Chen Wangtian opened to the first page. Brush-written characters ran vertically down the page.
"Year of Jiazi, Seventh Month, Fourteenth Day. Zhou family daughter, age three. Left pinky. Slept after two days. Perished after three. Burned on the back hill."
"Year of Bingyin, Seventh Month, Twelfth Day. Liu family son, age seven. Right middle finger. Slept after one day. Perished after two. Burned on the back hill."
Page after page, all records. Every entry ended the same way: Perished. Burned on the back hill. Some entries bore small notations: "Mother refused, hid child in cellar, next day child opened cellar door on its own." "Father kept vigil with blade, at midnight blade reversed, wounded his own left eye."
Chen Wangtian's hands began to shake. The earliest entry dated back fifty years.
"These children…"
"All met the Nail Borrower." Old Wu took the ledger back and closed it. "Every few years, she appears during the seventh month. The child falls into a deep sleep. And then—"
He did not finish. The dozens of iterations of the word perished spoke plainly enough.
"There is only one way." Old Wu rose, retrieving a brass oil lamp and a packet of incense ash. "Pour lamp oil into the mouth. Plug the orifices with incense ash. Before the sun sets, seal the person and burn them. This is the rule passed down by the ancestors."
"Impossible." Chen Wangtian knocked the brass lamp from his hand. "My son is not dead. No one is burning him."
Old Wu bent to pick up the lamp, unhurried. When he looked up, the corner of his mouth twitched—it might have been a smile, or something else entirely.
"Then wait. Wait until he sleeps. Until he cannot wake. Until the black line on his nail travels from base to tip. When that happens, come find me again."
Chen Wangtian turned and left with Nian'an in his arms. As he stepped through the door, he heard the sound of Old Wu's prayer beads clicking behind him. Bead against bead, a faint click-clack like countless fingernails scraping against one another.