"Bought it for me? What did you buy?" Jiang Hai asked, staring at them in confusion. He truly had no idea.
Feng Yunchen and Ai Xiaoxi both rolled their eyes at his cluelessness. Without answering, they pulled out a set of keys and quickly sliced open the tape on the package. Inside, a golden glimmer caught Jiang Hai's eye. He leaned in, puzzled, only to realize that what lay inside was… paper.
Not ordinary paper, but the kind used in traditional ancestor offerings—the paper money he used to burn for the elders of his family.
In the United States, such things weren't easy to find. Only in places like San Francisco, with its large Chinese community, could you buy them. Still, Jiang Hai couldn't understand. The Qingming Festival had passed long ago—why would they need this now?
"It's almost the Ghost Festival, idiot," Ai Xiaoxi scolded, catching the confusion on his face.
The thought took Jiang Hai by surprise. He hadn't remembered at all. Ai Xiaoxi, however, had been reminded when her mother called a few days earlier, asking if she would come home for the Mid-Autumn Festival. When she said she couldn't, her mother mentioned visiting her grandfather's grave instead. That was when Ai Xiaoxi decided to quietly prepare offerings for Jiang Hai as well.
The Ghost Festival was approaching, and since Jiang Hai wouldn't be going back to Bingcheng, burning paper here would at least show respect. Whether the gesture "arrived" or not wasn't the point—the tradition was about remembrance.
From a materialist's view, once a person dies, nothing remains; the existence of a soul is uncertain. Jiang Hai himself had never seen one, and most of his generation didn't truly believe. Perhaps in a few decades, when his peers grew older, this custom would fade entirely.
For Jiang Hai, burning paper wasn't something he cared deeply about. As his mother used to say: "If you aren't filial while someone is alive, what use is crying or showing off after they're gone?" Filial piety had to be practiced in life. Once a person was gone, even the grandest rituals were for the living, not the dead.
So in the past, Jiang Hai only burned paper during Qingming or when he returned home for New Year. But now, seeing that Ai Xiaoxi and Feng Yunchen still remembered, he felt quietly relieved.
"If you hadn't told me, I wouldn't have remembered. When exactly is it?" Jiang Hai asked, scratching his head with a smile.
"There's no fixed date. Officially it's the day after tomorrow, but people burn paper the night before, or even two nights before." Ai Xiaoxi rolled her eyes again. Growing up in the countryside, she was much more familiar with these traditions.
Among China's ancient "Three Yuan" festivals, most people only knew the Shangyuan—the fifteenth of the first lunar month, the Lantern Festival. In modern times, it marked the end of New Year celebrations. Few still remembered the Zhongyuan and Xiayuan festivals, linked to Taoist beliefs in the Heavenly, Earthly, and Water Officials. The Ghost Festival—the Zhongyuan—was the day when the Earthly Official absolved sins. Though obscure for many, it had been revived in recent years as part of cultural traditions.
Jiang Hai didn't fully understand, but since Ai Xiaoxi did, he simply followed her lead.
Inside the box were yellow joss paper, paper money, and even folded paper ingots. Customs varied across China, but in Northeast regions like Jiang Hai's, practices were similar to those in Shandong, where many locals traced their ancestry. So, under Ai Xiaoxi's guidance, Jiang Hai spent the day preparing everything.
By evening, everything was ready. Qi Jie and Qi Ya, having seen these rituals before, weren't surprised. Aphra and some of the others looked confused, but Jiang Hai explained briefly. Darlene and Marianne had visited his hometown before and understood well enough.
That night, Jiang Hai and his group left the manor. Burning such offerings at home wasn't wise—tradition warned that the ritual could attract wandering spirits, and no one wanted to invite those into the house.
They drove for ten minutes toward Winthrop and stopped at a wide intersection. Jiang Hai wasn't sure if burning paper in an American intersection worked the same, but it was his way of doing his part.
Using some sticks, he drew a circle, leaving a gap for spirits to "collect" the offerings. Then he lit the first sheet of yellow paper, murmured the traditional words, and began feeding paper into the flames.
Soon, a blaze rose high into the night sky.
It was hard to miss. Locals nearby saw the fire and, puzzled, some even called the police. To them, it looked like a dangerous bonfire in the middle of the road.
And that was the thing about Chinese customs in America—they were often misunderstood. Just as Chinese politeness ("I'll treat you to dinner someday!") was taken literally by Americans, rituals like burning paper, brewing herbal medicine, or holding large family gatherings often drew suspicion or even police attention.
Sure enough, two police cars soon pulled up. The officers stepped out, surprised to find Jiang Hai at the center of the fire.
"Mr. Jiang, what exactly are you doing here?" one asked, curious but polite.
"Uh… burning paper?" Jiang Hai hesitated, realizing only then how odd it must look. "It's a Chinese custom, a way of honoring our ancestors. Is this… not allowed?"
The officers exchanged a look, then smiled. "Some residents weren't sure what was happening, so they called it in. How much longer will you be at this?"
If it had been anyone else, the police might have shut it down immediately. But since it was Jiang Hai, they kept things cordial. Thankfully, the paper burned quickly. Jiang Hai and his companions hurried to finish, and within ten minutes, the offerings were gone.
Apologizing to the officers, they left. The police remained until the fire died out completely, ensuring no accidents occurred.
Back in the car, Jiang Hai rubbed his nose with a wry grin. "Looks like I can't burn paper like this anymore."
It was troublesome, sure. Jiang Hai himself didn't care much about such formalities, but since others around him did, he went along with them. Next time, though, he'd have to find a better way.
(To be continued.)