《空潮冊》

河風從海面卷上來，帶着半熟的鹽味和泥灶的潮氣，濕漉漉地拍在老燈樁上，又順着堤脊滑進測潮棚。木架年年浸水，一吸氣就吱啞作響，像在低聲念舊賬。門楣上掛着一口生鏽的小鍾，退潮時會自己磕一齒，聲音不亮，空空的，像水底傳來的低語，繞着棚子轉一圈，就散了。

我坐在鐵腳桌前，攤開《潮時冊》，旁邊放着畫滿格線的硬板。格線把日與時、潮差與風向、鹽度與泥沙濃度都切成方格，像把河水裁成一塊塊聽話的碎片。我用鉛筆寫，用刀片刮，用橡皮抹。寫與抹，抹與寫，像兩條小船互相牽扯，從不疲倦。外頭的河口在呼吸，我在格子裡為它翻譯。黃昏時，風裡的鐵味更重，一陣一陣，像破船鐵皮上蒸出的嘆息。

風總帶着一些奇怪的聲音：錨鏈在底泥里輕輕拖動，浮標的繩子在水裡顫着，像有人剛念出一個名字，又突然停下。舅舅年輕時在口門當河工，肩背微微彎着，好像在給水讓路。他說，水要有空白，人不能把它寫滿。我點頭，卻仍在頁腳塞進註記：誰家的篾簍從上游漂來，哪只水鳥不按季節折返，哪幾蓬蘆葦的根又探下一寸。

阿月在碼頭晾網，網眼裡滴下的水落在石面上，蒸得很快，就像淚水還沒幹就散了。

我以為記錄是為了留住。有人低聲說：留住，就是越界。我沒回答，只把這句話抄在邊欄。那一刻，我已經越了界。

河口派出所每兩天派人來抄《潮時冊》。來的人總在換，筆跡粗細不同，卻都略過邊欄。老人們坐在碼頭抽旱煙，說大潮進來時的一聲“頓”，像鐵在水裡被敲，聽見的人會下意識繫緊鞋帶。孩子們蹲在磙石上，看潮水漫過腳背，笑着跑開。

夜裡，我合上冊子，燈光低暗。桌上，一尾細白的魚游過，沒有水，只有紙。它的鱗光輕輕刮過墨跡，替我抹去一個字，留下一道涼涼的弧線。我似睡非睡，夢見河口裂開，泥面像鏡子一樣平，透出半截手指，被水光包裹，又沉下去。有人喊“阿海”，聲音被浪扣住，只剩一半，散在水面上。我追着那聲音，鞋子灌滿泥水，踩在木樁的潮線。燈影晃了兩下，像有人在水底抬頭。那影子沒有臉，只是一頁未寫滿的冊子，低聲說：“刪。” 聲音從泥里翻出來，像潮水在夢裡記住了我。

漁隊的老付最守口，晚上總拿着手電去看水位樁，眼神深得像河底。他說樁會動。說完，他把手電扣在胸口，像把一句話扣回心裡。我看着，動的不是樁，是泥。泥吞下一線又吐出，像人在水裡練氣。

老付說：“這個吞吐，不要寫。寫了，水會怕。”

我把這句抄在封二上：“不要把水寫滿。”

那夜又夢見魚。它躍起，在空白的格子上閃了一下，鱗片反着燈光，像在替水讀冊。我終於明白老付說的“怕”，不是水怕字，是字怕回頭。

魚就是那個回頭的影子，替我看清那些多餘的墨。

以前船進出都講“讓一口”，不能和水搶。後來年輕人圖快，船頭扎得太實，水被悶住。冊上的小字，是在和水說話。話多了，水煩。河口有脾氣。年輕時丟過一個兄弟，燈滅後就找不着了。阿海也在那兒幹過，後來沉進河口，再沒上來。他是我堂兄。

端午後第三個大潮夜，風突然折向，像有人在黑暗裡悄悄扭動羅盤。堤外的浮標被拉得筆直，繩子在水下顫着。我壓低燈罩，讓光圈只照在《潮時冊》上。

六月十六那一頁，主欄的數字密密擠着，邊欄堆滿遲到的註記，像一個人把自己塞進紙里，連喘息都沒地方。我拿起刮字刀，刀口貼着紙走，紙纖維被削起，像細細的水泡。

我削掉“午後黃泥上翻”，削掉“鷂鷹追魚群”的箭頭，削掉“漲退之間有嗡”的“嗡”。

刀刮過紙面，發出低低的聲音，像水在嘆氣。紙屑落進鐵盤，灰白一片，涼得像退潮後的石面。我想抓住那些字，卻發現它們變成水影，漂去河口。風從門縫裡吸了一下氣，像在不滿。刀尖抖了一下，格線破了一絲。我停手，把刀平放。

燈光縮成一點。我趴在空白處，耳朵貼着紙，聽見細細的潮聲，像針線在水裡縫布。有人在低聲說：“空，也是字。”

我抬頭，看見阿海站在堤外，背影和燈影重疊。他的手指按在冊上，格線泛起潮紋，像紙自己在呼吸。小鍾突然磕了一齒，空欄發出一聲輕響。那一刻，我不知道，是我在聽潮，還是潮在聽我。

我換橡皮，抹去主欄里最密的一處，“2.3”“2.4”“2.5”都變成了淡灰。紙面浮起細凹，像退潮後的裂紋。外頭的水聲把“數”的尾音吞掉，低吟不止。那一夜，我只做了一件事——把六月十六那一格抹成空。空旁，我寫了個小字：空。

第二天午後，舅舅來了，衣襟濕濕的。他站在門外，不進來。我把冊子遞給他，他指了指那塊空白，沒說話，只掏出一包舊石灰粉，在沙盤上抹平一角。指尖蘸了粉，畫出河口：主流硬筆，支流軟筆。

 “你把格子空了，水自己會補。”

 “可我看不見。”

 “那就看它怎麼補。”

我在沙盤邊豎起細竹籤，綁上紅線，墜着舊鉛錘。風吹過，紅線輕輕擺動，到某個點就停了，像認準了一寸的尺度。舅舅摘下門楣上的小鍾，掛到竹籤上。鍾輕輕撞到紅線，發出一聲空響，像水底的低語。

夜深了，風變得濕重。我夢見水自己醒來，從堤下爬起。它說：“人以為我在流動，其實我是在反覆記起自己。風是我呼出的舊名，泥是我遺下的句子。有人寫我、刪我，以為能掌潮，其實是在削我的夢。”

我聽見小鍾在骨頭裡響，像一粒砂在心口跳。那砂曾是阿月母親的耳墜，也可能是船底的鐵釘。水說它記得所有沉下去的名字，卻沒有一個能浮起來。

 “你俯下身，我教你我的話。”它說，“無字，唯回聲。你寫我，我在你指尖長出新的水紋。”

傍晚，阿月在碼頭晾網，水珠從網眼落在石面上，蒸發得很快。潮水推來一朵花，停在我鞋邊。花沒香氣，只剩被鹽洗過的薄影。

花對我說：“我不是從樹上落的，我從你字裡掉下來。你寫得太安靜，我替安靜守門。”
我把花夾在冊頁間。夜裡翻頁，花瓣發出啞聲，像歸檔的嘆息。

風趴在燈罩上，低聲說：“我在河口搬運名字，搬過你堂兄，也搬過破鐘的齒音。名字一濕就重，我背不動，只能塞進浮標的繩里。你寫太滿，我得繞遠路，把字送回泥里。今晚的路直——刪的人，留我一口氣。”

風舔了一下鐘的鏽，鍾又輕響，像在證明。

小時候，我在口門邊迷過路。有人喊我的名字，被浪吞了一半。我追着那半截聲音，一直跑到木樁潮線，鞋灌滿了水。那人始終沒出現，只是燈影晃了兩下。後來家裡再也沒人提起那天。有人說潮漲太快，木樁沒拔出來；也有人說，是我家的船沒回來，舅舅喊了一夜。對我來說，六月十六，就是那半截名字。

我想留住它，卻發現它像水中的影子，散在風裡。

這些年我習慣“留”。那天起，舅舅教我“刪”。刪不是撕，也不是遮。刪要讓纖維還在，字的力量不在。把紙與筆之間那層“用力”溫柔地拿走。我練了三天，先練角頁，再練舊欄。寫得越滿，刪得越難。刪一字，紙上留淡影，像人從水上岸，腳底輕輕一扣。刪多了，紙會破，我每天只刪一個字：刪“潮”、刪“涌”、刪“急”、刪“至”。刪到“到此”的“此”變空。手背落在紙上，鹽味淡淡的，像退潮後石縫裡的霜。

夢裡，影子從水裡帶着冊子上來，不看我，直接翻到六月十六。水底像有一間檔案室，柜子貼着泥簽——“沉沒的名字”“未寄出的信”“被刪的字”。影子拉開“被刪的字”那格，裡面鋪着魚鱗和碎鐘聲。它遞給我一縷空，說：“這是你遺給水的氣息。”

醒來時，我的指尖是涼的。那一格空白上，浮着細細的潮痕，像剛長出的字，未定生死。

測潮冊被查出幾處筆跡刮除痕跡。無塗抹，疑似用刀刮。主欄六月十六一格空白。批註寫：“建議保留，不要補。”

阿月說，潮水有兩種空：一種讓它走，一種替它遮傷。

 “今晚是哪一種？”我問。

她側耳聽着：“走。”

第七夜，風變得很長，像海上有人提起一塊白布。小鍾碰紅線，紅線碰竹籤，竹籤碰沙盤邊，發出一串細響，像遠處有人關上幾扇窄門。河口靜了下來，那種“該來的還沒來”的空，鋪滿堤外。

我走到水邊，潮在退，暗流掠過腳踝，溫柔得像不想驚動我。錨鏈鬆開一齒，浮標歪了又直。我忽然聽見一個聲音在心裡說：這裡要刪，不要留。刪不是抹去，是歸還。水有自己的賬。

我翻開冊子，在六月十六的右側寫下小字：“此欄空，聽河口自記。”

舅舅站在門外，托着那口小鍾，像捧着孩子，把它重新掛回門楣。鐘聲沉了些，棚里的空氣也隨之一沉。

月末，檔案室調冊。灰衫的抄錄員翻到那一頁，停了兩秒，看我。我沒說話。他笑了笑，照樣抄寫，空白的地方也留着空白。

單據上寫：“六月十六主欄空格一處，疑觀測空位，保留。”

 “保留”兩個字，像把空抬高了一寸。

入伏後，白霧籠着河口。棚里的鐘被潮氣蝕出空洞，不再響，只在風來時輕輕搖。我收起半盤灰，另一半留在門檻里。紅線纏在鉛錘上，高高掛着，沒碰到地。

舅舅說：“刪夠了。”

“怎麼知道？”

他望着河，眼神像拉直的一根線：“水面把你的字接回去了，就夠了。”

夜裡，我夢見河口裂開，灰粉浮起，形成一張水的臉。它對我說：“我記住了。你刪的，我補。”

醒來時，沙盤平整，紅線不動。水底的鐘聲像在輕敲樁子，像有人在招呼。我喊“阿海”，聲音沒出來，只剩一點鹽印在紙上。紙是溫的，像剛有人坐過。

我看到短短一幕：木樁的線條、黑色的海面、斷裂的燈影、人影在水裡彎了一下，就不見了。胸口那根細弦輕輕一彈，又回到原處。

又過三天，我一個人坐在棚里。風與潮都平穩，像遠處有人在吹排簫，氣息順着無形的管子緩緩傳來。我翻開《潮時冊》，輕輕在六月十六頁角蓋章：刪。

章落，風從門縫裡進來，掀了一下頁角，又放回去。

我關燈，搬椅子坐到門口。潮水退了一指，就停住。

隔着水，能聽見阿月晾網的聲音，長長短短，像拉緊的線又放鬆一格。

秋汛前，新冊送到。紙很硬，格子很細。我抄下老付那句話：“不要把水寫滿。” 又加一行：“空欄，即在場。”

第一頁是明年的六月十六。字還沒寫，格子裡已經有淡淡的潮痕。我笑了，像在看一本沒寫完的舊書。

風從河口吹過，燈樁上的鷂鷹落下又飛起，影子一閃，壓在水面。沙盤上的灰被風抹平，冰涼得像露出的石皮。舊冊被包好，放在高架上。

我對門楣上的小鍾輕聲說：“停。”

隔水傳來阿月的聲音，不高，也不清，像有人在水底說話，被浪一點點推上岸。

我聽不清她說的是“潮退了”，還是“刪夠了”。河水就在這裡，河口依舊。風像一個熟悉路線的巡邏者，吹過又回來。

夜深，鐘不響，木樑因為冷縮熱脹發出極輕的空響。我把手放在膝上，聽着水把空白接回自己。紙頁上，仍留着一道細縫。

堤外傳來一聲極輕的“頓”，像鐵在水裡被敲。

我抬頭，風正好——

空欄自己響了一聲。

沒有光，沒有告別。只是退潮的一瞬間，像從紙上輕輕抬起多寫的字。

河水從不記賬，但在每一頁空白里，留下了一道裂縫，不是缺口，是呼吸。

明年的六月十六，我會再翻開新冊。不催它來，也不挽它去。只在那恰好的風口，溫柔地拿走多餘的一筆。

耳貼空白，聽那首無字的歌，緩緩地唱。

（汪翔，2025年10月19，寫於伊利湖畔）

The Tide Listener

The river wind sweeps up from the sea, bearing the half-ripe tang of salt and the damp heat of mudflats, slapping wetly against the old lighthouse post before slipping along the dyke into the tide gauge. The wooden frame, steeped in years of water, creaks with each breath, as if murmuring an old ledger. A rusted bell hangs beneath the lintel; at low tide, it taps its own tooth, a faint, hollow sound, like whispers from the riverbed, circling the shed once before fading.

At an iron-legged table, I spread the Tide Ledger and a board etched with gridlines. The lines carve days and hours, tidal ranges and wind directions, salinity and sediment into squares, as if slicing the river into obedient fragments. I write with a pencil, scrape with a blade, erase with a rubber. Writing and erasing, erasing and writing, like two boats tethered, never tiring. The estuary breathes outside; I translate it within these grids. At dusk, the wind carries a heavier iron scent, gusting in waves, as if sighing from the rusted hull of a derelict ship.

The wind always bears strange sounds: anchor chains dragging softly through silt, buoy ropes quivering in the water, like a name half-spoken, abruptly stopped. My uncle, once a river worker at the estuary’s mouth, stood with shoulders slightly bowed, as if yielding to the water. He said the water needs its blank space; humans must not fill it. I nodded but crammed notes in the margins: whose bamboo basket drifted downstream, which waterbird returned out of season, how far a cluster of reeds’ roots sank.

At the dock, A-Yue dries nets, water dripping from the mesh, evaporating the moment it hits the stone, like tears gone before they dry. I thought recording was to hold fast. A whisper came: to hold is to trespass. I didn’t answer, only copied it to the sidebar, already crossing the line.

Every other day, the estuary police station sends someone to copy the Tide Ledger. The scribes come and go, their handwriting varying in weight, but they always skip the sidebar. Old men at the dock smoke pipes, saying the great tide’s arrival brings a “thud,” like iron struck underwater, making listeners instinctively tighten their shoelaces. Children crouch on the rollers, watching the tide wash over their feet, laughing as they scamper away.

At midnight, I close the Ledger, the lamp dim. A slender white fish glides across the table, no water, only paper. Its scales graze the ink, erasing a word for me, leaving a cool arc. Half-asleep, half-awake, I dream the estuary splits, its muddy surface smooth as a mirror, a half-finger emerging, wrapped in waterlight, sinking back. Someone calls “A-Hai,” the sound caught by the waves, halved, scattering across the surface. I chase it, shoes heavy with mud, stepping to the tide line by the wooden post. The lamplight sways twice, as if someone underwater glanced up. The shadow has no face, only an unfilled page of the Ledger. It whispers, “Erase.” The voice rises from the riverbed’s silt, as if the tide, in its dream, remembered me.

Old Fu from the fishing crew keeps his words close, visiting the water-level post at night with a flashlight, his gaze heavy as the riverbed. He says the post moves. Then he presses the flashlight to his chest, locking a thought back in his heart. I’ve seen it—not the post moving, but the mud, swallowing a hairline then spitting it out, like someone practicing breath underwater. Fu says, don’t write this flux; writing makes the water afraid. I note his words on the back cover: “Don’t fill the water.”

That night, I dream of the fish again. It leaps, flashing in the blank grid, scales catching the lamplight, as if reading the Ledger for the water. I understand Fu’s “afraid”—not the water fearing words, but words fearing their own return. The fish is that return, seeing the excess ink for me.

Once, ships entering or leaving left a “breath” of water, not vying with it. But the young, eager for speed, drove their bows too hard, stifling the water. The Ledger’s small script speaks to the water. Too many words, and the water grows restless. The estuary has its temper. Long ago, a brother was lost, untraced after the lamps went out. A-Hai worked here too, then sank into the estuary, never surfacing. He was my cousin.

On the third great tide after the Dragon Boat Festival, the wind shifts, as if someone in the dark nudged a compass. Beyond the dyke, the buoy’s rope pulls taut, trembling low in its depths. I lower the lampshade, the light pooling only on the Ledger. On June sixteenth’s page, the main column brims with numbers, the sidebar stuffed with belated notes, as if someone crammed themselves onto paper, leaving no room to breathe.

I lift the blade, its edge gliding along the paper, fibers rising like fine bubbles. I scrape away “afternoon mud churn,” the arrow of “kites chasing fish schools,” the “hum” of “between ebb and flow.” The blade hums across the page, a sigh from the water. Scraps fall into the tin tray, pale and gray, cool as stone after the tide’s retreat. I try to hold the words, but they turn to water-shadows, drifting to the estuary. The wind sucks sharply through the door crack, as if displeased. The blade trembles, nicking the gridline. I set it down flat.

The lamp shrinks to a point. I lean over the blank, ear to the paper, hearing a faint tidal murmur, like a needle threading water-soaked cloth. A voice whispers, “Emptiness is a word too.” I look up. A-Hai stands beyond the dyke, his silhouette overlapping the lamplight. His finger presses the Ledger, rippling the grid with tidal lines, as if the paper breathes. The bell taps once; the blank column rings faintly. In that moment, I don’t know if I’m listening to the tide or the tide to me.

I switch to the eraser, rubbing out the densest part of the main column, turning “2.3,” “2.4,” “2.5” to faint gray. The paper dimples, fine cracks like those left by a receding tide. The water’s sound swallows the tail of “number,” murmuring on. That night, I do one thing: erase the most crowded square of June sixteenth into blankness. Beside it, I write a small word: Empty.

The next afternoon, my uncle arrives, his collar damp with water stains. He stands outside, not entering. I hand him the Ledger. He points to the blank, says nothing, then pulls out old lime powder, smoothing a corner of the sand tray. Pinching the dust, he draws the estuary: main currents in hard strokes, tributaries in soft. “You’ve emptied the grid; the water will fill it.” “I can’t see it.” “Then watch how it fills.”

I set a thin bamboo stick by the tray, tying a red thread with an old lead weight. The wind brushes past, the thread sways, stopping at a point as if measuring an inch of certainty. My uncle unhooks the lintel’s bell, hanging it on the stick. It grazes the thread, ringing empty, like a whisper from the depths.

At night, the wind grows heavy with damp. I dream the water wakes, rising from the dyke’s base. It says, “People think I flow, but I only remember myself again and again. The wind is my exhaled names, the mud my left-behind sentences. They write me, erase me, thinking they command the tide, but they only thin my dream.” I hear the bell chime in its bones, like a grain of sand pulsing in a heart. That sand was once A-Yue’s mother’s earring, perhaps a nail from a ship’s hull. The water says it remembers every sunken name, yet none rise. “Lean close,” it says, “and I’ll teach you my tongue—no words, only echoes. You write me, and I grow new ripples in your fingertips.”

At dusk, A-Yue dries nets at the dock, water beads falling to the stone, evaporating swiftly. The tide pushes a flower to my shoe, scentless, a thin shadow washed by salt. The flower says, “I didn’t fall from a tree; I dropped from your words. You wrote silence too thin, so I fell to guard it.” I tuck it between the Ledger’s pages. At night, the petal rasps as I turn the page, like a filed sigh.

The wind crouches on the lampshade, whispering, “I carry names at the estuary—your cousin’s, the bell’s chipped notes. Wet names grow heavy; I can’t bear them, so I tuck them into the buoy’s rope. When you write too much, I detour, sending words back to the mud. Tonight, my path is straight—whoever erases gives me a breath.” It licks the bell’s rust; the bell rings lightly, as if testifying.

As a child, I lost my way by the estuary’s mouth. Someone called my name, half-swallowed by the waves. I chased that half-name to the tide line by the post, shoes filled with water. No one appeared, only the lamplight swaying twice. No one spoke of it later. Some said the tide rose too fast, the post unpulled; others said our ship didn’t return, my uncle calling through the night. To me, June sixteenth is that half-name. I wanted to hold it, but it dissolved like a shadow in the estuary’s wind.

I’ve clung to keeping. That day, my uncle taught me to erase. Erasing isn’t tearing or hiding. It leaves the paper’s fibers, strips the force from words, gently lifting the effort between pen and page. I practiced three days, starting with corners, then old columns. The fuller the writing, the harder to erase. One word erased, the paper holds a faint shadow, like someone stepping ashore, toes curling lightly. Erase too much, the paper tears. I erase one word daily: “tide,” “surge,” “rush,” “to.” Until “here” becomes empty. My hand rests on the page’s end, salt faint, like frost in the cracks after the tide.

In a dream, a shadow rises from the water with the Ledger, not looking at me, flipping to June sixteenth. Beneath the water lies an archive, cabinets tagged with mud labels—“sunken names,” “unsent letters,” “erased words.” The shadow opens the “erased words” drawer, lined with fish scales and broken bell chimes. It hands me a wisp of emptiness: “This is the breath you left to the water.” I wake, fingers cool. The blank square bears faint tidal traces, like a word just born, undecided on life or death.

The Ledger shows traces of scraped ink, no smudges, likely a blade. A blank square on June sixteenth. The note reads: “Retain, do not fill.”

A-Yue says the tide has two empties: one for its path, one to cover its wounds. “Which tonight?” I ask. She tilts her ear: “Path.”

The seventh night, the wind lengthens, like white cloth lifted at sea. The bell brushes the thread, the thread the stick, the stick the tray’s edge, a chain of soft taps, like distant doors closing. The estuary quiets, an emptiness of “what should come didn’t,” spreading beyond the dyke. I walk to the water’s edge, the tide ebbing, currents grazing my ankles, gentle as if loath to disturb. The anchor chain loosens a notch, the buoy tilts then rights itself. A voice in my heart says: Erase here, don’t keep. Erasing isn’t hiding; it’s returning. The water keeps its own account.

I open the Ledger, writing in small script beside June sixteenth: “This column empty, let the estuary record itself.”

My uncle stands outside, cradling the bell like a child, rehanging it on the lintel. Its chime sinks, the shed’s air steadying. At month’s end, the archive calls for the Ledger. The gray-shirted scribe flips to June sixteenth, pauses two seconds, glances at me. I say nothing. He smiles, copying as is, leaving the blank blank. The record notes: “June sixteenth, one blank in main column, suspected observation gap, retained.” “Retained” lifts the emptiness an inch.

After midsummer, white mist cloaks the estuary. The shed’s bell, eaten by damp, grows hollow, silent, swaying only when the wind blows. I clear half the tray’s ash, leaving the rest inside the threshold. The red thread, wound around the lead weight, hangs high, never touching ground. My uncle says, “You’ve erased enough.” “How do you know?” He looks to the river, eyes pulling a line taut. “When the water takes your words back, it’s enough.”

That night, I dream the estuary splits, gray powder forming a water’s face. It says, “I’ve remembered. You erase, I fill.” I wake, the tray smoothed, the thread still. A bell chimes underwater, as if the tide knocks a post, calling me. I call “A-Hai,” no sound comes, only a salt mark on the paper. The page is warm, as if someone just sat there. I see a brief scene: the post’s lines, a black sea, broken lamplight, a shadow bending in the water, then gone. The thin string in my chest twangs softly, settling back.

Three days later, I sit alone in the shed. The wind and tide are steady, like a distant flute, breath threading through invisible pipes. I open the Ledger, stamping lightly on June sixteenth’s corner: Erased. The stamp falls, the wind slips through the door crack, lifting the page’s edge, then letting it fall.

I dim the lamp, move a chair to the doorway. The tide recedes an inch, then stops. Across the water, A-Yue’s net-drying sounds stretch and shrink, like a taut line loosening a notch.

Before the autumn flood, a new Ledger arrives, its paper stiff, grids fine. I copy Fu’s words: “Don’t fill the water.” I add: “An empty column is presence.” The first page is next year’s June sixteenth. No words yet, but the grids bear faint tidal traces. I smile, as if reading an unwritten book.

The wind patrols the estuary, a kite on the lighthouse post landing and lifting, its shadow flashing across the water. The tray’s ash is smoothed by the wind, cold as exposed stone. The old Ledger is wrapped, placed high on the rack. I say to the lintel’s bell, “Stop.” Across the water, A-Yue’s voice drifts, soft, unclear, like someone speaking underwater, pushed ashore by waves. I can’t tell if she says, “The tide’s gone,” or “You’ve erased enough.”

The river is here, the estuary endures. The wind, a familiar sentinel, patrols and returns. At night, the bell is silent, the wooden beams creaking faintly from heat and cold. My hands rest on my knees, listening as the water takes back the blank. The page holds a fine seam.

A faint “thud” comes from beyond the dyke, like iron tapped underwater. I look up, the wind just right—the blank column rings once. No light, no farewell. Only the tide’s retreat, like lifting excess words from the page.

The river keeps no ledger, but in every blank page, it leaves a crack—not a gap, but a breath.

Next June sixteenth, I’ll open the new Ledger. I won’t rush its coming or hold its going. At the right gust, I’ll gently lift one excess stroke. Ear to the blank, I listen to the wordless song, singing slowly.