Chapter 71

And Liu Zhiyi would surely have things to tell from school — like being late that morning and, out of rotten luck, running into the class teacher supervising morning reading, then being made to stand at the back as punishment.

Or like the school food being awful that day, wheedling her mother for a little more pocket money to go eat out with classmates.

But what they talked about most was —

The boy: "Which school do you want to apply to?"

Liu Zhiyi: "Are you reading my memory?"

"No, no, no." The boy shook his head fast. "I don't have that skill; it's just my body's unconscious reaction."

Because of the cat-head prop again?

The boy: "Though the cat-head prop makes me like your mother, a prop is, in the end, born of feeling — what it reflects is still your feelings."

Liu Zhiyi: "What are you trying to say?"

The boy: "Stay."

Liu Zhiyi had often quarreled with her mother over studying and working away from home.

It seemed to be the norm for many parents — wanting their children by their side, not too far away.

"You said all that just to lie in wait for me here."

Liu Zhiyi gave a laugh.

Her first twenty-odd years, growing up in Yiling.

Liu Zhiyi didn't like it here.

Not a developed city, roads forever under repair, traffic forever jammed because of the roadwork, and blowing layers of sand.

So she didn't understand why her mother always wanted her to stay in this city, when, for the major she'd picked in college, there were hardly any jobs to choose from here.

Mother: "Sit the civil-service exam — a civil servant is stable."

Liu Zhiyi had had enough of stable.

Study hard at school, steady and sure, and now, graduated, find a stable job with no future.

And last, marriage.

Mother: "Then find a partner in Yiling, a local if you can — no mortgage to pay, less pressure."

Liu Zhiyi hated Yiling.

Liu Zhiyi: "I always used to think of leaving here, the farther the better, but… how is it that I did leave?"

People really are strange creatures.

When family is here, you think of getting as far away as you can.

But once they're gone, you start to regret — why didn't you keep them company more, say more to them.

The boy: "Then this time — stay."

"Shut up."

Liu Zhiyi covered her face.

She didn't want to hear the boy anymore; some things, even as she felt herself slowly letting them go, still ached dully when she recalled them.

"Are you crying?"

The boy ran over and stood before her.

"Sorry, did I say something wrong again?"

Liu Zhiyi was in a turmoil, and his coming close vexed her more.

"Don't talk to me."

"I can't help it." The boy's yarn eyebrows knit tight. "But when I see you, I can't help wanting to say a lot of things."

"The parent-child bond really is hard to fathom."

The boy plopped down on the ground, propping his face in both hands, but his face still turned toward Liu Zhiyi.

The pose made Liu Zhiyi think of her mother again.

When she quarreled with her mother it was like this too — whether it was the change of life or not, once a quarrel started, Liu Zhiyi would hold back, not wanting to say more hurtful things, but her mother would go on muttering without stop.

And when it finally went quiet, her mother would find somewhere to sit like this, and steal glances at her.

Then, once her attention had shifted over —

The boy: "Would you like some sweet-and-sour ribs?"

Yes — she'd answer just like that.

And then the family quarrel would come back, in the end, to the dinner table; maybe for her mother, making a dish she liked was the way to voice an apology and make peace.

"Can't you just keep your mouth shut?"

Liu Zhiyi shouted.

The boy finally went quiet.

Having shouted, Liu Zhiyi felt regret again.

Not regret toward the boy, but regret for the vicious way she'd once behaved quarreling with her mother.

Those hurtful words from before, the disregard for her mother's feelings, the blame she'd laid on her mother…

In this moment they all became knives circling back to stab into her.

Liu Zhiyi knew the things she couldn't let go of were all small things of daily life; before, she wouldn't have minded them, and her mother wouldn't have either.

But her mother was dead.

And she couldn't help thinking — if she'd worked locally, if she'd stayed by her mother's side and helped care for her grandmother, if she hadn't gone away to work.

Would things be different now?

The boy: "So I say, having feelings means self-torment — you people always romanticize the road you didn't take."

Liu Zhiyi looked up.

"You peeked into my heart again?"

The boy sighed and raised a hand to point ahead.

"I didn't peek — look for yourself."

Liu Zhiyi looked where he pointed.

The gray-tiled, white-walled house built by the lake had risen a stretch, set into the old apartment block.

Her grandmother's house and her mother's house fused together.

A ring of branches and leaves wound around the walls, tuft after tuft of little yellow flowers budding on them — osmanthus.

"A dungeon may be no good thing, but on reflecting a person's heart it's quite honest."

The boy sighed.

Liu Zhiyi caught the key word.

"Is this my dungeon, or yours?"

The boy paused, tipping his head to gaze at the covered reflection of the city.

"You still haven't given up — why do you insist on going out?"

He seemed genuinely puzzled by it.

"Yiling has none of your family now, and it isn't safe, and even if you went out you couldn't do anything. Why?"

Actually, the boy was right.

Rationally, Liu Zhiyi knew she most likely couldn't change anything, and staying here was safer.

But she just couldn't do it.

Like seeing a kitten soaked in the rain at night, she couldn't help wanting to move it somewhere sheltered; like seeing someone fall by the roadside, she'd instinctively step forward and help them up.