Morning dawned gray over Beijing. It was October, and the smog hung between the skyscrapers like a dirty curtain. In Jingshan Park, north of the Forbidden City, five people stood in a circle. They moved slowly, their arms rising and falling like branches in the wind.
Li Meifang was sixty-two years old. Beside her stood her husband, Wang Dequan, three years her senior. The other three were younger: Zhang Wei, a thirty-year-old engineer, his wife Chen Ling, and her brother Chen Ming.
They were practicing Falun Dafa. The first exercise. Their movements were fluid and silent. Not a sound came from them. Only the rustle of their clothes and the distant hum of traffic.
The camera on the lamppost rotated. Its red light blinked twice. Somewhere in a control room, an algorithm registered the movements. The software compared them to a database. Match. Falun Dafa. Exercise one.
Eight minutes later, a black van pulled up. Six men got out. They wore civilian clothes, but their movements were those of men accustomed to uniforms. The leader's name was Zhao Guoqiang. He was forty-three years old and had worked for Office 610 for fifteen years.
"Come with me," Zhao said. He said it softly, almost kindly. He didn't need to shout. The cameras were everywhere. The algorithms were everywhere. There was no escape, and everyone knew it.
Li Meifang lowered her arms. She looked at Zhao. Her eyes were calm. "We haven't done anything wrong," she said. "We were just practicing."
Zhao smiled. It was a smile without warmth. "We decide," he said.
Office 610 was a gray concrete block on the outskirts of the city. It had no signs, no markings. Just an address that wasn't listed in any register. On the third floor, the five practitioners sat on plastic chairs, their hands on their knees. In front of them was a metal table. Behind it sat Zhao Guoqiang.
“It’s very simple,” he said. He slid five sheets of paper across the table. “You sign this declaration. You commit to never practicing Falun Dafa again. Then you go home. Today. Your families are waiting.”
Zhang Wei took the sheet. He read it. “Declaration of Renunciation” was written at the top. Below it was a text that forced him to say that Falun Dafa was evil, that he had been deceived, that he was sorry.
“And what if we don’t sign?” he asked.
Zhao leaned back. “Masanjia,” he said. The word hung in the air like a judgment. “Re-education through labor. Three years. Five years. Maybe more. Time passes slowly there. Very slowly.”
Chen Ling began to cry. She was twenty-nine years old. She had two children at home. A four-year-old girl, a two-year-old boy.
“Think of your children,” Zhao said. His voice was soft. Almost fatherly. “Think of your parents. Of your work. Of everything you are losing.” He took a pen from his pocket and placed it on the table. “A piece of paper. A signature. That’s all.”
Wang Dequan spoke for the first time. He was sixty-five years old. He had survived the Cultural Revolution, the famine, the years of chaos. His voice was calm.
“Truthfulness,” he said. “Compassion. Forbearance. That is all we practice.” "That's all we believe in."
Zhao slammed his hand on the table. "Enough," he said. His mask of friendliness slipped. "You have until tomorrow morning. If there's no signature by then, you're on your way to Masanjia." He stood up and walked to the door. He stopped there and turned around. "Think about it carefully. There are people who never get out of there."
The door clicked shut.
The night passed. In the cell, the five practitioners sat in the lotus position. They meditated. Their faces were peaceful. Outside, in the office, Zhao Guoqiang drank tea and smoked a cigarette. He thought about his quota. Five conversions would be good. His superiors would be satisfied.
Then, at 3:37 a.m., something happened.
At first, it was just a tremor. The teacup on Zhao's desk began to rattle. Then the light changed. It came from everywhere and nowhere. It was golden, and it grew brighter and brighter until it hurt his eyes.
Zhao ran to the window. What he saw froze him.
The sky over Beijing opened up. Not like during a thunderstorm, not like during an earthquake. It opened like a curtain drawn aside by an invisible hand. Behind it was light. Pure, white, indescribable light.
Time stood still. The clocks stopped ticking. The cars in the streets stopped. People everywhere in the world froze. A second stretched into eternity.
And then He appeared.
The Creator. The Being older than the universe itself. He did not speak. He needed no words. Every person on Earth heard His voice deep within, in the language they understood.
"The time has come," Zhao heard. "Judgment begins."
In the cell, the five practitioners began to glow. It was not an external light. It came from within, from their hearts, from their souls. Li Meifang opened her eyes. She smiled. It was the smile of someone finally coming home.
The walls of the cell vanished. They were no longer important. Nothing that humans had built to imprison other humans mattered anymore.
The five practitioners ascended. Slowly, gracefully, like angels spreading their wings. The golden light enveloped them. Around them, all over the world, the same thing was happening. People imprisoned in camps, in jails, in hospitals, people who had suffered for their faith—they all began to shine and rise.
Zhao Guoqiang stood at the window and saw it. He saw Li Meifang and her husband, Zhang Wei and his wife, and Chen Ming rise through the roof as if it weren't there. He saw them float higher and higher, toward the light.
Then the judgment struck him.
It wasn't a voice. It was a knowledge that was suddenly there, complete and inescapable. He saw his life. Every interrogation, every blow, every threat, every person he had broken. He saw the faces of the people he had sent to Masanjia. He saw what had happened to them there. He saw everything.
Zhao fell to his knees. His face was as pale as ash. "I was only following orders," he whispered. "I had no choice. They would have punished me." My family—"
The answer came without words. It was simply there, like a mirror reflecting his true face.
You had a choice. You always had a choice. Everyone has a choice.
All over China, all over the world, the persecutors fell to their knees. The agents of the 610 Office, the labor camp guards, the judges who had handed down the sentences, the doctors who had participated in the organ harvesting, the party officials who had watched and remained silent. They all saw what they had done. They all heard the verdict.
The ground opened beneath Zhao. It wasn't an earthquake. It was something else. Something older than the earth itself. He looked down and saw darkness. Endless, bottomless darkness.
"No," he cried. "Please. I repent. I—"
But it was too late for remorse. The time for mercy had passed.
He fell. And with him, all the others fell. All the members of the Chinese Communist Party who had participated in the persecution. All the officials, all the soldiers, all the informers. All those who had worked for the party while knowing what the party was doing. All those who had looked away as their neighbors were taken away. All those who had remained silent when they heard the screams.
They fell into the darkness that seemed endless.
When morning came, the world was different.
The sky over Beijing was blue. Not the dull blue behind the smog, but a pure, deep blue, the likes of which no one had seen for generations. The sun was shining, and its rays were warm and welcoming.
The people who remained stepped out of their homes. They were the righteous. Those who had refused to participate in the persecution. Those who had silently helped. Those who had not sold their consciences for money or power or security.
They looked up at the sky and understood.
Why evil cannot be excused. The day will come when one must answer for one's actions. Not before a court of men that can be bribed or intimidated, but before the court of the One who sees and knows everything.
In Jingshan Park, where five people had peacefully exercised the morning before, the trees were in bloom. It was October, but they blossomed as if it were spring. Their blossoms were white and gold, and their fragrance filled the air.
An old man sat down on a bench. He had never betrayed his neighbors. He had never signed a police report. He had sometimes left food on their doorstep when he knew that the family of someone arrested was starving.
He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun. For the first time in many years, he was no longer afraid.
Evil had been judged. Good had endured.
And the sky over Beijing was blue.
S.
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