I had to re-examine this man whom I had practically regarded as a father.
He appeared right after Auntie Yang left me, educating me, guiding me, and giving me support and encouragement in my life. If it weren’t for him, I don’t think I would have become a police officer, nor would I have had the chance. He was a bit strict with Li Yi and me, but while he was in service, he indeed used his experience to lead us around many pitfalls.
Until he left the police station.
It was precisely during those years that the things he taught Li Yi and me began to shift. Instead of specific field experience, he leaned more toward conveying the intricate maneuverings of internal factions within the station. Besides merit and exams, what other ways were there to climb the ladder? In this regard, he was more preoccupied than Li Yi or I ever were. Previously, I thought he had simply been unyielding for too long and had suddenly realized the importance of worldly success, which was why he was so eager for us to climb upward step by step.
Who doesn’t want fame and fortune? I asked myself, and I am certainly not a man without desires. But I wasn’t fanatical about them either. Li Yi was even less so; even as an inspector, he would stay up all night playing video games, showing no trace of superiority over anyone else at all. However, both of us reached a consensus: money is vital, and without it, everything is impossible. Our mentor even scolded us for this, saying we carried too much of the “look of poverty.”
Over the years, he had indeed presented himself as someone with very low material desires.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t secretly questioned it in my heart. But people are complicated; he had been so good to me, even treating me like family, that I felt I really shouldn’t be quietly scrutinizing him like this.
But today, I suddenly realized that in his heart, I wasn’t actually considered a true family.
I am an outsider.
Thinking of that look in his eyes, I felt a long-absent sense of inferiority and unease; I wanted to leave immediately and made sure to shut the door behind me on my way out. But I was no longer that child who believed there was no place for me between heaven and earth. I had to stay, or I would hate myself for a lifetime.
After comforting Shimu, I pulled Shanshan into another room to talk. I learned that the results for some specific tests wouldn’t be out for a few more days. Seeing her despondent expression, I found myself tongue-tied, unable to say anything more to ease her mind; I only knew that hospitalization was a necessity. I still had some savings, so I pulled out my card and pressed it firmly into Shanshan’s hand.
“Brother Chao,” she whispered with head bowed while clutching my extended hand. Her fingertips were ice-cold.
In that instant, I realized she was trembling. She had also suddenly changed how she addressed me; not “Senior,” but “Brother Chao.”
It felt as though the two of us were standing before the charred ruins of a sect’s gateway with our hands clasped, yet both were speechless. The sanctuary that had sheltered our childhood and youth was gone; the person we had lived with day in, and day out had undergone a sudden, violent change in character. The harsh realities of the world and human nature had surged up to our doorstep in a heartbeat.
I thought she must be even more devastated than I was. I couldn’t imagine how things would have unfolded or what Shanshan would have faced alone if Shimu’s illness hadn’t been discovered until the late stages. Just a few years’ difference was enough to transform her into a completely independent person, an adult who would cast off all shackles of blood relation and head into the rainforest alone.
She was brave, and I truly wanted to praise her bravery.
But at that moment, looking at her tracksuit, her lowered lashes, and her cold fingertips, I wished more than anything that she could have stayed innocent and happy forever, instead of enduring so much hardship and friction only to eventually harden into a resolute adult.
I gave her a hug.
That night, my mentor never returned. Shanshan went with her mother to the hospital, while I stayed behind at the house to pack some things.
Sitting in the living room, I hesitated for a long time over whether to call Li Yi.
In my memory, our mentor had always been indulgent toward Li Yi; the two of them often shared laughs together. Li Yi, who was in his thirties, had even told our mentor everything without hesitation after he grew suspicious of me.
Perhaps our mentor simply found the news hard to accept, or perhaps something had happened recently, leaving him with emotions he needed to process on his own. None of this meant I would completely break ties with him, let alone that he now stood in opposition to me. I had my doubts about him, but for now, they were just doubts, nothing was proven yet.
Therefore, there was no need for me to mentally predetermine which side Li Yi would take.
But the moment the call connected, I fell silent, unable to help but ask myself:
How much should you tell Li Yi? To what extent? Do you really want to drag him into this? Do you need him to experience all of this with you?
Doubting what you once possessed is a path that only feels more fractured the further back you trace it.
On the other end of the line, Li Yi waited a few seconds before pressing, “Senior? Senior? What’s wrong? Why aren’t you saying anything?”
The moment I heard his voice, I suddenly remembered the surveillance footage of him showing up at the door. That was nearly ten years later, the version of him who persisted in searching even after the whole world told him I was dead.
Li Yi is on my side.
I took a deep breath. When I finally spoke, I realized I was trembling, and my voice was thick and raspy from having held my breath for too long.
I said, “Shimu is sick. You probably need to come to the hospital.”
Li Yi suddenly turned serious. After asking a few brief questions about the situation, he said he would head to the hospital immediately and then hung up.
He had always stood by my side.
But there are some paths I intend to walk alone.
I picked up the photograph on the television stand; it was a picture of my mentor and Shimu when they were young.
They were only in their thirties then. My mentor wore a blue shirt with unique, dark burgundy buttons. Shimu wore a loosely tailored, semi-embroidered, cream-colored qipao; adorned with tiny plum-blossom prints. The two of them leaned against each other, smiling faintly at the camera.
They had been in love.
Yet sometimes, I still wonder: what exactly is love?
Does it just vanish suddenly?
I set the photo frame down, adjusted it until it was straight, and took one last look.
With the bag in hand, I switched off the lights in the house one by one, locked the door, and slowly made my way down the stairs.
Just as I was about to enter the alleyway I had to pass through, the phone in my pocket began to buzz. I hitched the bag higher on my shoulder, checked the caller ID, and, after hesitating for a few seconds, answered.
“What is it?” My tone was somewhat impatient.
On the other end of the line, Zhang Mingsheng gave an answer that didn’t match the question, “Officer Yu, are you unhappy today?”
He was always like this; suddenly appearing in my life, interrupting everything, dragging me into a space that belonged only to the two of us, whether mentally or physically.
“I’ve walked so far my legs are about to break. You tell me, am I happy?”
I still remember the few seconds when he drove past me; even his exhaust fumes looked smug and carefree.
“I originally wanted to give you a ride, but you said you didn’t want me to follow you,” Zhang Mingsheng said, feigning helplessness. “I heard Auntie sent someone to drop you off. How was the driver? He didn’t go around honking his horn like a madman, did he?”
I kept my head down and walked forward, turning out of the alley. “He was decent enough. But Sister Azhu’s man arrived quite late. I’d already finished a quarter of the journey by the time she suddenly decided to send someone.”
“Wether in life or in business, judge a person by their actions, not their intentions. Sister Azhu has a lot of character.” Zhang Mingsheng replied. Even over the phone, I could imagine his beaming face.
I took a few more steps, then heard a faint rustling behind me. Setting Zhang Mingsheng’s words aside for the moment, I turned back to look.
Streetlights, a gray road, and a quiet night.
There’s not even a soul in sight.
Zhang Mingsheng called out through the receiver, “Hey, Officer Yu, are you still there?”
“Of course I’m still here,” I answered crossly. I craned my neck and watched quietly for another moment; after confirming that no one was there, I turned back. “It’s not like I’m going to be suddenly kidnapped.”
Who else but you would do something so pointless?
“This is a society ruled by law; how could such a thing happen?” Zhang Mingsheng spoke lazily, drawing out his words.
“If you don’t have anything serious to say, then hang up. I have things to do and no time for idle chatter.”
“Wait—Officer Yu, I just wanted to ask if you wanted to go see her.”
“See who?”
“My mother,” Zhang Mingsheng said. “I happen to be going, so I wanted to ask if you’d like to come with me.”
I fell silent.
I didn’t know if I was ready.
For a long time, I believed she had simply left my life for somewhere else; later, I learned she was dead. I had always found it impossible to accept.
Between life and death lies a brutal wound; one inflicted by the dead but endured by the living.
More than sadness, I felt despair and a sense of trance-like detachment.
And her tombstone would be the only thing capable of shattering whatever lingering hope I had left.
“If you don’t want to, you don’t have to force yourself.” Zhang Mingsheng said, his voice softened.
I sighed and said, “I’ll go.”
Longing is the punishment the deceased leave for the living; if the feelings are deep, one shouldn’t be lazy about it.
“Good.” Zhang Mingsheng agreed.
I let out a breath and continue walking forward.
“But, at this hour, what are you busy with? Do you have a date?”
“Is your watch fixed yet?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then take a look at another clock,” I said. “It’s already ten o’clock. If I’m going on a date now, it can only be in bed.”
“Don’t go,” Zhang Mingsheng said. “It’s dangerous.”
