CHAPTER 4 - PUBLIC MOURNING

Grief became a performance.

By the fourth day, Shen Xiuyuan's family no longer spoke only to the police. They spoke to cameras, to microphones, to audiences that leaned forward eagerly, hungry for a shape they could recognize.

A vigil was organized in front of the apartment complex where Shen had died.

White flowers appeared overnight, arranged neatly along the gate. Candles flickered in the evening air, wax pooling on the pavement. Someone placed a framed photograph at the center---Shen smiling softly, cropped from a happier time. Beneath it, a banner read:

JUSTICE FOR SHEN XIUYYUAN.

No one mentioned Lin Yanqing's name.

They didn't need to.

From the detention center, Lin watched it all unfold through a television mounted high in the wall. The volume was low, but he didn't need to hear the words to understand them. He recognized the grammar of outrage: the bowed heads, the trembling voices, the careful pauses that invited sympathy.

Shen's mother stood at the front of the vigil. She was older than Lin remembered, her back was slightly bent, grief weighing her forward. When she spoke, the crowd quieted.

"My son was gentle," she said. "He avoided conflict. He trusted the people he loved."

Her voice broke.

"I trusted them too."

The camera lingered.

Lin's fingers curled slowly against his palm.

He wondered, briefly, whether she believed what she was saying----or whether belief mattered less than repetition.

The next segment was cut to an interview recorded earlier that afternoon.

Shen Yuxin sat across from the host, hands folded in her lap. She looked composed now, grief sharpened into something precise.

"We don't want to accuse anyone unfairly," she said. "But the police have reasons for their investigation. We hope the public understands that patterns of emotional abuse aren't always visible."

The host nodded gravely.

"Are you suggesting your brother was a victim long before his death?"

Yuxin hesitated, just long enough.

"Yes."

The word settled into the room.

Abuse.

Lin felt it land like a hand closing around his throat.

He had taught his students about language---how meaning shifted depending on who held the power to speak. He had warned them that words could be weapons if sharpened carefully.

He watched as his own life was cut into something recognizable, something easy to condemn.

That afternoon, a public defender finally arrived.

His name was Chen. He was polite, efficient, and tired. He sat across from Lin with a thin folder open between them.

"The situation is not ideal," Chen said, not unkindly. "The family is pushing hard. Media attention complicates things."

Lind nodded.

"We will apply for bail," Chen continued. "But I need to be honest with you. It may not be granted."

"Because of the evidence?" Lin asked.

Chen paused.

"Because of the narrative."

Lin absorbed this quietly.

They reviewed statements. Timelines Photographs taken by forensic teams---angles Lin wished he could forget. Chen spoke carefully, never making promises, never offering reassurance that could not be defended.

When the meeting ended, Lin thanked him.

Chen looked surprised.

Afterward, Lin was led back through the corridor. As they passed the common area, raised voices drifted toward him.

"---teacher, right?" someone said. "Figures."

Another voice laughed.

Lin did not turn his head

That evening, the vigil footage was replayed.

This time, the camera panned wider. The crowd had grown. Strangers held candles. Some wiped their eyes. Others spoke into microphones, repeating fragments of what they'd heard online.

"I read he was controlling."

"Teachers are under so much pressure."

"People like that snap."

Lin watched until the screen blurred.

Later, in the quiet between headcounts, he pressed his forehead briefly against the cold wall of the cell.

He thought of Shen---not the man in the photograph, but the one who hummed softly while cooking, who forgot to close cabinets, who fell asleep halfway through movies.

That man had loved him.

Of this, Lin was certain.

Somewhere outside, Shen's family lit candles and spoke of justice.

Lin sat alone with the knowledge that justice had already begun to move without him.

Near midnight, a guard stopped outside his cell.

"You have got mail," he said, sliding an envelope through the slot.

It was from the school.

A formal notice. An acknowledgement of receipt. A line that read 'We hope for clarity soon' as if clarity were something that happened naturally, without effort.

Lin folded the letter carefully and placed it beneath his pillow.

In the dark, he counted his breaths again.

Outside, the city stayed wide awake.

Candle burned down to stubs. Cameras packed away. Stories were filed and shared, edited and reposted.

And somewhere, quietly, the shape of him continued to disappear.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***