Smoke and Embers

That city, like a steel behemoth, sprawled on the banks of a murky river, breathing out smoke, dust, and clamor. Deep within its belly, in a cramped, damp alley, huddled Old Ma and his grandson, Little Stone. The alley was a crease in the city, a corner where sunlight disdained to linger long. But for Old Ma, as long as Little Stone's laughter echoed there, it was the last remaining fragment of paradise.

Old Ma, an old man whose name was as common as his weather-beaten face. Wrinkles, carved by the merciless chisel of time, crisscrossed his features, chronicling poverty, toil, and a hope almost worn away. His son and daughter-in-law, like kites with broken strings, had vanished years ago into the chimneys of southern factories, leaving only Little Stone, this faint star, to illuminate his life, which flickered like a guttering candle. Little Stone, six years old, had eyes like two black obsidian pebbles soaked in water, sparkling with naive curiosity about the world. He was Old Ma's crutch, his heartbeat, the only warmth Old Ma could grasp in the cold reality. Grandfather and grandson survived by scavenging the city's refuse, their dilapidated tricycle their warhorse, creaking through the edges of prosperity. Life was hard, but when Little Stone smiled, the whole world seemed to brighten. The boy would carefully hide collected glass marbles in his grandfather's calloused palm, saying, "Grandpa, these are stars, for you!" At those moments, a little starlight would flicker in Old Ma's clouded eyes.

Yet Fate, that unseen hand, always reveals its menacing claws when you least expect it.

It was a grey, overcast afternoon, the air thick with the smell of coal ash and cheap food. Old Ma had gone to the alley entrance to sell the cardboard he'd collected over several days. He was gone for no longer than the time it takes to smoke a cigarette. When he returned, the alley was empty, only the wind swirling like a sob. Little Stone was gone.

First came the anxious calls, his hoarse voice colliding within the narrow space, unanswered. Then, a frantic search, from one end of the alley to the other, from familiar trash heaps to unfamiliar street corners. Old Ma was like an injured lone wolf, crashing through the indifferent crowds. People hurried past, their eyes smooth as glass, reflecting the sky and tall buildings, but not the despair of an anguished old man.

"My grandson! My Little Stone! Six years old, wearing a little blue jacket…" He grabbed at every potential passerby who might stop, his voice trembling, choked with tears. Some shook their heads apathetically, others impatiently甩开 brushed off his hand, and a few offered a shred of pity, but it was as light and fleeting as an autumn leaf.

The police. Yes, the police. He stumbled into the place adorned with the national emblem, which supposedly represented order and hope. A cold counter, uniformed faces, formulaic questions. Name, age, description, time of disappearance, location… Each question was like a dull knife, sawing repeatedly at his heart. He spoke incoherently, tears and sweat mingling, blurring his vision. He received a receipt, a thin slip of paper bearing the weight of all his hope, yet so light it felt as if the wind could snatch it away at any moment.

Days bled into weeks, consumed by waiting and hopeless searching. Old Ma stopped collecting scraps; the tricycle sat forlornly in the corner, gathering dust. He wandered the city like a ghost, his gaze vacant, scanning the face of every child he passed. Each time, a tiny spark of hope ignited, only to be instantly extinguished by the icy water of disappointment. He started smoking. At first, it was one pack a day, then two, then three… eventually reaching an astonishing five or six packs. They were the cheapest cigarettes available in town, acrid and pungent, like burning weeds. Smoke became his new companion, enveloping him thickly, like a filthy cocoon, sealing him off from a world he could neither comprehend nor fight.

He sat in his dark, humble room, under the dim light bulb, smoking one cigarette after another. In the swirling smoke, he thought he could see Little Stone's smiling face, hear him calling "Grandpa." But when the smoke cleared, there were only cold walls and boundless loneliness. Nicotine numbed his nerves while simultaneously corroding his lungs. Violent coughing fits often tore through the night, heart-wrenching, as if he were trying to cough up his very life. Neighbors sometimes heard it, sighed, shook their heads, and returned to their mundane lives. In this massive urban machine, individual suffering was like a drop of water in a furnace, instantly vaporized, leaving no trace.

He went back to the uniformed people, clutching the now yellowed and crumpled receipt. The response was always similar: "We're investigating. We'll notify you if there's any news." Procedures, regulations, processes… these cold words formed an invisible wall. He beat his head against it until he was bloodied, yet he could never break through. He felt an absurd powerlessness, like an ant trapped in a giant maze, finding no exit no matter which way it ran. He was like spinning in a revolving door, each push returning him to the same spot, facing the same indifferent glass and the same formulaic smile or impatient frown. Forms, more forms, proof required, waiting required, endless patience required – while all he had left was his diminishing life and a growing pile of empty cigarette packs.

Tobacco became his only solace, and also the poison accelerating his journey to the end. His body deteriorated at a visible rate. His stooped back bent further, his eyes completely lost their light, replaced by a deathly grey stillness. The burning pain in his lungs became more frequent, his breathing grew difficult, like a pair of broken bellows.

When the last winter arrived, snowflakes fell sparsely, only to be swallowed by the filth on the ground. Old Ma curled up on his cold bed, covered by a thin, moldy quilt. He no longer had the strength to smoke; cigarette packs lay scattered beside the bed like spent shell casings. His breath was faint, his eyes fixed on the ever-expanding mold spot on the ceiling, where Little Stone's shadow seemed to dance.

He tried to call out "Little Stone" one last time, but only a rattling sound emerged from his throat. The candle flame of life flickered violently within him, and finally, was extinguished.

Days later, neighbors discovered Old Ma's body only because of the smell. His face was expressionless, etched only with profound, bone-deep exhaustion and despair. His death, like his grandson's disappearance, caused few ripples in this vast city. Perhaps a few lines of report would appear in the newspaper, sandwiched between celebrity gossip and economic indices, like the cigarette butts he'd smoked, ultimately swept into the dustbin of history.

The alley remained cramped, the city remained clamorous. There was just one less shuffling figure, one less hoarse cry, one less broken heart weeping silently. What seemed to linger was only the acrid, mournful scent left by the burnt cheap tobacco, hanging like a silent question mark in the cold air, long refusing to disperse. Whose crime was it? The ones who snatched the child? The indifference that consumes hope? Or this world itself, like a vast labyrinth where the weak get lost, until their very last breath is spent?

Embers settle. Life silenced. Tragedy unspoken.