Nian'an slept for a full day and night.
From the moment they returned from Old Wu's house, he had collapsed onto the bed without eating. Xiulan assumed he had been frightened and brewed a calming herbal tonic, spooning it into his mouth. The liquid trickled down the boy's chin; she wiped it away and fed him more. After half a bowl, Nian'an's eyelids grew heavy as lead, his strength to swallow nearly gone.
Xiulan set down the bowl and wiped his face and limbs with a warm cloth. The child's palms were cold. The black line on his nail stood out starkly under the candlelight. She stared at it for a long time, her finger hovering above it, wanting to touch but not daring to.
"It'll be alright." Chen Wangtian stood in the doorway, his voice dry as sandpaper scraping wood.
Xiulan did not turn around. She tucked Nian'an's hand back under the quilt, her movements gentle, as if handling something that might shatter at any moment.
"Husband," she said suddenly, her voice very soft, "if a nail is borrowed, can it grow back?"
Chen Wangtian had no answer. Because he didn't know.
Neither of them slept that night. Chen Wangtian sat on the doorstep, chain-smoking his pipe. Xiulan stayed by the bedside, checking Nian'an's fingers every so often. She couldn't say what she was looking for. How far the black line had traveled? Whether the nail was still there?
The black line was indeed moving.
Slowly, slower than a strand of hair. From the base to the middle of the nail took the entire night. By dawn, it had reached two-thirds of the way to the tip. Xiulan stared at that nail and suddenly remembered when Nian'an was just a month old, how she had held him in the courtyard, basking in the sun. His tiny fingers curled into fists, nails so thin they were translucent, like five pink petals. She had counted them one by one, kissed them one by one. Back then, she believed every part of this child belonged to her, and no one could take any of it away.
Now she wasn't so sure.