The Strange Woman at the Funeral

At 5:00 AM, Ethan Yuwen was jolted awake by the blaring sound of his phone alarm. He hadn't slept well that night. The last time he checked his phone, it was almost 3 AM. Those two hours had felt excruciatingly long, a restless drift between shallow sleep and vivid dreams. The uneasy slumber left him irritable, almost as if he'd been waiting for the alarm to break the monotony of the night.

So, when the alarm blared, Ethan silenced it within seconds, quickly getting out of bed. After a brief wash, he hurried out the door. Normally, Ethan wouldn't be up this early. He didn't start work until 8 AM, and his usual routine involved waking at 7, leisurely walking to work, and having breakfast at the office canteen without any rush. But today was different—today, he was attending the funeral of his undergraduate condensed matter physics professor, Dr. Wang Chongzhen.

As he walked toward his car, Ethan glanced up at the sky out of habit. At 5 AM in November, dawn was still two hours away. The sky was a heavy mass of darkness tinged with deep gray, the air carrying an indefinable scent that Ethan recognized. It might snow today, he thought. He could always sense the subtle changes in the air before snow or rain. But there was no time to dwell on that now. He started the engine and, once it idled smoothly, drove off toward Professor Wang's house.

The professor's home wasn't far from Ethan's, about ten kilometers away. Whenever he had some free time, Ethan liked to visit Dr. Wang, often meeting him at a small tavern near his home. They'd share a few dishes, with Dr. Wang enjoying his drink and cigarette, displaying a rebelliousness rare among academics. Ethan had first met Dr. Wang in his sophomore year. Though Dr. Wang was his professor, their age gap wasn't large; Dr. Wang had just started teaching a few years earlier and lacked the strict, authoritative demeanor of a traditional scholar. His teaching style was beloved by students, and he became more than just a teacher—he was a friend, a comrade, someone you could always find on the basketball or soccer field, enthusiastically playing alongside the students despite his stocky build.

As Ethan approached the gates of the old residential complex where Dr. Wang lived, memories of those days flooded his mind like scenes from a movie—vivid and real. But there was no time for more recollection; he was already at the entrance. The complex, over twenty years old, had been built as employee housing by Dr. Wang's father-in-law's company. It looked worn, and with no original planning for parking, the narrow streets were lined with cars, leaving just enough room for vehicles to squeeze through. Ethan found a spot outside the complex to park and walked briskly toward Dr. Wang's building.

Downstairs, clusters of people were already gathered, talking in low voices. Ethan exchanged brief greetings with a few familiar faces before heading upstairs. Inside the apartment, many people had already arrived. Family members were busy sorting through Dr. Wang's belongings, while the living room had been converted into a makeshift mourning hall. A simple altar held incense, candles, and fruit offerings. On the wall hung a couplet: "Grief cannot hold back the passing clouds; cries accompany the wild cranes' flight." At the center was Dr. Wang's portrait. Given that he was not even fifty, it was unlikely he had ever prepared for something like this. The photo, probably enlarged from an old ID picture, showed a younger Dr. Wang with a mischievous smile, as if something amusing had just happened before the shot was taken. The smile looked restrained, as if he was trying to suppress a laugh—quite the opposite of a forced grin; this was more like a genuine, internal chuckle.

Ethan snapped out of his thoughts, picked up three incense sticks from the altar, and lit them using the candle. He raised them respectfully over his head, then bowed three times before the professor's portrait. Dr. Wang's twelve-year-old son knelt to the right of the altar, bowing in return. Just then, a relative overseeing the arrangements approached Ethan and tied a white cloth around his left arm, saying, "You should go to the breakfast shop on the east side of the complex and get something to eat. We've ordered food there for everyone. After you eat, come back and help us load some of Dr. Wang's books and clothes into your car. We'll be leaving at seven sharp." Ethan nodded, "Alright, got it."

He glanced over at Dr. Wang's wife, who sat silently on the sofa, lost in her own world as people bustled around her. Occasionally, someone would ask her where to place an item, and she would barely respond, lifting a hand to point in a direction while softly murmuring an answer, before sinking back into her sorrow. Ethan thought of approaching her to offer some words of comfort, but then decided that perhaps leaving her alone in her grief might be the kinder gesture.

After a quick breakfast, the sky began to release large snowflakes. It was the first snow of winter, arriving with surprising force, making it difficult to keep one's eyes open. Ethan followed the procession of cars heading toward the funeral home. The journey was far from smooth; one of the cars in the convoy even got into a minor accident along the way. Upon arriving at the funeral home, the deputy party secretary of the college delivered a eulogy on behalf of the institution, addressing Dr. Wang's family and the assembled faculty and students. Then came a moment of silence, followed by the ritual of circling the coffin to view the body. Since Dr. Wang had passed away suddenly from a heart attack during the night, his appearance had changed little from the last time Ethan had seen him. Ethan found himself in a daze, wondering if, in a bizarre twist fitting of Dr. Wang's unpredictable character, he might suddenly sit up and shock everyone, laughing heartily at the prank he had pulled.

But, of course, nothing of the sort happened. Everything proceeded in the solemn, expected manner. After the service, people began to file out of the hall. As Ethan was nearing the door, a clear, bright voice suddenly called out from behind, "Ethan Yuwen! Ethan Yuwen!" He turned around, almost gasping in surprise, "Professor Feng? I can't believe you still remember me after all these years."

Professor Feng Yanqing was a petite, sharp-looking elderly woman. She wasn't very tall, dressed in a khaki professional suit, her hair neatly coiled at the back of her head. Her fair face was adorned with gold-rimmed glasses, and her lips were painted a vibrant red—like a striking peony blooming in a snowy field, impossible to miss. She exuded an air of sharp intelligence and efficiency, with a hint of inscrutable wisdom in her eyes.

Ethan hurried over to her, extending both hands from a distance. As he clasped her hands, he said, "Professor Feng, I'm so sorry I didn't notice you during the service. There were so many people. I'm amazed you still remember my name after all these years. And you haven't changed a bit!" Professor Feng smiled faintly, "Everyone perceives time differently. Time is like a great river, its flow not constant. Each of us is like a swimmer in this river; the direction you swim and the position you occupy affect both your relative and absolute speed." Ethan pondered her words, sensing the philosophical depth but unsure if he truly grasped their meaning. Just as he was about to delve deeper into the thought, Professor Feng abruptly changed the subject, "Do you enjoy fishing?"

Ethan felt a sudden pang of guilt, almost like a child caught in mischief, as he scratched the back of his head. "Professor Feng, to be honest, I bought a full set of fishing gear two years ago, but I haven't used it even once. It's embarrassing. I always procrastinate on things I decide to do, like fishing, like the trips I plan… I keep putting them off."

Professor Feng's voice remained clear but softened as she replied, "A gentleman knows what to pursue and what to avoid. He does what is right to do and refrains from what is not, for this is the path of a true gentleman. Since you have the fishing gear but haven't gone fishing, I believe that's wise. Fishing could bring bad luck and harm your health."

Ethan was taken aback. He had always known Professor Feng as a rigorous scientist, and her words seemed to echo more of a Buddhist perspective. He was about to inquire further when Professor Feng said, "Well, I have other matters to attend to, and you must be busy as well. We'll have the chance to talk again." With that, she walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

By the time the funeral proceedings had concluded, it was almost 10 a.m., and the snow showed no signs of letting up.

As Ethan Yuwen made his way back to the parking lot, he couldn't shake the words of Professor Feng Yanjing from his mind: "Everyone perceives time differently. Time is like a mighty river, and its flow is not constant. Each of us swims within this river, and the direction of our efforts and our position in it determine both our relative and absolute speeds."

He walked with his head down, mumbling the phrase to himself. But when Ethan reached the parking lot, he was startled to realize he couldn't find his car. The entire lot was blanketed in white, and what had been a sparsely occupied space earlier was now almost full. Every vehicle was buried under nearly a foot of snow, rendering even the license plates illegible.

Ethan tried to recall any landmarks near where he'd parked and began walking through the lot, pressing the remote key fob to locate his car. As he wandered back and forth, a bright red Volkswagen Beetle drove past him, its striking color stark against the snowy landscape. It reminded him of the red lipstick Professor Feng had worn—vivid and out of place, like a pop of color in a monochrome world.

Strangely, the Beetle's sleek surface was devoid of even a single snowflake. As the car passed by, Ethan glanced at its tinted windows, but they were too dark to see through. He marveled at the diligence required to keep a car so clean in such weather. Yet, something bizarre happened that made his blood run cold—the tire tracks left by the car disappeared almost instantly, as if the snow had never been disturbed.

Ethan crouched down to examine the ground, puzzled by how quickly the tracks had vanished. The snow depth was consistent with the untouched areas, which defied all logic. Even in the heaviest snowfall, it would take some time for tracks to be completely filled in, and there would still be visible depressions.

Standing up, Ethan turned to catch another glimpse of the red Beetle, but it had vanished. The parking lot was just a white expanse once again, with no sign of the car or its driver. He muttered to himself, "That was real, wasn't it? A red car just passed by me?" Doubts crept in—was he hallucinating from lack of sleep? To clear his head, Ethan scooped up a handful of snow, pressing it to his forehead to feel the cold bite into his skin. The sensation brought him back to reality.

After a few more presses of the key fob, he finally spotted his car's headlights blinking dimly through the snow, not far from where he stood.

It took considerable effort to clear nearly eight inches of snow from the windshield and side windows. Ethan tossed the snow brush into the trunk, slammed it shut, and quickly got into the car, shaking off the cold.

He rubbed his frozen hands together, blowing warm breath onto them to restore some feeling to his stiff fingers. Starting the engine, he slowly navigated his way out of the lot and toward the city. The roads were blanketed in snow, with more flakes relentlessly falling from the sky. He cranked the windshield wipers to their highest setting, trying to keep the windshield clear.

Along the way, Ethan saw several car accidents, each a testament to the treacherous conditions. He drove with heightened caution. But as he descended an overpass, he suddenly broke out in goosebumps. A multi-car pileup had just occurred ahead of him. He slammed on the brakes, but his car didn't slow down—the tires barely gripped the icy road, and the ABS kicked in, causing the brake pedal to vibrate and hum.

In those few critical seconds, Ethan tried every maneuver he knew to stop the car. He yanked the handbrake, shifted into park, and clung to the steering wheel with both hands, pressing his feet down with all his strength—one on the brake, the other braced against the floorboard. His body tensed, lifting slightly off the seat in preparation for the inevitable impact. "This is it," he thought grimly. "I'm going to crash." He braced himself, closing his eyes, every muscle taut in anticipation of the collision.

But the crash never came. Seconds passed, though they felt like minutes. When Ethan opened his eyes, the road ahead was empty, as if the cars he had seen just moments before had vanished into thin air.

He checked his rearview mirror. The pileup was now several meters behind him. Confused, he looked around to ensure he was indeed at a full stop, checking the dashboard to confirm. His breath came out in shaky gasps as the tension in his body gradually eased. He let go of the steering wheel, flexing his numb hands, which were stiff from gripping it too hard. Beads of sweat, cold and clammy, trickled down his forehead as his pores finally relaxed.

After calming himself, Ethan pulled his hood up, stepped out of the car, and inspected it, walking around twice to make sure there were no scratches or dents. Satisfied, he headed toward the site of the pileup. The drivers involved had already exited their vehicles and were busy calling the police and their insurance companies, discussing how to handle the situation.

Ethan approached the last car in the chain, a black Mercedes, and recognized it as the one he had narrowly avoided. Yet, something felt off... Before he could figure out what, voices behind him shouted, "Hey! Move out of the way!" A delivery van skidded toward him, tires screeching. Ethan barely jumped aside in time to avoid being hit. The van slammed into the Mercedes with a heavy thud, adding another vehicle to the pileup.

The Mercedes owner, clearly upset, lamented, "D*mn it, now the back's smashed too! This car's practically new!" He angrily berated the delivery driver, who looked equally distressed. "Didn't you see all the cars up ahead? Everyone had their hazards on! Why didn't you brake sooner?" The driver replied with a pained expression, "I saw them, I swear! I hit the brakes, but this van's loaded, it's heavy! And with these narrow tires, it just slid..."

Back in his own car, Ethan's thoughts were in turmoil. He wasn't shaken by the close call with the accident—he was disturbed by the fact that the crash he had been certain would happen, simply didn't. If he'd been uncertain about the red Beetle in the parking lot, this time he was absolutely sure. Every action he had taken, every reflex, every instinct, confirmed it had been real.

When Ethan finally arrived home, he headed straight to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. He stared at his reflection—his hair was overdue for a trim, his beard unkempt, and dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. The stress from his research project, which had hit a frustrating standstill, was etched into every line of his face. Long nights in the lab had brought little progress, leaving him physically and mentally drained. He collapsed onto the sofa and fell asleep almost instantly.

The shrill ring of his phone jolted him awake. Groggy, Ethan fished his phone out of his pocket. "Hello? Professor Yuwen, you didn't come to the lab this morning. Are you feeling alright? Is everything okay at home? Are you still attending the 3 p.m. meeting?" His assistant, Gao Lan, fired off her usual rapid questions, her voice as sharp as ever. Ethan had often thought her words carried more air than substance, so he only answered her last question—the most important one: "I'll be there. Just get things ready."

Hanging up, he checked the time: 2:30 p.m. He quickly splashed some water on his face, threw on his coat, and left his apartment, walking briskly to his office.