Chapter 7: “Did you come to see my dad, or to find me?”

Tong Xilin had set all of Kong Ji’s contact methods to be pinned to the top of his chat list and marked as “Special Attention.” Although they lived under the same roof, and rarely needed to communicate over the phone, whenever Kong Ji contacted him, he would always connect or reply immediately.

But just now, with his father’s photo still clutched in his hand, he suddenly didn’t feel like answering this call.

“Is that your phone? It keeps buzzing,” Zhou Qi, sprawled on his bed, looked over his shoulder. He stretched his leg and nudged him with his foot. “What are you spacing out for? Answer it.”

Tong Xilin rubbed the edge of his phone for a moment, then sat down on the edge of Zhou Qi’s bed and answered.

The video feed lagged for the first two seconds after connecting. On Kong Ji’s end, the screen showed an empty room; judging by the scene, he was in the bathroom, the phone seemingly placed on the sink counter. The lens faced the overhead light on the ceiling, and a faint whirring sound came through the background.

He called out, “Uncle.” Then Kong Ji appeared in the frame, drying his hair.

The bottom-up angle was actually quite unflattering, but Kong Ji’s bone structure was so absurdly good that, combined with the casual motion of running his fingers through his hair, he made it look effortlessly lazy and chic, like a fashion supermodel shooting a top-down editorial.

“Where did you go to play,” he asked again, his tone still unreadable.

“Home,” Tong Xilin said.

Kong Ji paused the motion of drying his hair. He turned off the hairdryer, rested his arms on the counter, and stared at him through the screen.

The video call suddenly fell into stark silence, magnifying the game sounds from Zhou Qi’s phone, which rang out with a resounding “victory.”

“Who’s with you,” Kong Ji asked again.

Zhou Qi really hadn’t intended to say hello. He held a blanket dislike for all teachers and parental figures.

But hearing his friend’s uncle ask directly, he tossed his phone aside and leaned over, conveniently plopping his chin right into the hollow of Tong Xilin’s shoulder, pressing his face next to his to greet him. “Hello, Uncle. That’d be me.”

Tong Xilin didn’t move, holding the phone steady, watching Kong Ji through the lens.

Kong Ji sized up the two faces pressed together on his screen, just like the first time he’d seen Zhou Qi outside the school gate. He just offered a brief smile, not bothering to respond.

Zhou Qi was more than happy to escape further questioning. After the greeting, he pushed off Tong Xilin’s shoulder to get up, grabbed his phone, and headed to the bathroom, shutting the door to continue his battle.

With only him left alone in the room, Kong Ji finally pressed on. “Why did you just up and leave?”

“I mentioned it to you before,” he lowered his eyes and picked at the edge of his sock, mumbling out the explanation, because the excuse really didn’t hold much water.

He had indeed slipped away just before Kong Ji could notice, wanting, on one hand, to quickly find his father’s photo and confirm his suspicions, and on the other hand, hoping to see his reaction.

Kong Ji didn’t press further about his acting on his own. He picked up his phone and walked to the living room, settling back into the sofa. He drew one leg up until his foot rested on the sofa edge, his wrist draped casually over his knee as he held the phone, switching to a different question. “Homesick?”

His tone of voice shifted too.

Much gentler.

He raised his eyes to look at him again and responded with words he wasn’t sure were genuine or not. “I miss my dad.”

In the half year Tong Xilin had spent with Kong Ji, one thing was very strange: neither of them ever voluntarily brought up Tong Yuzhi.

Except for that first meeting at the hospital, when he asked how his father had died; and then recently when he’d asked if Kong Ji cared for him because of his father. This was only the third time they’d mentioned him.

The video call’s image quality was inherently slightly blurred. His hair was still a little damp, casting a faint shadow over his eyes, making his expression somewhat obscure. He turned his head aside to light a cigarette.

“When do you plan on coming back,” he didn’t take up that topic, continuing his line of questioning instead.

“The day after tomorrow,” he said. “It was too late today. Tomorrow I plan to visit my dad’s grave and then show Zhou Qi around.”

Zhou Qi came out of the bathroom, his phone hot in his hand. Tong Xilin had already ended the call. He was splayed out on the bed like the character for “big,” still holding his father’s photo up in the air.

“Trying to claim my bed, huh?” Zhou Qi squeezed in next to him, crossing his legs. “Or are you terminally dad-sick, needing a warm body beside you?”

He wasn’t in the mood for his jokes. He kicked him, not too gently, and held the photo up again before his face. “Where do he and I look most alike?”

“The eyes, I guess,” Zhou Qi gave it a casual glance. “Windows to the soul.”

Tong Xilin sat up. He pulled his scarf over, covering half his face, and asked again, “Like this, does it look even more alike?”

“Alike,” he nodded. “One look and you know you’re blood-related.”

Tong Xilin, wrapped in his scarf, stared blankly for a moment, then went back to his own bed.

The silence of a small town at night was the inverse of its chaotic noise in the morning.

The hotel faced the street. Downstairs was a row of supermarkets, shops, and breakfast diners that started roaring by five or six in the morning. The noise of car engines and horns paraded through relentlessly. There was also an elementary school across the intersection; the chattering of the kids and the occasional ranting parents contributed a maddening amount of decibels.

Having only fallen asleep around three in the morning, Zhou Qi was collapsing from the ruckus, miserable, his head burrowed under the covers like a silkworm cocoon.

Tong Xilin didn’t wake him. He got up as quietly as possible, washed up, wrapped his scarf securely, and headed out.

He was going to sweep his father’s grave.

Before Tong Yuzhi died, Tong Xilin had never experienced the funeral rites for any family member.

Father and son were like an isolated island rooted in this small town. With no relatives to associate with, naturally, he had no experience in these matters. So when it came to sweeping a grave, he had no idea if there were any particular customs, what he ought to buy.

Standing in front of the hotel, he thought for a moment, then turned into the convenience store next door. Imitating what he’d seen in TV dramas, he bought a stack of yellow joss paper for burning to the dead. Then at the flower shop by the intersection, he bought a mixed bouquet of yellow and white chrysanthemums.

The joss paper came in heavy bundles, and the bouquet was oversized, filling up both his hands entirely.

He wrestled them into the trunk, got into the cab, and gave the driver the address of the cemetery. Sitting in the backseat, looking down and rubbing the pressure marks on his palms, he abruptly recalled that pervasive loneliness from the two years he lived alone after his father’s death.

He checked in at the cemetery gate, then headed toward the most remote corner of the grounds, following the path in his memory.

This was the cheapest plot area in the whole cemetery.

Rows of tombstones stood in silent emptiness, some clean, many caked with dust.

Tong Yuzhi’s grave fell into the latter category.

The photo on it had completely bleached and faded after nearly three years of wind and sun, leaving only a blurry outline.

Tong Xilin pulled out a tissue and wiped it clean. He arranged the joss paper and flowers in front and slowly crouched down, staring blankly at the whitened photo.

He should be feeling longing.

He should want to cry.

He should at least feel sadness.

But he felt no emotions whatsoever inside. He pulled out his phone, opened that painting in his WeChat Moments, and held it up to the photo of his father. His chest just sank with an indescribable, bitter flavor.

Tong Xilin really wasn’t a fool.

The moment he’d learned of Kong Ji’s orientation, he had vaguely guessed at the nature of his relationship with his father.

What their relationship had been.

He just hadn’t wanted to delve any deeper.

“Is the resemblance good?”

He flipped the phone screen around, pointing the painting at the photo on the tombstone. He asked softly. He didn’t even know if he was asking about the resemblance to his father, or to himself.

Naturally, Tong Yuzhi wouldn’t answer. In his completely faded photo, there wasn’t even a hint of an expression left.

Just like the sixteen years of his life before, in his attitude toward his son.

Tong Xilin never used to understand whether his father actually loved him or not; after all, he didn’t have a spare dad to compare.

Now, thinking carefully, maybe his father had only ever fulfilled the responsibility of raising him, with absolutely no surplus of paternal love to speak of.

He was actually quite selfish, too.

A WeChat message from Zhou Qi cut through his tangled thoughts. It asked where he was, complaining he’d woken up to an empty room.

Tong Xilin stood up. He didn’t want to stay here and dwell any longer. He’d just started typing a reply when he heard the sound of footsteps. He looked over, continuing to type, but had barely finished the message when a pair of familiar boots appeared in his peripheral vision.

Kong Ji, wearing a black coat, stopped right in front of him and lifted a hand to tousle his hair.

“How did you…” The motion of typing froze. He was completely stunned, unable to believe it.

“Have you paid your respects to your father?” Kong Ji asked in return.

Tong Xilin nodded, tucking his phone away.

Kong Ji didn’t offer any explanation. He walked past him, stopping before Tong Yuzhi’s grave. He bent down slightly and from his pocket, produced two pieces of chocolate, placing them atop the joss paper.

He glanced at the tombstone’s photo, the image now reduced to only the barest outline of light and shadow. His thumb lifted, brushing it so lightly. Then he turned back and pulled Tong Xilin into his side.

“Finished? Then let’s go.”

Tong Xilin didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at those two chocolates.

Lindt.

He always had them at home. Kong Ji would buy a lot and keep them in the fridge, only occasionally remembering to eat one.

“My dad didn’t like sweets,” he suddenly raised his head, staring at him without blinking, and declared with utter certainty.

When Tong Yuzhi was alive, he had never proactively bought sugary things for the house. When he was very young, his father would sometimes buy him the simplest little sponge cakes, or fruit jelly, and other cheap, low-quality candies.

He never bought chocolate.

As he grew older, reaching an age where snacks held no curiosity or longing, even those little treats virtually disappeared from their home.

Kong Ji met his stare. His fitted black turtleneck clung close to his neck, setting off his superior features even more starkly, his pupils a heavy, sinking black.

“And you,” he tugged his scarf up higher, a light scrape against the bridge of his nose.

Just like that light brush over the photo a moment ago.

Tong Xilin opened his mouth. He had never told him he didn’t like sweets either. Now, he wanted to say, “I don’t like them either,” but the word “either” stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.

Holding it in for a long moment, he reached up and pulled the scarf down, revealing his full features. In a muffled voice, he said, “I’m okay with them.”

Kong Ji’s eyes showed that knowing look he had anticipated. He pulled another piece from the pocket of his coat, placed it into his hand, and lifted a leg to start walking out of the cemetery first.

Tong Xilin turned his head for one last look back at the grave, then followed behind him. He unwrapped the chocolate and put it in his mouth.

Way too sweet.

He bit through the soft center. The overly cloying flavor coated his entire mouth.

It was so sweet, it almost flipped over into tasting bitter and astringent on his tongue.

He kept walking until they had exited the cemetery and were standing at the busy intersection. Swallowing the mouthful of chocolate, he called out again: “Uncle.”

“Mm?” Kong Ji turned his head back.

“Did you come to see my dad, or to find me?” Tong Xilin asked.

Kong Ji, with his long legs and tall frame, stood at the intersection of this small town, exuding an aura of complete displacement.

After a silence under the watchful gaze of Tong Xilin, he offered his signature casual, indifferent smile. The corners of his eyes curved very faintly. “Of course, to find you.”

He reached his hand over and pulled the scarf back up over his face.

“It’s cold. Wear it properly.”