Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I seem to have forgotten many, many things. I keep trying to recall them, yet they remain out of reach.

Ten years after my death, I finally saw the first person to ever come visit me.

It was my father, though not the father I remembered.

He had aged significantly. He walked with a limp and looked as weathered as an old man.

I saw him cry-something that didn’t exist in my memories.

“Tangtang, those bastards are dead. They’re all dead.”

After saying this, he covered his face and sobbed in agony. The tears were unstoppable; he wept like a child.

My father cried at my grave for a very long time, as if he were purging a lifetime’s worth of tears.

Once he finished, he looked even older. Standing before my tombstone, he seemed so frail that a gust of wind might blow him away.

In my memory, he was powerful, capable of knocking down men taller and stronger than himself with a single punch.

He stayed by my grave all night.

He said, “Your dad isn’t a good man. So, in your next life, keep your eyes open when you’re reincarnated. Choose a normal family at the very least-and make sure they love you so you won’t have to suffer any grievances.”

I couldn’t answer him. I could only watch as he talked to himself.

At dawn, he stood up and started walking back. I tried to follow him and successfully managed to leave my fixed range of movement.

I glanced back at my grave once before following behind my father.

This place was remote; it took a long walk before we encountered anyone.

I watched a pair of women who were laughing and chatting. When they saw my father, their expressions shifted instantly to fear and taboo.

I heard their hushed voices.

“That’s him. He’s the one who killed those people ten years ago. He hacked that man into over a dozen pieces, then turned himself in right after.”

“Ah? That’s so brutal?”

“Yeah, I heard he only turned himself in for his daughter’s sake.”

The two women drifted further away. I looked back at them for a moment, then continued following my father.

Limping, my father returned to our home.

After I graduated from elementary school, the family had a bit of money, so my father moved us here.

I went to see my room. Everything inside was untouched, exactly as it was in my memory.

Leaving my room, I pushed open the door to my father’s bedroom. In the most conspicuous spot, I saw a note.

“Can’t fight anymore, and definitely can’t have a criminal record. Tangtang wants to be a civil servant.”

The handwriting was ugly, like a primary schooler’s, but I could imagine how earnest he had been when he wrote those words.

I found a notebook in my father’s desk. Opening it, I saw a line of crooked characters on the title page:

“May 14th. I saw my flower.”

…

“If you could return to the past and live for ten years, when would you want to go back to?”

Suddenly, a voice echoed in my mind.

He said he was entrusted by my father and could grant me one wish.

“When my father was eight years old. I want to see his childhood.”

“Very well,” he agreed.

…

When I opened my eyes again, I was standing on the streets of Qingshi Town, appearing as I did before I died.

This place was remote, and there wasn’t a soul around.

This was where my father had lived since he was a child.

My father never spoke to me about his past, but I had pieced together from the snippets of others that his childhood was miserable.

His father died when he was five. At six, his mother abandoned him and ran away. No one was willing to adopt him; he had survived all on his own.

When I found my father, he was crouching in a corner, wolfing down food.

It was a filthy, grimy steamed bun.

“Su Qi,” I called out his name for the first time.

He turned his head, his gaze wary and guarded as he looked at me.

“I’m a friend of your father’s. From now on, I’ll be your guardian.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Looking at him, I saw none of the traits an eight-year-old should have.

He was excessively precocious. The hardships and pain he had endured forced him to view the world with nothing but suspicion.

I had no way to make him believe me, but I could take the few dozen yuan I had on me and buy him a full meal.

At the dining table, I watched him inhale the noodles. In less than two minutes, the bowl was empty.

I pushed my untouched bowl of noodles toward him.

He looked at me like I was a fool.

“I’m not hungry.”

He didn’t say anything, just picked up my bowl and continued eating.

Soon, that bowl was finished too.

“Still hungry?”

“Not anymore.” He wiped his mouth haphazardly with his sleeve.

“Have you been hungry for a long time?” I asked.

“Obviously,” his voice remained prickly. “No one cares if I live or die, so where would I get food?”

He was only an eight-year-old child, lacking even the most basic ability to work or skills to survive.

“Then what did you eat before?”

“Whatever I could find. If I couldn’t find anything, I went hungry,” he said with an air of indifference.

“Follow me. I can promise you won’t go hungry,” I said.

He looked at me, clearly tempted, but he still added, “You’d better think this through. I’m just a burden.”

“It’s fine.” I had been his burden for over a decade, after all.