Chapter 440: Eternity in a dying world 1.

The Morning After the Cleanup

The first thing Bai Li noticed that morning was that Building 9 had

finally learned how to be quiet. Not truly quiet, of course. The

building still creaked whenever the wind moved through the exposed gaps

around the upper windows, and somewhere below the twentieth floor a pipe

knocked every few minutes like an impatient neighbor trying to get

someone’s attention. An old emergency light buzzed in the stairwell, the

elevator doors clicked whenever the backup system tried to test itself,

and the wind carried distant screams from the streets beyond Jianghu

Riverside Complex. But the constant, uneven noise of zombies wandering

through the corridors had stopped. There were no dragging feet outside

the doors, no fingernails scraping against concrete, no muffled impacts

as a dead body bumped into a wall and turned in confusion toward another

sound. For the first time in several days, the apartment building

sounded like a place people still lived in rather than a place the dead

had taken over.

Bai Li stood outside the apartment door with a small toolbox in one hand

and a strip of replacement rubber seal in the other. She had been awake

for more than an hour, and the look on her face suggested that she had

spent every minute discovering another thing that annoyed her. Her hair

was tied back, though a few loose strands had escaped near her temples.

She wore a plain shirt, comfortable trousers, and the sort of expression

that made even a harmless screw look as though it had personally

offended her. She was studying the hinge on the corridor door across

from the elevator. It had made a soft squeak when she opened it, and

apparently that was enough to ruin her morning.

Yan Cijin came out of the apartment a few moments later carrying two

cups of tea. She had changed into a simple dark top and trousers, and

her long hair was still a little untidy from sleep. She paused when she

saw Bai standing in front of the door as if preparing for a duel. After

watching her for a few seconds, Yan held out one cup. Bai took it

without looking away from the hinge.

"Good morning," Yan said.

"It was."

Yan glanced at the door, then at Bai. "What did it do?"

"It squeaks."

"How terrible."

"It is terrible. Someone will open it in the middle of the night, the

noise will echo through the corridor, somebody will panic, and then the

whole floor will wake up. It is also a sign that the hinge is rubbing in

the wrong place. If we leave it alone, the metal will wear down. Then

the door will hang crooked, and when somebody needs to shut it quickly,

it might get stuck." Bai took a sip of tea, finally turned her head, and

caught Yan’s amused expression. "Don’t look at me like that. You know

I’m right."

"I didn’t say you were wrong. I was only wondering whether the hinge has

apologized yet."

Bai looked back at the hinge. "It has not."

"Then I suppose you have no choice but to be firm."

"Exactly."

Yan covered a smile with her cup. She had seen Bai fight zombies,

monsters, and people who thought strength made them untouchable. Bai

never looked nearly as serious during any of those fights as she did

while inspecting household repairs. A powerful infected creature could

charge at her with its jaws open and find itself dead before it

understood what had happened. A crooked door could hold her attention

for half an hour. Yan had long ago decided that this was one of Bai’s

most charming habits, though she had no intention of saying so out loud.

If Bai learned that Yan found her obsessive maintenance routine

charming, she would probably start explaining the importance of proper

hinge alignment every morning just to see whether Yan would listen.

Bai put down her cup on the windowsill, opened the toolbox, and pulled

out a screwdriver. Yan set her tea beside Bai’s and leaned against the

wall. She did not offer to take over immediately. She had learned that

Bai liked doing certain things herself, not because she distrusted other

people but because finishing a practical task gave her a kind of calm

that very little else could provide. Yan was happy to help, but she had

also learned how to recognize the difference between a task Bai wanted

help with and a task Bai wanted to argue with until it surrendered.

The hinge did not surrender easily. Bai loosened the screws, adjusted

the metal plate by the smallest possible amount, tightened everything

again, and tested the door. It squeaked once, softly. She stopped. Yan

kept her face carefully neutral.

"Don’t," Bai said.

"I haven’t said anything."

"You’re thinking something."

"I’m always thinking something. You’ll have to be more specific."

Bai gave her a flat look, then opened and closed the door again. This

time it moved silently. Her shoulders relaxed by a fraction, a tiny

change most people would have missed. Yan noticed it and felt an

unreasonable wave of affection. Bai seemed genuinely pleased when a

household problem had been solved properly. There was no performance in

it, no need for praise. She simply wanted the people around her to live

in a place where fewer things could go wrong.

"There," Bai said. "Now it won’t wake anyone up."

"A heroic victory."

"You can make fun of me after you stop drinking my tea."

Yan glanced down. Her own cup was still beside the toolbox. The cup in

her hand belonged to Bai. She had picked it up by mistake when she came

outside, and Bai had taken the wrong one without noticing because she

was too focused on the hinge. Yan looked at the cup, then at Bai, and

slowly raised it as though offering a formal toast.

"I suppose this means we’re sharing."

Bai stared at her for a beat, then reached for the cup Yan had been

holding. "Give it back."

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TO BE CONTINUED.