chapter 3

Chapter 3

Whenever there was a major exam, my father would always wait for me outside the examination hall.

He would stand by his bicycle, his eyes earnestly fixed on the door. When I finished and came out, squeezed among the crowd and rushing toward him, I found that he was still searching for me.

I called out to him, and he would suddenly light up with joy, giving the seat a hearty slap, “Son, you’re done? Let’s go home!”

I would jump onto the back seat, animatedly boasting about how easy the questions were. He would just smile, tell me to stay humble, and pedal even harder, bringing a refreshing breeze along the way.

My father carried me on his bike: up hills, down slopes, along mountain paths and muddy roads. The wheels kept turning, rolling through the years; his shoulders gradually stooped, yet he remained proud and strong.

Because they had become habits, I took such little things for granted, as if they were the laws of the world. My father was a silent and steadfast support, allowing me to concentrate wholly and move forward.

But once that law was broken, all I had left was panic and confusion.

I looked around outside the exam hall, running and calling, describing the appearance of an ordinary middle-aged man to passersby. But precisely because he was so ordinary, no one paid attention.

I searched everywhere, aimless and anxious.

I thought it couldn’t be anything serious-maybe he had gone home first.

With this thought, I went home alone. But my father hadn’t come back either.

My father was missing.