Flowers of the Departed Souls - Chapter 1

Legend has it that a person, right before dying, will always encounter a man in black; he’s young and handsome, with a high forehead, thin lips, and melancholic, serene eyes. When you become infected by his sorrow, when you feel your heart aching, you suddenly find your chest empty, your heart in his hand, and you instantly collapse.

But this is just a legend, a legend of Luoyang Village.

This was the first time Chi Ziming heard this story since arriving in Luoyang Village. As he sat blankly on the seawall, watching the surging tide, a voice sounded behind him.

He turned his head and saw an elderly man of about sixty standing behind him, his hair white, his back slightly hunched. His brow, due to long-term furrowing, had several deep furrows, as if his entire life had been burdened by endless sorrow.

He flicked his pipe, took a deep puff, and gazed out at the sea, looking far away, as if trying to see through to the end of the ocean. After a long, long time, he slowly said to Chi Ziming, “You know, everyone who has seen him will die.”

A chill rose in Chi Ziming’s heart, or perhaps it was related to the erratic, cold-then-warm weather. That’s what he thought.

“No way, old man. If everyone who saw him died, how would others know what he looks like?”

“I told you, it’s just a legend, nothing to worry about.” He emphasized the word “legend” again, as if these two words carried a deeper weight than the story itself. He gave Chi Ziming a deep look, and his lips stretched broadly towards his ears; he actually smiled.

This smile suddenly gave Chi Ziming the feeling of a hysteric in a mad fit. He stared blankly at the old man, who then picked up some firewood from the path and shuffled towards the village. Only then did he realize the old man’s foot was slightly lame. His hunched body swayed as he walked, seemingly with difficulty, like a dying camel, disappearing into the profound darkness of the night.

At this point, Chi Ziming realized that night had already fallen, blackness gradually covering everything. He had been sitting there for the entire afternoon, watching the sea reflect the blue sky, then turn a brilliant red, and finally become inky black. It turned out that everything ultimately becomes black. Black, it turns out, is the ultimate background color of life.

Chi Ziming sighed, moved closer to the sea, and lay flat on the sand, gazing at the sky for a long time. Strangely, there wasn’t a single star in the sky, nor a moon. It was a deep, deep black, with only the wind blowing silently, like an empty tomb. At that moment, Chi Ziming truly felt as if he were lying in a tomb.

He fumbled in his pocket for a small bottle of pills and a photograph. The photo showed a woman with hair like seaweed, her smile like a blooming flower. The wind blew her hair, letting it fly everywhere, like a black net, trapping Chi Ziming in its center.

He gently stroked the woman’s face in the photograph, his eyes filled with infinite love, pity, and grief. After a very long time, he dug a small pit nearby, placed the photo inside, and then poured out the pills from the bottle. He counted them: eight pills. When he fell asleep, the surging sea would swallow him whole. Eight pills, that was enough. That’s what he thought.

At this moment, everything was peaceful. Luoyang Village, this remote seaside hamlet, had already fallen into deep slumber. Besides the sound of the wind and the sea, there were only scattered, faint lights. However, in the air at this moment, there seemed to be the fragrance of roses.

In Chi Ziming’s gradually blurring consciousness, he actually smelled the scent of roses. Was this an illusion? He remembered a certain novel by Márquez, also about a seaside town, also related to death. There, the soil, infused with saltpeter, couldn’t grow flowers, and the scent of roses was the call of God. Only those about to die could smell this fragrance. It would carry their souls to the bottom of the sea, where there was a small town full of white houses, each with millions of flowers on its balcony. So beautiful.

Chi Ziming was immersed in this imagination, but then, his mother’s face suddenly appeared in his mind. His mother, usually so patient and stoic, now had a heartbroken face, her old tears streaming down, grieving his death. Yes, he seemed to see his own limbs stiff and rigid, lying there unmoving, and his mother’s hysterical, desperate expression. No, he couldn’t die. He struggled, shaking his head desperately. At this moment, the icy seawater had already crept up his feet, his calves, his thighs…

The bone-chilling cold instantly sobered him. He abruptly sat up. The tide, like quicksand, receded from his kneecaps. He saw a man dressed in black slowly walking towards him. He walked up to Chi Ziming, stopped, but turned his face towards the sea, as if muttering, “Winter seems to be almost over…”

Chi Ziming looked at him in confusion. “Who are you? Are you talking to me?”

The man in black didn’t reply for a moment. After a very long time, he turned his head. It was a handsome face with distinct features. “But your winter hasn’t passed.”

“Who exactly are you? What do you mean?”

“Everyone who comes to Luoyang Village should have heard the legend about me.”

Chi Ziming’s eyes widened. At this moment, the man in black’s features suddenly contorted, as if he was desperately squeezing something off his face. He slowly tore off that handsome skin, revealing a severely burned face, every inch of skin rotting, with green maggots writhing on it.

“I am… that… God of Death…”

At this moment, Chi Ziming stared in horror at his chest. A blood-red flower had bloomed there, but it was empty inside. And in the hand of the man in black was a bloody, mangled mass, slowly walking away. He thought, this is it, he’s dead.

If not for the knock on the door, Chi Ziming would have remained in the nightmare. After a while, as he fully woke up, he realized he was in the only inn in Luoyang Village, and he was still alive. He had returned to the inn after that old man appeared. He had originally intended to write a letter, a suicide note, but the continuous journey and fatigue had caused him to fall asleep in the chair, leading to this strange and terrifying dream.

He put the pills and the photo from the table, along with the letter paper, into the drawer, then went to open the door. It was the female attendant, Luo Xiaofeng, holding a blanket. “It gets quite cold here at night, so I brought you an extra blanket. Also, it’s best not to go out after eleven at night. There aren’t many guests this season, so tomorrow I can take you around. That’s all.”

Chi Ziming took the blanket and thanked her. “Wait a moment, I wanted to ask, this village seems to have many mysterious legends, right?”

Luo Xiaofeng looked at him doubtfully but didn’t reply.

“It’s like this, I’m a writer, and I particularly love writing strange tales and anecdotes. But I’ve never written anything successful in my life, and I’m very interested in some of these legends. Anything you know, I hope you can tell me. Oh, and that God of Death—”

Luo Xiaofeng’s eyes suddenly turned very cold. “There are no stories. Don’t expect any.” She turned and left, while Chi Ziming stood blankly at the door. That feeling of sadness surged over him again like a tide.

He closed the door, opened the drawer, sat blankly for a long time, and slowly took out the bottle of pills.