Five

Sha Zhouyin owned very few things—just a couple of changes of clothes, which Teacher Ding had only recently bought for him, all of which fit into a single schoolbag. When Huang Qi offered to see him off, he stopped her at the door. “What’s the point? I’ll be back at school tomorrow. It’s not like we’ll never see each other again.”

He was right. He was only going to sleep at his aunt’s house each night; during the day and evening self-study sessions, they’d still be in the same class, not much different from before. Yet... why did everything feel so different now?

Huang Qi ignored his wishes, quietly taking a side path through town. From afar, she watched him climb onto the back of her uncle’s motorcycle and speed down the newly paved road out of town. She ran along a little trail that paralleled the main road, chasing after the motorcycle until it grew distant, leaving her behind. She thought she saw him glance back, looking toward the place where they’d grown up together.

Along the way, she passed two older women from town carrying baskets, returning home. One of them spotted the speeding motorcycle and, sharp-eyed, immediately recognized him. “Look, isn’t that little Yin? Whose bike is he on? Where is he off to so late?”

“That’s his uncle from Houtang Town, surely taking him to live with them,” the elder woman replied.

Her companion was surprised. “I didn’t know he had an uncle there. I’ve never heard about that.”

The elder woman explained, “When little Yin’s grandfather passed away years ago, he left behind three tiled rooms—all went to his son, nothing but two carrying poles and a basket for his daughter. The siblings fell out over the inheritance and haven’t spoken since. That was before little Yin’s father even married—a good twenty years ago. You wouldn’t know; you moved here later.”

The other woman clicked her tongue. “That family sure has its share of drama. At least little Yin has relatives now. His aunt and uncle must have a bit of conscience.”

The elder woman scoffed, “Conscience? It’s all about money! Boss Sha left quite an estate, and little Yin isn’t even of age. If they adopt him and, heaven forbid, something happens to his little brother, all that property ends up theirs. If true siblings can fall out over three shabby rooms and not speak for decades, never visiting for weddings or births, do you really think they’re taking him in out of kindness?”

The other woman pursed her lips. “Who would turn down something for nothing?” Noticing Huang Qi following behind, they exchanged glances and said no more.

At dinner, Huang Qi asked Teacher Ding, “Mom, could our family adopt little Yin? You and Dad always say you treat him like your own child. Can’t you just make it official?”

Teacher Ding placed some braised pork with dried bamboo shoots into Huang Qi’s bowl. “It’s not that we don’t want to. But his aunt and uncle are insisting on guardianship. They’re blood relatives; the law is on their side.”

Huang Qi lowered her head and muttered, “They only want Boss Sha’s inheritance. They’ll never truly care about him.”

“Where did you get that idea? Don’t talk nonsense,” Teacher Ding chided gently.

“Isn’t it obvious? You were arguing with them about this in the principal’s office, weren’t you? His aunt thinks we want his family’s money, that’s why she was so harsh and rushed to take him away, right?”

Teacher Ding and Mr. Huang exchanged glances but said nothing.

Only a child as naïve as herself would believe an aunt who’d been absent for over twenty years would suddenly care deeply for her nephew, moved by the bonds of blood. How foolish. Little Yin must have realized this long ago, which is why he agreed to move in with his aunt, telling her parents, “Don’t make things harder for yourselves.” He was more sensitive and perceptive than she’d ever been. If she was so upset, how much worse must it be for him?

She chewed on the dried bamboo shoots in her bowl, unable to swallow the bite of meat no matter how hard she tried. Tears fell into her rice. “Mom, why didn’t you make braised bamboo shoots and pork yesterday? It’s little Yin’s favorite dish, and he didn’t get to eat it before leaving...”

Teacher Ding quickly wiped away her tears with a handkerchief. “Don’t cry, darling. I made a big pot today. Why don’t you invite little Yin over for lunch tomorrow? Let him have as much as he likes, all right?”

She could invite him for lunch tomorrow, but she couldn’t do it every day. Even if she did, the carefree days of before would never return. She couldn’t replace his parents; she was only a fourteen-year-old girl herself, who cried when she felt wronged—nowhere near the indomitable Lord Huang she imagined herself to be.

She had no way to protect him.

She abandoned her bowl and ran into little Yin’s room. His books and clothes were all gone, leaving only an empty desk and bed. The quilt on the bed was neatly folded, and the pajamas her father had lent him were placed tidily by the pillow. Even in chaos, he never forgot to keep himself in order, never caused trouble for anyone. He was such a good boy—why did he have to endure more hardship than anyone else?

She threw herself onto his quilt and wept. Now that he was gone and couldn’t see her, she no longer needed to pretend to be strong.

Her parents tried to comfort her, saying little Yin’s aunt cared about appearances and wouldn’t mistreat him, at least not outwardly. At first, his aunt was attentive, having her husband drive the motorcycle to pick him up and drop him off every day. After more than half a month, his uncle grew weary of the task and made him ride an old bicycle to school by himself. It was a discarded bike, rattling loudly, making his commute an hour longer each day, forcing him to get up before dawn.

As the new term began, the weather gradually turned cold. After a cold front swept through, the temperature dropped ten degrees overnight. Yesterday, Huang Qi had still been in shorts and sandals; after a night of rain, she had to change into a thick school uniform.

Today was her turn for morning duty, so she left at half past six. Mist clung lightly to the riverbank. As she approached the bridge, she saw a familiar silhouette sitting on the stone pier.

Countless times she had walked home from school with little Yin. Her house was closer, on this side of the river; his, just across the bridge. Every day, they’d wave goodbye at this very spot. She could recognize his figure in an instant.

Her uncle’s battered bicycle leaned against the railing. He sat on the pier, legs dangling over the edge, the river swollen from the rain lapping at his feet. Little Yin couldn’t swim. Teacher Zhou forbade him from playing near the water, and he always listened—never venturing close. He’d never done anything so dangerous before.

She watched as he bent down, stretching his hand toward the water, his body leaning perilously over the river. Panic-stricken, she rushed forward, grabbing his backpack strap and hauling him back. “What are you doing, little Yin? Get down!” She didn’t let go until she’d dragged him off the stone pier and onto the bridge.

Sha Zhouyin picked himself up, brushing sand from his clothes. “Oh, it’s you, Qi. You’re early today.”

Huang Qi scolded him, still breathless, “What were you doing up there?”

He gave a faint smile. “It rained last night, and my shoes got muddy. I came to the river to wash them.”

“Why not go to the dock? Why climb up there and dangle your feet—so dangerous! What if... what if... You can’t even swim! Did you forget your mother never let you near the water?”

His smile faded. “Of course I remember. I almost drowned once as a child. After that, Mom had a lifelong fear of water—even playing with the tap at home would get me a lecture. Just now, I was wondering if, if she knew I was by the river, would she come and stop me...”

A sharp pain gripped her heart. He went on softly, “When you pulled me back, I actually thought... just for a moment, that Mom’s spirit had come for me. But it was you, Qi.”

She stammered, “I can’t be your mother, but... I care about you as much as she did. Seeing you about to fall in scared me half to death, you know?”

“You thought I was going to jump?” He looked at her. “No... I wouldn’t, Qi. I wouldn’t.”

His gaze made her uncomfortable, and she turned away, glancing around for distraction. From across the river came clanging, hammering sounds. She seized on the topic. “Hey, what’s all the noise over there so early in the morning?”

Just across the river stood Sha Zhouyin’s old home. Boss Sha had been wealthy, his courtyard three times the size of anyone else’s, with a waterside pavilion stretching over the riverbank—a mark of pretentious refinement. Only one neighboring family, Huang Qi’s distant uncle, shared the riverside. The noise came from his house.

Sha Zhouyin said, “They’re tearing down the house so they can build a new one on New Street.”

“But Uncle’s house was built two years after ours. Isn’t it still good? Why tear it down so soon—” She stopped, instantly regretting her words. She never learned to think before she spoke.

Sha Zhouyin’s tone was calm. “Maybe they think it’s unlucky to live next to us now. There aren’t any other families nearby. People get nervous.”

“It’s getting late! I’m on duty today. Let’s go or we’ll be late!” She hurried over and grabbed his arm, only to find he was still wearing his summer uniform, his arm cold to the touch. “It’s freezing! I’m in my jacket already—why are you still in just a shirt?” Little Yin always felt the cold more than she did; every autumn, he’d add layers before everyone else.

He pulled his arm away. “It didn’t feel cold when I left. Halfway here, I realized. But I’m okay—it’s not that cold.”

“Not cold? Your hands are freezing!” She gripped his arm, refusing to let go. Up close, she saw a faint yellow stain on his shirtfront—the spot where she’d accidentally splattered tofu sauce two days ago, a ring the size of a ping-pong ball, clearly only dabbed at rather than fully washed. She noticed, too, that his collar was grimy, his hair unwashed and oily, clinging to his scalp.

When Teacher Zhou was still around, he bathed and changed daily, winter or summer, as clean and fresh as his mother. Even the thrifty neighbors, half envious, half mocking, would say only someone as rich as Boss Sha could spoil his family so.

Suddenly, it all made sense—why he wore the same shirt for three days, why his hair was greasy, why he hadn’t added a jacket even in the cold. She remembered how Li Mingzhi’s mother had scolded him for an hour in the middle of town just for tearing his uniform in gym class, and how little Yin had never understood such things. She thought of his aunt, whose sharp, calculating nature was just like Li Mingzhi’s mother. Her own parents were open-minded teachers and life was comfortable; back then, she hadn’t understood either. But now, holding his ice-cold arm, she understood—understood the shadows and harshness that grew out of hardship.

Little Yin, always more perceptive than she, surely understood, too. And from now on, he would have to live with those shadows and that hardship. She had only seen him becoming an orphan, but that was just the beginning. What followed was a thorough upending of his whole life, a mire he could never escape.

Who was it that said: One day, when the sky is no longer clear blue, the clouds are no longer pure and white, the leaves are no longer lush and green, and the flowers are no longer vibrant, you have grown up.

For Huang Qi, growing up began that year, in her third year of middle school.

She took off her school jacket. “It’s too cold for just a shirt. Wear mine for now; I’ll go home and get another.”

“No, I’m fine—”

“Just wear it! Who’s in charge here, you or me?” she snapped, putting the jacket on him, stuffing his arms into the sleeves and zipping it up. The jacket was a bit small for him now that boys their age were shooting up, and the shirt hem stuck out beneath, looking a little ridiculous. She’d tugged too hard, catching the fabric in the zipper.

Lord Huang’s stubbornness flared. She tried to force the zipper up with brute strength.

Sha Zhouyin watched her struggle, not stopping her, because he could see the tears in her eyes. She wasn’t wrestling with a zipper—he knew why she was angry and upset. But life was like that zipper: everyone wants it to glide smoothly, but there are always bits of fabric that get in the way. The harder you pull, the tighter the jam.

“Why is this zipper so useless! The quality is terrible—it keeps catching! I’m done! You fix it yourself—I’m going home for another jacket!” she growled, tossing the jacket at him and turning away, wiping her face quickly as she walked.

He looked down at the mess she’d made of the zipper and, gently working the fabric loose, freed it without difficulty. The knot that had seemed so hopeless was, after all, easily undone.