Xi'an. A ancient city wall encloses the central area of Xi'an, and at the very heart of this core stands the Bell and Drum Tower. Behind the drum tower stretches a street—without regard to season or weather, it's always bustling with food stalls and visitors. This street is known as Hui-min Street, also called "a renowned culinary cultural district," "the representative of Xi'an's atmosphere," and one of "Xi'an’s must-visit attractions." As popularity grows, space becomes increasingly valuable: stores strive to squeeze themselves into the narrow spaces at the intersection points—when the main street is full, they extend further down the winding alleys. On the streets themselves, simple signs are posted with phrases like “15 meters inside, for accommodation.” At a point about one-third of the way from the street’s end lies a lane whose entrance features a vendor selling Suanmei Tang (a traditional chilled drink). High above, a sign reads: "Shadow Puppetry—performances scheduled at regular times." Beneath this sign stands a shadow puppet woman with elegant eyes and slender waist, her long black braid flowing behind her—a striking visual emblem. Visitors who are curious or have grown weary stop by to pick up a cup of Suanmei Tang, buy a ten-yuan ticket for a ten-minute performance, and watch the show. The shadow puppet theater is modest—just about ten square meters outside the stage, with three rows of tables and chairs arranged. The walls display colorful shadow puppets. For an additional fifty yuan, guests may take home three of them. The master of the shadow puppetry, an elderly man named Dingzhou in his sixties, has white hair and mobility issues. He rarely engages with visitors; instead, he sits quietly behind a canvas curtain polished to a bright, clear finish, manipulating two or three small puppets with his hands while following the rhythmic drumming to unfold stories from an earlier era. Sometimes it's "The Merchant’s Play at the Young Woman’s House," and sometimes, "Nezha’s Three Excursions to the Sea." That evening, Shadow Puppetry begins at seven o’clock precisely; by half past six, the theater is already full of guests. Dingzhou lifts the canvas curtain slightly to get a better view. The audience consists mostly of parents with young children—most of whom are restless, twisting on their seats and asking excitedly: "When does the animated film start?" Dingzhou can foresee what will happen next: after the performance begins, the children will find it dull, noting that the storytelling style differs greatly from animated films and finding the singing style awkward and difficult to follow. They’ll begin to want to leave; parents will scold them, and the children will cry out in frustration. And he, Dingzhou, will persist through all this chaos, continuing his rendition of an old tradition in the rich melodies of Qin-style singing. It feels rather uneventful—yet life, after all, is often just that. Just two minutes before seven o’clock, a young woman enters. Dingzhou’s heart stirs. She has come again—not for the first time—but now it's already been three days in succession, every time at exactly seven o’clock. When she first arrived, Dingzhou noticed her: she was very attractive with long, flowing hair; a half-weathered black canvas bag slung across one shoulder; wearing a plaid shirt and slightly worn jeans, with leather-soled boots tied with laces, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and traces of engine oil on both arms and legs. She appeared like someone who might work at a mechanic’s garage—but not quite. For first-time visitors, the experience is simply fresh; for second-time attendees, interest grows; but by the third visit—especially when the performance is always the same: "The Merchant’s Play at the Young Woman’s House," a straightforward romantic tale—it begins to feel routine. Moreover, during intermissions, Dingzhou occasionally glances down from the edge of the curtain and notices that this woman is not fully engaged in watching the show. She smiles faintly, her gaze as if penetrating through the very fabric of the curtain. What lies behind the curtain? Besides the lighting for performances and a singing machine playing pre-recorded melodies—what else is there… but him? Dingzhou feels a bit unsettled. — When Dingzhou asks: "Knowing about 'Black Camellia,' why are you still interested in inviting Changdong?" She responds: “I’m not only drawn to his skill—I believe he has made a mistake, and while that may be true, it doesn’t diminish the value of his abilities.” Dingzhou says simply: "Then come with me." He bends over slightly, coughs occasionally, and leads her into the backstage area. The backstage space is crowded and cramped—divided by partitions to create several small rooms. Dingzhou stops at the smallest room at the far end, unlocks the door with a key. As soon as the door opens, a musty, moldy scent fills the air; inside, it's dark and everything appears blurred except for a small piece of glass reflecting a pale white glow. Just about to speak, Dingzhou pulls down the lamp cord. Under the warm yellow light, she sees clearly—the small glass panel is actually a framed photograph with black borders. The image shows a young man in his twenties or thirties—distinguished features and eyes filled with despair. On the table before the photograph are two small ceramic bowls—one filled with rice and another stacked with individually wrapped candies and cookies, and a small incense burner with a shallow layer of ash. Changdong has passed away? Dingzhou explains: "Eighteen people died during that incident—worldwide criticism poured in not only for Changdong but also for his partner, Kongyang, who was seen as unworthy. After selling off all his assets and compensating the families of the deceased, Changdong came to me." He shares a home with Dingzhou, quiet and reserved; he sits often beneath the stage, repeatedly watching Dingzhou perform shadow puppetry, silently gazing at the lifeless puppets, moved deeply by the timeless singing melodies. One midnight several months later, Changdong cut his wrist in his own room—blood spilled throughout the entire space, streaming out through the doorway and into the corridor behind the theater. When Dingzhou wakes up early one morning to find a deep red stain spread across the corridor under the dawn light, he is momentarily surprised, wondering: "What exactly is this?"