I quickly drove out of the residential area and crossed the Jialing River. It was still early, and there were almost no cars on the road. Every time I drove in this direction, I would pass through an underpass tunnel beneath an overpass. I never thought it would ever have any connection to me. I always followed the sign to decelerate to 50 km/h and slowly slid out of the approximately 1000-meter tunnel. When the car's front emerged, I saw a conspicuous LED red cross above to the left and a familiar, long steep slope. During brightly lit or daytime crowded moments, I had never observed this place so clearly. At this moment, it resembled a face surfacing sharply from the riverbed. <br><br>Yes, this place was the hospital where my father had stayed last. This very slope was the one I walked alone the day I sent my father to the funeral home. Yet, at that time, I hadn’t noticed that this spot was the link to the underpass tunnel I passed by frequently. <br><br>All at once, the car's auto headlamps lit up as I exited the tunnel, as if crossing through this tunnel was some kind of ceremonial act. Is this what separates life from death? I felt as if I were floating in waves, helplessly being tossed up or submerged. <br><br>The music played: "Still remember the road we came on, your warm hand holding mine, like a child..." <br><br>Around me, it was pitch black, with a faint mist lingering. My car lights illuminated the area a few meters ahead brightly. Feeling stifled, I switched the car's air circulation to external mode and opened the sunroof slightly to let the free wind flow in, easing my suffocation. I felt as though the scent of death was ever-present in my veins, something my father had left with me. <br><br>In my dreams, I often returned to that space: an empty corridor. The floor was terrazzo, and the walls up to shoulder height were painted with green oil paint. The ceiling was high, as if reaching the sky. At eighteen, I leaned against the wall, looking up at it. I stood outside the ward. In my memory, the hallway was deserted; I wasn’t crying. My father lay inside the ward, and the doctor told me, "If he hasn’t responded or awakened in three days, he possibly never will. Stay here and watch. See the gauze on the breathing tube in his neck? If it turns black later, use this aluminum box to take a new one for him." <br><br>I walked in and sat by his bed. My father lay there motionless. In the middle of his neck was an incision where an oxygen tube was inserted directly, and the gap between his skin and the tube constantly oozed out a dark brown liquid. The doctor explained, "This is the filth from years of smoking, accumulated in his lungs and trachea." I kept using sterilized gauze to clean the fluids. I sat beside him. In my memory, it was a single-occupancy ward, with just the two of us there. I continued wiping and replacing the gauze. A fly buzzed around him; I used the infusion record board as a fan with one hand, while cleaning him with the other. <br><br>My father had committed suicide by consuming an unknown number of sleeping pills. When he was discovered, he was already not breathing. This hospital was where my father had worked before; he had been an outstanding anesthesiologist here. <br><br>I remember it happening on the same day my mother and father divorced. My mother resolutely left, and then my father took his own life. I had stayed here alone with him for nearly two days. In my memory, apart from the fly and me, no one else came to see him. My father suffered from severe depression, which, during that time, was hardly recognized as an illness. Mental health issues were rarely taken seriously. <br><br>On the second day of his coma, I wondered if he would wake up on the third day. I was so afraid of the end of that day. I sat on the wooden bench in the corridor, hugging my head and crying. I had no idea what to do—wait? Just wait powerlessly for the death pronouncement? <br><br>Two elder women sat beside me. Seeing me crying so hard, one of them patted my shoulder and asked, "Girl, what's wrong?" <br><br>I said, "I don’t know if my dad will make it." I wept as I spoke to these strangers. <br><br>She asked me questions for a while and then took my hand, saying, "With cases like your father’s suicide, whether he will survive depends on whether the King of the Underworld decides it’s his time. If it’s not, you need to find someone for spirit calling. You might not believe it, but a couple of years ago, my husband was in critical condition. I went to the zoo to find Yin the Blind, who wrote a magical charm, and it really saved my husband. He’s been lively ever since." She seemed to be talking to me but also chatting with the other older woman. <br><br>Immediately, I lifted my head and asked her, "Where can I find Yin the Blind?" <br><br>She looked surprised at my question. "Yes, at this point, you should try anything." <br><br>I took all the money I had, 200 yuan, and headed to a small path near the tiger enclosure at the western zoo. There, I saw a slim man in military green clothes, wearing sunglasses. He wasn’t very old and sat on the curb covered with a piece of newspaper, packing up his belongings, seemingly ready to leave. <br><br>I hurried over, squatted, and asked, "Excuse me, are you Master Yin? Do you tell fortunes or make magical charms?" <br><br>He tapped his cane on a piece of paper in front of him and said, "Doesn't it say—'I don’t address life and death, only the future'? I can’t answer your question." He continued packing his papers and other items into his backpack. <br><br>I said, "Do you even know what I want to ask?" <br><br>He replied, "Isn’t it written? No questions about life and death." With that, he put away the glassine-wrapped paper. <br><br>I immediately knelt before him. "Master Yin, I’m not asking about that. I just want to try and see if he can be awakened. It’s not his time yet; I know it’s not his time." <br><br>He chuckled. "How do you know?" <br><br>I said, "Because someone told me to find you." <br><br>He laughed louder. "What a joke, coming to me proves it’s not his time? Does that make me an immortal?" <br><br>"If fate had truly ended, I wouldn’t have met someone telling me to find you. That’s how it’s written in the books I’ve read; I know it." I persisted. <br><br>"What books have you read?" he asked teasingly. <br><br>"Louis Cha’s and Ku Lung’s stories are all like that," I answered. <br><br>He burst into laughter. "A young girl like you—I thought your go-to books would be about zodiac signs. Ha! You read martial arts novels. Ha-ha!" <br><br>Then he stopped laughing and sighed. "Young one, you must let go eventually. Letting go now might be the wisest decision. Perhaps he thinks so too. Why hold on like this?" he suggested faintly. <br><br>"Because he’s my father. I love him and don’t want him to die." I knelt and bowed deeply to him. <br><br>He sighed. "I figured someone would come with a difficult request today. I was going to pack up and leave, but here we are. Fate cannot be dodged." <br><br>"Give me his birth date and time," he said. <br><br>I hurriedly told him, and he began to move his fingers and muttered under his breath. After a while, he said, "He is possessed by sinister spirits. If he doesn’t die, he will still shed a layer of skin." <br><br>I asked, "How can he not die?")
