picked up the newspaper he had yet to finish reading, poring over every word, not even skipping the small notices and obituaries tucked in the margins. The black, cold night felt less unbearable only because he was waiting—for someone’s return, for reunion, for hope.

His neck had grown stiff from reading, so Bi Qingtang stretched a little, then raised his wrist to check the time—it was nearly two o’clock. Anxiousness flooded his heart. He threw off the covers and strode to the top of the stairs, mentally dialing a number he had prepared. The hospital’s front desk on the first floor did not answer; the long, monotonous dial tone repeated again and again in the silence of the mansion.

Frowning, he slowly set down the receiver. After pacing a moment, he leaned halfway over the staircase and called downstairs, “Get the car ready. We’re going to the hospital.”

The car stopped in front of Baolong Hospital. As soon as it pulled up, the driver who had brought Tan Yang hurried to Bi Qingtang’s car. “Sir, you’re here?” Bi Qingtang straightened his suit collar nonchalantly. “I came to check in. It’s so late, and my wife still hasn’t come home. Our daughter is making quite a fuss at home.” The driver nodded. “I wanted to check on Mrs. Tan too, but was afraid to interrupt her work. She gets upset if anyone disturbs her during treatment or surgery.” Bi Qingtang nodded slightly, grabbing the car door handle, meaning to get out, but hesitated. “Wait a little longer.” He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. A quarter of an hour later, he opened them and said to the attendant in the front seat, “Go up and have a look.”

It wasn’t long before Bi Qingtang saw his attendant stumble out of the hospital, panic-stricken. His mind went blank; a cloud of misfortune had suddenly, without warning, descended upon him. He could not move.

Such is life. Good fortune demands painstaking effort and planning, and is seldom lasting, hard to sustain; misfortune, on the other hand, always arrives when least expected, one after another, giving you no chance to escape, to move, or to rid yourself of it.

Bi Qingtang could not recall how he made it upstairs. He only saw the door and windows of the “Mrs. Bi’s Clinic” wide open, the wind sweeping in and through the room. The ceiling lamp, covered with a shade, swayed in the draft, casting flickering, cold light. The room was empty.

Bi Qingtang walked to Tan Yang’s desk, crouched down, and picked up a heavy iron rod sticking out from the corner. His heart clenched, breath catching. The rod slipped from his weakened grasp, clanging to the floor. He slumped against the desk, only to see Tan Yang’s trench coat hanging from the coat rack in the corner, trembling helplessly in the wind...

Bi Qingtang, the driver, and the attendant scoured every floor of the building. Half an hour later, dozens of his men arrived. At dawn, when the sky was just barely light, the police chief arrived with his team. The streets around Baolong Hospital were cordoned off, roads blocked. Hundreds of policemen in black uniforms began searching the hospital, room by room, door by door, but found nothing.

By midmorning, as the sun climbed higher, Bi Qingtang paced restlessly in the hospital courtyard, his steps gradually losing their initial panic and confusion. The police chief, hesitant, approached him, about to speak, but Bi Qingtang turned and said, “You haven’t found her yet, have you?” The chief nodded awkwardly. Bi Qingtang let out a faint sigh. “That’s good. Not finding her nearby means she was taken somewhere else.” He paused, “She’s still alive.” The chief quickly agreed, “Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right.”

Bi Qingtang gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh. “How could I not understand? This business of murder and plunder—my father did it, and I’ve done it for decades. Never thought it would come around to me one day!” Then, gritting his teeth, he spat, “Damn it, this is retribution!” His eyes reddened. The chief, seeing his agitation, didn’t know what to say or how to excuse himself, so he simply stood by in silence. At this moment, the Bi Qingtang in his eyes was neither the formidable tycoon of Shanghai nor the powerful crime lord, but merely a man, filled with fear and utterly alone.

The chief looked up at the hospital’s perimeter wall. Sparrows chirped on the eaves. Clearing his throat, he said, “Mr. Bi, we must consider our next move. In chaos, respond with calm.” Bi Qingtang rigidly sat down. “That’s enough. Don’t search any further. My wife is in their hands; don’t startle the snake in the grass. I’ll handle it. I’ll spread the word: if it’s money they want, let them name their price; if it’s revenge, let them come for me.” With that, he bowed his head in deep grief, unable to utter another word. The chief nodded slowly, then turned and slipped away.

An hour later, Bi Qingtang sat in the car parked outside Baolong Hospital, gripping tightly the indigo trench coat Tan Yang had left behind in her office.

As soon as he stepped through the door of the Bi residence, he heard his daughter, hoarse from crying, calling for her parents. He tossed Tan Yang’s coat over the back of the sofa and hurried to scoop his daughter into his arms, comforting her. Staring blankly at his wife’s garment, Bi Qingtang thought bitterly that he no longer wished for life to be better than it was—he merely hoped for things to remain unchanged. He no longer asked for much; was this modest wish too much for fate to grant?

At dusk, crimson light slanted through the ventilation shaft above the warehouse, illuminating Tan Yang’s face. Not far off, the low blare of a ship’s horn as it docked roused her from her stupor. The back of her head throbbed with pain; her eyes were covered, leaving her blind. The air smelled damp. Tan Yang struggled against her bonds, her hands feeling the cold, wet ground beneath her. Her mouth was gagged, so she could not call out. At that moment, a hoarse, elderly voice spoke nearby.

“So, you’re awake? I advise you to behave yourself. Otherwise, that’s the dock outside—tie a stone to you and toss you in, and that’s the end of it. Sooner or later, dead’s dead, but at least a family can go together. Wandering ghosts with no one, like me—what’s the point?” The voice was utterly lifeless, as if speaking from another world, sending chills down the spine. Its accent was strange—a Cantonese lilt mixed with a Shandong drawl.

The implication in that voice wrenched Tan Yang back from fear. Life and death aside, her deepest worry was for those dearest to her—her husband and her daughter.

Day after day, Bi Qingtang kept vigil by the telephone, but not a word came. He knew well enough it was the villains’ stalling tactic, meant to break his spirit and throw him off balance. He knew, yet he still lost his composure. Red-eyed, irritable, he even scared his own daughter away. In the endless, sleepless nights, old Uncle Chen would drape a coat over his shoulders, and Bi Qingtang would clutch the old man’s withered arm, trembling, “Uncle, I’m scared—I’m so scared!” Uncle Chen could only sigh, as if time had turned back and the same hand clinging to him was that of the foolish young master from thirty years ago.

Tan Yang’s head wound did not heal. Each day, she was fed only half a bowl of sour rice gruel, and she drifted between sleep and waking, the cold ground leaching chill through her bones. Yet in her dreams, her eldest brother would always come through the door to rescue her, to take her home to their warm family.

When she heard the distant sound of a padlock being opened, then the clatter of chains, she knew someone was approaching. The person entered slowly, locked the door from the inside, then sat down to eat, the air filling with the smell of food and cheap liquor. He was in uncommonly good spirits that day; after several bowls of wine, he began to hum, his accent an odd jumble, and finally broke into Beijing opera. When he finished, he slapped the table and declaimed, “At last, I have my revenge! You, wretch, give me your life!”

After a moment’s quiet, he tossed a newspaper next to Tan Yang, sneering, “Such a lavish reward for a missing person—your scum husband really does care about you. Must be the daughter of some high and mighty official; he can’t afford to offend your family. Looks like I’ve made the right bet!” As he spoke, he strode over, grabbed Tan Yang’s jade earring, and yanked it free, tearing flesh with it. Tan Yang convulsed in agony, a primal scream rising in her throat but muffled by the gag, the sound chilling to the bone. The man seemed exhilarated by this, mumbling and laughing to himself.

But by then, Tan Yang had fainted from pain and terror, unable to hear his words or piece together his ramblings...

That morning, a servant at the Bi residence found an anonymous letter in the newspaper. The letter was handed to Bi Qingtang, who tore open the envelope in a panic. A jade earring slipped out, landing on the tea table, its green stone stained with dried blood. Bi Qingtang stared at it, gasping for breath. With shaking hands, he opened the letter, grinding his teeth in anger, “I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll kill him!”

It was only a single sheet, barely a hundred words, yet Bi Qingtang stared at it for a full quarter of an hour. Uncle Chen, anxious, hurriedly asked, “Well, sir? What does it say?” The paper slipped from Bi Qingtang’s hand, drifting to the carpet as he collapsed against the sofa in despair, “It’s him—how could it be him?”

Uncle Chen picked up the letter, glanced at it, and his face drained of color. Looking at Bi Qingtang with a mixture of helplessness and sorrow, his eyes grew unfocused, as if lost in distant memories. He murmured softly, “Such a sin...”

Bi Qingtang gave a bitter laugh, pointing at the letter. “Is that his handwriting?” Uncle Chen nodded. “What do we do? He wants our whole family dead!” Uncle Chen slowly crouched beside the sofa, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Don’t go. Pretend you never received this letter. Whether you go or not, whether the young mistress lives or dies, she won’t come back with you.” Hearing this, Bi Qingtang shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. “No. I’d rather all three of us die together than let her find out!” He suddenly turned and shouted upstairs, “Someone! Where is the young miss? Bring her to me!”

Author’s Note:
This afternoon, I was surprised and a bit embarrassed to find the novel featured on the official recommendation list. Before the New Year, with fewer patients at the hospital, I finally have time to breathe. After being away for two months, I intended to update the story, but then my supervisor assigned me to learn post-processing techniques, and the extra shifts meant working full days, living at the hospital. Honestly, I did consider giving up, since my energy, ability, and intellect are all limited. Life is about choices. I still want to be a skilled and upright doctor, and, to be frank, my writing is really quite obscure.

Just as I was feeling discouraged, forging ahead on the path of medicine, my story unexpectedly made it onto the official list I never dared hope for. It’s a huge encouragement. I can’t make too many promises, since my work schedule isn’t my own, but I’ll try to update during the New Year holidays.

I’m deeply grateful for the unwavering support of my readers. I have nothing to offer in return but slow, snail-paced updates. Or perhaps I’m just that diligent little doctor in your city with no weekends, no overtime pay, no complaints, working hard for your health. O(n_n)O~

The Tale of Jade and Ebony 4745_The Tale of Jade and Ebony Full Free Reading_47 (45) Clues—Update complete!