Jingwei set the coffin beneath the tree, then began pecking at its trunk. One peck, another, and another. Her beak grew blunt, wore down, and bled, but she never stopped. Day after day, month after month, year after year.
She pecked a hole into the trunk. It grew wider and deeper until, at last, it became a room.
She carried the coffin into the hollow and placed it in the very center.
The women looked at the painting and thought of the spiral staircase they had just climbed, of the marks inside the hollow tree. So Jingwei had carved out this staircase and this treehouse, one peck at a time.
"How long did she peck at it?" Yang Wanqing's voice had gone hoarse.
No one could answer.
The sixteenth painting. Jingwei gathered a certain kind of stone from all over the world, carrying them back in her beak. Some were large, some small, and their colors varied, but all of them glowed. She brought the stones back and placed them in the man's mouth.
With every stone, she pecked a drop of blood from her own wing and fed it to him along with the stone.
In the painting, Jingwei's wings were covered in wounds. More than half her feathers had fallen out, exposing the blue-green skin and deep gashes beneath. But her eyes had not changed. That same stubborn light remained, refusing to give up.
The seventeenth painting. Spring gave way to autumn, cold to heat. Different backgrounds marked the passage of time—spring flowers, summer rain, autumn leaves, winter snow. Jingwei kept doing the same thing: carrying stones, dripping blood, and feeding them into the man's mouth.
There was no end.
The murals ended here. The final wall was bare, with nothing on it.
The women stood before the