<The Sound of Sharpening>

Chen Cheng set up his knife-sharpening stall in a corner of the market, and had been there for forty years. A long bench, a whetstone, a bucket of water. He charged fifty yuan for each knife he sharpened, and hadn't raised his prices in forty years. When people asked why, he'd say, "Sharpening knives isn't business, it's waiting." Every morning, he was the first to arrive at the market, setting up his bench in the usual spot, and then he'd start sharpening. The blade against the stone, back and forth, making a rhythmic sound. The market vendors all recognized this sound, like an alarm clock, signaling it was time to open their stalls. He had a habit: before closing up each day, he would sharpen an extra knife. He never sold this knife. After sharpening it, he'd place it beside the bench, and sharpen it again the next day. Day after day, that knife was ground so thin it was like a cicada's wing, almost transparent. Someone once asked him what he did with that knife. He replied, "I'm waiting for its owner to come and get it." On New Year's Eve thirty years ago, a young boy squatted by his stall, watching him sharpen knives for the entire afternoon. The boy said his father was also a knife sharpener, who passed away last year, leaving this knife behind. The knife had become dull, and he didn't know how to sharpen it, so he wanted to ask Chen Cheng for help. Chen Cheng took the knife, looked at it, and said, "Come pick it up tomorrow." The boy said, "Okay, tomorrow is New Year's Eve, I'll come get it then." The next day, the boy didn't come. Chen Cheng waited until closing, but the knife was still in his hand. He put it in his toolbox, thinking he'd return it the next day. The next day, the boy still didn't show up. A month, a year, ten years passed, and the boy never appeared. Chen Cheng inquired around. Someone in the market mentioned that the boy had been in a traffic accident on New Year's Eve and didn't survive. Chen Cheng never returned the knife to anyone. He kept it.