The call came from a doctor at Shengjing Hospital. His voice was cold and mechanical. "Are you Zhang Dabao?"
When I confirmed, he said bluntly, "Your parents were in a car accident. They're at the hospital. Come and sign the paperwork immediately."
It felt like a bolt from the blue. I stood frozen, tears streaming down my face. It was during a class break. I called Grandpa right away, sobbing as I told him the news.
I sprinted to the hospital. By the time I arrived, Grandpa was already there. Watching the doctors wheel out my parents' bodies, I collapsed to my knees, wailing uncontrollably. Grandpa stood nearby, smoking and wiping away tears. I couldn't accept the reality, but the dead couldn't be brought back, and we had to follow the inevitable rituals.
On the day of the funeral, Grandpa presided over the ceremony without shedding a single tear. That night, while keeping vigil at the funeral home, he weaved two small willow figurines, rubbed them with incense ash, and mumbled words I couldn't understand. Then he wrapped the figurines in red cloth. In the middle of the night, I thought I heard faint crying. Though eerie, I felt no fear—they were my parents, and I secretly hoped to see their spirits, even if only for a moment. But I knew we were now separated by an unbridgeable gap.
The next day, my parents were cremated. According to tradition, their ashes should have stayed at home for the first seven days after death. Instead, Grandpa took me to Qipanshan Mountain. At the summit, he took the urn and scattered the ashes into the wind.
I was furious. Those were my parents' ashes—the only physical connection I had left! "Why did you do this? Aren't they your children too?" I cried, demanding an explanation.
Grandpa took a long drag from his pipe, his cloudy eyes distant, as if lost in memories. "You're just a kid. You wouldn't understand. Scattering the ashes is better for them," he finally said.
I tried to protest, but he silenced me with a tap of his pipe and told me to follow. Something about him seemed off. Ever since he made those willow figurines the previous night, I'd sensed that something was wrong, but I hadn't had a chance to ask.
After leaving Qipanshan, we took a bus toward No. 81 Middle School. In a neighborhood park, Grandpa searched for a while, then pointed at a mound of dirt. "Dig three chi and three cun deep."
"But I don't have a measuring tool. How do I know the exact depth?" I asked. He refused to explain, simply repeating his order. I ran to a hardware store, bought a small shovel, and started digging. An hour later, I froze: the pit's bottom was covered in white frost, and the soil glistened like a rainbow under the sunlight.
Before I could react, Grandpa told me to stop. He tapped his pipe, walked over, and gently placed the willow figurines in the pit. Then, he pulled out a needle from his pocket and carefully marked eyes, ears, a nose, and a mouth on each figurine. Instantly, they seemed to come alive, as if infused with a mysterious energy.
Once the pit was filled, Grandpa suddenly broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. His grief was contagious; we held each other and wept for over ten minutes. Wiping his eyes, he said, "Dabao, bow nine times to your parents. Then we'll leave."
His red-rimmed eyes told me he wasn't joking. I followed his instructions. When we finally got home, I couldn't hold back my questions any longer.
Grandpa took a deep drag of his cigarette, his eyes bloodshot. "I've spent my life reading feng shui, yet I couldn't save my own son. How pathetic," he muttered bitterly.
I stared at him, waiting for an explanation. Suddenly, he locked eyes with me, his gaze intense. "No matter what I tell you, don't breathe a word to anyone. Or you'll invite disaster." I nodded eagerly. The mysteries gnawed at me like ants crawling under my skin.
Only then did I learn the truth: those who die violent deaths don't enter the cycle of reincarnation. Their souls must endure suffering in the mortal world until their natural lifespan ends. But as yin and yang are separate realms, lingering in the mortal world subjects their souls to the torment of "yang fire." That's why Grandpa made the figurines—to bear the pain in my parents' place. The cremated ashes were merely empty shells, insignificant in the grand scheme. Besides, Qipanshan's majestic scenery concealed dragon qi (vital energy), ensuring prosperity for future generations.
As for the pit, Grandpa explained it was a feng shui treasure spot, second only to imperial tombs in Shenyang. However, since the "dragon eyes" of Beiling and Dongling had already been claimed by emperors, commoners had no chance of being buried there.
(A word of advice to those who try to secretly bury their parents in Beiling Park: each feng shui spot is meant for one tomb only. Disregarding this rule won't bring blessings—instead, it may invite misfortune and complications.)