The Last Garment

Feng walked home through the autumn light, leaning on a stick he had borrowed at the gate. The road seemed longer than he remembered. He was bruised, and he was ashamed, and he was, above all, hungry for the quiet face that had saved him.

Siniang was waiting at the cottage. She had lit the fire. A-Qing had already gone, she said; the road was long for the old maid, and she had sent her on ahead. There was no grief in her voice — only a certain quiet, as of a woman packing a suitcase whose destination she has known for years.

"You must leave me, then," Feng said. It was not a question.