Red

Old Chen was the last person in town who still made funeral garments by hand. His shop sat at the mouth of an alley directly across from the crematorium. No sign hung above the door, just a faded blue-gray tunic that had weathered years of sun and wind. Locals called the place "Old Chen's." Strangers asking for directions would be told: keep walking till you see the blue jacket.

The shop was small. A cutting table just past the door, bolts of fabric lining the walls—most of them plain, muted colors. Only one bolt of dark red silk sat wrapped in white cloth on the highest shelf. Old Chen had bought it three years ago. Bought it just once.

On the first day of every lunar month, at three in the afternoon, the woman pushed open the door.

The doorbell was a string of brass bells. Their chime was crisp. She tilted her head slightly every time she entered, as if careful not to brush against them. She was not tall enough to touch them anyway.

She wore a dark red Chinese tunic with knotted buttons, the fabric soft and silent when she moved. Her hair was always pulled tight, not a stray strand at the temples. She never spoke. She walked straight to the rattan chair by the window and sat down, legs together, hands resting on her knees.

The first time Old Chen saw her, he had asked, "What can I do for you?" She gave no answer. He never asked again.

From then on, he would boil a kettle of water before she arrived on the first of each month. Once she sat, he poured her a cup and set it on the side table beside the rattan chair. She accepted it with both hands, cupping it. Never drank. For the full hour she sat like that, holding the cup, looking out the window. There was nothing much to see out there—just the crematorium wall.

When the hour was up, she returned the cup to the table, rose, pushed open the door. The brass bells chimed once. The water in the cup had never gone down.

Sometimes Old Chen was cutting fabric. Sometimes he paged through old ledgers. She did not disturb him. He did not disturb her.

This went on for three years.

The first year, Old Chen would wonder now and then whether the woman was waiting for a person—or for death. Eventually he stopped wondering. Days passed. Needle and thread kept moving.

The fourth year, on the first day of the first lunar month, at three in the afternoon, the water in the kettle boiled. The woman did not come.

Old Chen poured the water anyway, and set it beside the rattan chair. When it went cold, he drank it himself and put the cup away. No particular emotion. He just felt he had boiled too much water.

On the first day of the second month, he poured the water again. No one came.

On the first day of the third month, he did not boil the water.

Late April. Old Li from the crematorium next door dropped by for a chat. He sat in the rattan chair and lit a cigarette. After a while, Li mentioned that a woman had been cremated the month before.

"Early thirties. Breast cancer. The family sent her off in a red funeral gown." Li tapped ash from his cigarette. "Twenty years in this business. First time I ever saw someone go in red. That garment—you could tell it was proper handiwork. The stitching, the seams—same school as yours."

Old Chen was fastening buttons onto a funeral gown. His hands did not stop.

"What was her surname?"

"Qiao. Qiao something. Qiao Hui."

Old Chen said nothing. Li finished his cigarette and left.

He set down his needle and thread. Dragged over a stool. Climbed up and pulled the bolt of dark red silk from the top shelf. He unwrapped the white cloth. The silk was still there—but a length had been cut from it. He had cut it himself, three years ago. Just enough for one tunic with knotted buttons.

He moved aside the cutting table and opened the old cabinet underneath. Dug to the bottom. The ledger from three years ago. The pages had yellowed.

April 12. Surname Qiao. Dark red silk. Knotted buttons. Women's style. Measurements: shoulder width 38, garment length 72, sleeve length 56.

In the notes column, a small line of handwriting: Ordered by the patient in person. Paid in full.

Not ordered by a man.

Ordered by her, herself.

Old Chen closed the ledger. He sat there a long time. The water in the kettle had long gone cold.

On the first days that followed, he began boiling water again. Not a full kettle. Just enough for one cup. He set it beside the rattan chair. When it went cold, he drank it.

Days passed.

The blue tunic hanging at the door of the shop had faded one shade more.