I slept with my sister's classmate, and she turned out to be my boss.

10 PM.

Zhou Deming sat on the sofa, still staring at the bag.

His 23-year career flashed through his mind like a movie.

When he first came to Liuhe Town, he was just a young man, wearing a faded polyester shirt, following behind the old director, learning to do the accounting step by step.

The old director taught him: "Deming, those of us in finance must have steady hands and upright hearts. If your hands are unsteady, you won't keep good accounts; if your heart is not upright, you won't go far."

He remembered those words for twenty-three years.

But when did his hands start to become unsteady?

It was probably the third year that Fang Zhiwen came to Liuhe Town.

That day, Fang Zhiwen called him to his office and handed him a payment approval form. The amount was not large, only 200,000 yuan, and the purpose was listed as "infrastructure maintenance in the park".

He signed the document because he knew the project actually existed and the money was indeed spent where it was needed.

Later, the amount became larger and larger.

Three hundred thousand, five hundred thousand, one million.

Its purpose is becoming increasingly ambiguous.

"Other expenses," "preliminary project costs," and "unforeseen expenses"—these terms are all permitted under financial regulations, but they are like black holes; once the money goes in, it never comes out again.

He asked that too.

Fang Zhiwen would always smile and say, "Old Zhou, this is necessary for work. Don't worry, all the paperwork is in order."

The paperwork is indeed complete.

Every transaction has an approval form, every transaction has a leader's signature, and every transaction complies with the formal requirements of the financial system.

What can a finance office director do?

Refuse to sign? Then don't do it.

If someone else signs it, the money will still go out, and he won't even have the chance to "know" about it.

So he signed it.

One year, two years, five years, ten years.

He thought that as long as the paperwork was complete, it wasn't his responsibility. But the old director's words had been echoing in his mind all these years: "Keep your hands steady and your heart upright."

His hands were never steady, and his heart had long since strayed.

Zhou Deming closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them.

He stood up, went to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and pulled out an old canvas bag from the very back.

The off-white canvas had turned yellow, and some threads were coming undone at the edges. A line of faded red text was printed on the bag opening: "Liuhe Town Finance Office, 1998".

This was left to him by the old director the year he retired.

The old director said, "Deming, this bag has been with me for ten years. Now I'm leaving it to you. You'll need it someday."

He hasn't used it yet, but it's time to use it today.

Zhou Deming placed the canvas bag on the coffee table and untied the knot in the black garbage bag.

A musty smell hit me, mixed with the rancid smell from the trash can.

Without frowning, he took the receipts out of the trash bag one stack at a time and arranged them next to the canvas bag.

2018. 2019. 2020.

Every single one of them was yellowed, with curled edges and brittle pages.

Zhou Deming opened the first voucher from 2019. The payment voucher for 50 yuan was still on the first page, along with the contract, invoice, acceptance report, and all the attachments.

Fang Zhiwen's signature in the approval column was written in a flamboyant and elegant style;

Qian Cheng's signature was neat and tidy in the acceptance column;

His own signature was at the very bottom, neat and proper.

He stared at his signature for a few seconds—those three words, which he had been signing for twenty-three years, never felt so heavy as today.

Without hesitation, he pulled out the voucher separately.

Then there's the second document—the true record of Fang Zhiqiang's land expropriation compensation.

These are not the kind of fabricated accounts that are broken down and listed in summary tables; they are the original measurement records, compensation agreements, and distribution lists.

Fang Zhiqiang's name appeared only once, referring to the 17.5 mu of land requisitioned and the compensation amount of 140 million yuan.

The person who handled the matter signed Zhou Min, the approver was Qian Cheng, and the final approver was Fang Zhiwen.

Zhou Deming's finger paused on that line of numbers.

17.5 mu, 140 million.

How much of this money did Fang Zhiqiang receive?

he does not know.

All he knew was that every penny that left the Liuhe Town Finance Office was signed by him personally.

He couldn't control where the money went.

But he knew exactly how the money went out.

He also pulled out this bottom line.

The third document is the original contract of Hongda Trading.

It wasn't one of the newer batches of contracts; it was the original batch. The paper was yellowed, and the ink had faded, but every word was still clear.

The contract amount was 800 million, but the actual supply was less than 300 million. The remaining 500 million was paid in cash but the goods were not delivered.

This 500 million is the thing Fang Zhiwen least dares to let people see.

If the provincial audit team obtains this contract and compares it with the inventory in the Economic Development Zone, the 500 million yuan shortfall will be exposed.

At that point, it won't just be a matter of "irregular accounting," it will be embezzlement.

Zhou Deming also pulled out this contract.

The fourth item – a sum of money handled by Fang Mingyuan.

That happened last year. The province allocated a special fund, originally designated for the edible mushroom base in Shuangqiao Town.

However, after the money reached the county finance bureau, it was transferred to Liuhe Town under Fang Mingyuan's instructions.

Du Jianguo signed the document, Fang Zhiwen handled it, and Zhou Deming was the executor.

Where did this money end up?

The money went into Hongda Trading's account, was transferred four times, and then disappeared from the accounts.

He didn't know where the money ultimately went, but he knew that Fang Mingyuan's name appearing on this financial chain was itself a ticking time bomb.

Zhou Deming stacked the receipts separately, wrapped them in an old newspaper, and stuffed them into the lining of his canvas bag.

Then he opened his son's WeChat and sent a message.

"Are you going back to the provincial capital tomorrow?"

A few minutes later, the son replied: "Yes. This afternoon train."

"Call me when you arrive."

"Dad, is something wrong?"

"It's okay. Call me when you arrive."

After sending the message, he deleted the chat history and put his phone aside.

Zhou Deming put the remaining vouchers back into the black garbage bag and tied it up.

These are things to be "destroyed"—but not actually destroyed.

He picked up his phone and dialed Fang Zhiwen's number.

It rang twice, then the call was connected.

"Secretary Fang, it's me."

"Has it been dealt with?"

Fang Zhiwen's voice came from the other end of the phone, sounding clearly urgent.

"It's being processed. I want to burn it for you in person to show you. Don't worry, it's all prepared here. Come and take a look, and we can all feel at ease."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"Okay. I'm coming over now."

The phone hangs up.

Zhou Deming stood in the center of the living room, holding his phone, and looked around his home.

The old house, where I've lived for twenty years, has walls that are a bit yellowed, and a thin crack in the ceiling that runs from the east wall to the west wall.

The furniture in the living room was bought the year we got married. The leather on the sofa was worn white, and a piece of wood was chipped off the corner of the coffee table.

Twenty years have passed.

He lived here for twenty years, signed his name in this spot for twenty years, and dreamed on this sofa for twenty years.

After tonight, everything will be irreversible.

Fang Zhiwen arrived very quickly.

He came in wearing a dark jacket and his hair was a little messy. His gaze swept around the living room and landed on the black garbage bag on the coffee table.

"That's all?"

"That's all." Zhou Deming pointed to the garbage bag. "Original receipts from 2018 to 2020. What needed to be replaced has been replaced, and what needed to be replaced has been replaced. These are the originals; keeping them is just asking for trouble."

Fang Zhiwen nodded without saying anything.

Zhou Deming picked up the garbage bag, walked out of the living room, through the kitchen, and into the backyard.

The backyard was small, with a row of red bricks against the wall and some miscellaneous items piled up in the corner.

He placed a tin bucket in the middle of the yard—it was bought ten years ago when he moved in, and it was used to burn leaves and garbage.

He poured the receipts from the garbage bag into the tin bucket, one stack at a time.

The paper fell to the bottom of the tin bucket with a dull thud.

Fang Zhiwen stood at the kitchen doorway, watching his actions without saying a word.

Zhou Deming took out a bottle of industrial alcohol from his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and poured it evenly onto the vouchers.

The smell of alcohol was pungent and made his eyes sting.

He didn't rub it, but squatted down and took out a lighter from his pocket.

The lighter was in his hand, and he stared at the yellowed pages.

These papers contain accounts from Liuhe Town over the past twenty years.

Every income, every expenditure, every grant, every reimbursement.

Some are clean, some are not.

The clean money is what's used for road repairs, school construction, and salary payments;

The money that is not clean is that which is swallowed up by "other expenditures", digested by "unforeseen expenses", and covered up by "special funds".

But he could never distinguish whether there was something unclean hidden inside something clean, or something clean mixed in with something unclean.

All he knew was that once the fire started, they would never be able to tell the difference again.

Fang Zhiwen's voice came from behind:

"Old Zhou, burn it."

Zhou Deming took a deep breath and pressed the lighter.

A flame suddenly shot out, the small orange-red flame flickering uncertainly in the night wind.

He held the lighter to the edge of the tin bucket. When the alcohol touched the flame, with a "whoosh," the flame suddenly shot up, reaching about half a person's height.

The orange-red firelight reflected on their faces.

Zhou Deming's face flickered in and out of the firelight, his eyes half-closed as he stared at the burning pages.

The paper curled, turned black, and turned to ash in the flames. The ash spun and rose in the hot air, landing on his hair and shoulders.

He didn't move, just squatted there, watching the words, numbers, and accounts he had personally signed disappear little by little.

Fang Zhiwen stood behind him, the firelight flickering on his face.

His expression finally relaxed a bit, his shoulders slumped slightly, as if a large stone had been lifted from his shoulders.

"Old Zhou."

Fang Zhiwen's voice was much calmer than before.

"Thanks a lot."

Zhou Deming shook his head, his voice slightly hoarse: "It's only right."

He didn't turn around because he didn't want Fang Zhiwen to see his eyes—in his eyes, there were not the papers turning to ashes, but a canvas bag, an old, yellowed canvas bag with faded red lettering, lying quietly in a suitcase under his bedroom bed.

The truly deadly things are not in the fire.

The flames gradually diminished.

The paper in the tin bucket had been burned into a pile of black ash, with only one or two sparks occasionally flickering in the ashes.

Fang Zhiwen stepped forward and glanced at the ashes in the bucket.

He reached out, took an iron rod, and poked around in the ashes a few times.

The ashes scattered, and there was nothing left inside.

All that remained was black, light, wispy gray.

Fang Zhiwen put down the iron rod, turned around, and patted Zhou Deming on the shoulder.

"Old Zhou, from today onwards, the affairs of Liuhe Town have nothing to do with you. You are clean."

Zhou Deming stood there without saying a word.

"Clean?"

He silently repeated those two words in his mind.

For twenty-three years, his hands have never been clean.

"Secretary Fang, please go back. I'll take care of things here."

Fang Zhiwen glanced at him, nodded, and turned to leave.

Zhou Deming stood alone in the courtyard, watching the ashes being blown about by the wind.

My phone vibrated.

He took it out and saw that it was a message from his son.

"Dad, I'm arriving in the provincial capital tomorrow afternoon. The suitcase you asked me to pack up last time, I haven't touched it under the bed. Do you want me to get it?"

Zhou Deming stared at the line of text, his finger hovering above the screen. He typed a few words, then deleted them.

He thought for a moment and replied:

"It's okay. Just keep it safe. Don't mention it to anyone."

"Okay, Dad."

Zhou Deming deleted the chat history and put his phone in his pocket.

He squatted down, poured water to extinguish the ashes in the tin bucket, then shoveled them into a plastic bag, tied it shut, and placed it next to the trash can—tomorrow morning, the garbage truck would take it away to the landfill outside the city, bury it in the ground, and no one would ever see it again.

He went back inside, closed the door, and went into the bedroom.

Pull an old suitcase out from under the bed and open it.

The suitcase contained a few seasonal clothes, which were placed on top.

He lifted his clothes, revealing a yellowed canvas bag underneath.

The canvas bag was tied tightly at the top, and he touched the knot at the top with his finger—it was still there.

He took a canvas bag out of his suitcase, hugged it to his chest, and sat on the edge of the bed for a while.

The contents of the bag represent another version of this story.

Not the version that was burned, but the real one.

He dared not show it to anyone, nor could he bear to show it to anyone.

He won't hand them over.

At least not now.

But he will no longer destroy them.

This thing can save his life in a critical moment!

Zhou Deming put the canvas bag back into the suitcase, covered it with his clothes, zipped it up, and pushed the suitcase back under the bed.

My phone rang. It was a WeChat message from Fang Zhiwen, with only one sentence: "Old Zhou, you've worked hard tonight. Get some rest."

Zhou Deming stared at the line of text without replying.

He turned off the light, lay on the bed, and silently recited in his heart: "One fire, two paths. One is burned for others to see, the other is kept for myself to walk."