The Plating Master's Bride

Half a year later, the Bright Line Electroplating Workshop hung up a sign reading "Nangang Old Industrial Craft Demonstration Site." The workshop did not become a museum; it still took orders and still ran its plating tanks—it had only gained a clean reception room, where Andy's father's old plating racks hung on the wall. Lily had an ID card. In the name field was written "Lily Lin," and she had chosen the photo herself. She had been smiling the whole time it was taken; the photographer said he had never seen anyone so happy in an ID photo. She could no longer hear electric current. Tank No. 3 had been saved, but her body had changed too. She began to feel hungry and sleepy, and in winter her hands and feet turned cold; she learned to cook, though her first pot of rice still came out undercooked. She no longer needed to put her hands into the plating bath every day. Andy asked her whether she regretted it. She said she did not. She said that before, she had known only the sound of metal; now she knew the sound of rice porridge boiling, the sound of rain falling on a tin roof, and the sound of Andy downstairs calling her to eat. On their first wedding anniversary, Andy turned off the workshop lights, leaving only a small lamp beside Tank No. 3. Lily stood by the tank, looking at the water's surface, and suddenly said, "Andy, look." Deep in the plating bath, a faint silver light floated up, like a ring, or like a star. It flashed only once, then sank again. Andy held her hand. Her hand was warm. "Let's go," he said. "Time to go home and eat." Lily nodded and followed him out. At the doorway, she looked back at Tank No. 3 and said softly, "Thank you for giving birth to me." No one in the workshop answered. Only the rectifier in the night emitted a low, steady hum.