"This is severed incense," Old Wu said slowly, sinking back into his chair, his voice a rasp. "Incense broken in the middle, ash pressing down but not falling. It signifies entanglement with the ghostly, something restless between the world of the living and the dead."
He fixed his gaze on Chen Wangtian. "Did your son go near the old locust tree?"
"This evening. He said he saw a woman in red."
"Not a woman." Old Wu cut him off. His knuckles whitened around the prayer beads. "It's the Nail Borrower."
The moment the name left his lips, every candle flame in the hall shrank by half, as if pressed down by an unseen weight. Chen Wangtian's arms instinctively tightened around Nian'an.
"What is the Nail Borrower?" Chen Wangtian's lips were parched.
Old Wu fell silent for a long while. His eyes rested on Nian'an's left hand, on the nail marred by that black line. "Nails connect to the soul. The ten fingers are linked to the three ethereal and seven corporeal souls. Nails are the bolts on the soul's gate. The Nail Borrower appears only at dusk, borrowing nails from the living. She does not take lives—only nails. But remember this: she never takes from the living."
A buzzing filled Chen Wangtian's skull. She never takes from the living. Then what did it mean that she had taken Nian'an's nail?
"Your son, when he was beneath that tree," Old Wu's voice dropped to a near-whisper, "had already ceased to be among the living."
Nian'an stirred in Chen Wangtian's arms, yawned, mumbled, "Dad, I'm sleepy," and buried his face against his father's chest. His breathing was steady, his heartbeat strong.
"He's still alive!" Chen Wangtian stood up so abruptly his chair toppled backward. "Can't you see? He's breathing, his heart is beating—he's still alive!"
Old Wu did not argue. He merely drew out an object from beneath the table and slid it slowly across—a ledger bound in yellow paper, its cover blank, its edges frayed from much handling.