Chapter 1

It was so cold.

The chill seemed to creep through the soles of his feet into his very bones. Chen Annan sat on a double bed in the inner room. Outside, a jumble of voices rose and fell; he faintly caught the sound of sobbing.

The drafty door had been covered with a thick cotton cloth, yet the smell of smoke and ash lingered stubbornly in his nose, seeping into the very air.

The cotton cloth was lifted. The wind stirred the charcoal brazier inside the room, swirling into a tiny vortex of ash.

“Come out and give your mom one last kowtow,” the neighbor auntie said as she walked in.

When Chen Annan was carried outside, the courtyard was packed with people. In the dim main hall, a few white mourning banners hung, fluttering in the wind.

This funeral was attended only by neighbors and acquaintances. No relatives.

Inside the cramped room, those sitting on the long benches were all sobbing with heaving shoulders, occasionally wailing. Those sharp, keening voices seemed to carry some kind of magic, and before long, they spurred on even more crying. As they wept, they recounted all the kindnesses this family had once shown.

The auntie carried Chen Annan inside. White paper flowers were scattered all over the ground by the door.

He clung quietly to the auntie’s shoulder, eyes fixed straight ahead, neither crying nor fussing.

“Such a pitiful child.” Someone said, “His father passed away when his mom was pregnant with him. Mother and son barely survived the hardest times, and just when life was starting to look up, his mom left too. This kid isn’t even five yet… what’s going to happen to him now?”

Sighs were carried on the wind. Chen Annan only listened. The auntie set him down and told him to kowtow a few times to the coffin; it would be taken for burial soon.

Chen Annan obediently knelt. The icy chill from the floor tiles seeped through the cracks into his knees.

Following the auntie’s instructions, he kowtowed nine times.

In his line of sight, a photo frame rested on a chair. The person who had been alive just a few days ago was now confined within that small frame, her smile as serene and gentle as before—only, this time drained of color.

This was the last image his mother left for Chen Annan.

Afterwards, the coffin was hoisted by several men onto a cart and taken away. The crying outside swelled instantly, swirling and echoing through the small main hall, like wandering ghosts unable to find an exit.

Chen Annan still didn’t cry.

Some said the child was hard-hearted, not even making a sound when his mother was gone. Others said he was too young to understand that life’s separation meant death’s farewell.

Chen Annan only listened. The auntie carried him to the brazier to warm his hands by the fire, and took two biscuits from a tin box for him, telling him to eat if he got hungry.

That biscuit tin had been sitting there for a long time. Inside were only a handful of stale crumbs and a few softened biscuits. Chen Annan obediently accepted them, clutching them in his palm.

The rituals ahead were long and tedious. It was cold, and there was no need for a small child to tag along.

Chen Annan stared blankly at the old wooden cabinet. The biscuits in his hand had already gone soft from his warmth. The crying that seemed to drift near and far truly felt infectious, making his own chest tremble.

His gaze shifted back to the photo frame on the chair. The photo inside was a few sizes too small; it didn’t fit the frame properly. No one knew where it came from—its edges were already yellowed.

The photo also didn’t really look like his mom before she passed. There was no swollen body, no faded eyes, no disheveled hair. Those messy locks had become two neat braids.

Chen Annan remembered what his mom had said while lying in bed: she was just going on a long trip and would come back after some time.

Those words looped in his mind thousands and thousands of times. After hearing them so often, he came to believe them himself. Mom wasn’t gone for good; what was there to cry about?

It was just that this winter was truly too cold. If only Mom were here. Chen Annan buried half his face in his scarf, but the moment the exposed skin met the wind, it still hurt like needles pricking.

In the dead of winter, the mourning hall was blasted by cold drafts. When people spoke, their mouths were so stiff they couldn’t enunciate clearly.

“Ah… so young, and she’s gone. The child she left behind is so pitiful. Only four years old, and both parents gone. The days ahead are long… What’s going to happen to him?”

“He’ll be sent to an orphanage, I suppose.”

“I heard not,” the adult’s voice dropped low. “Do you know that the man of this house had a sworn brother? A few years ago, when the man passed, it was that sworn brother who arranged the funeral. This time, he came again.”

“I’ve seen that brother come around quite often… He always brings lots of things, seems well-off. Do you think maybe…” The voice grew quieter and quieter, drowned out by the uneven sobs.

Chen Annan couldn’t hear anymore.

“Aiyo aiyo, pah pah pah! You can’t say things like that carelessly. They’re dead—talking like this is disrespectful to the deceased.”

“I just heard that the man also got divorced from his wife. And with this family being an orphan and a widow… well, these things have happened before.”

“Ah ah ah! Those are two different matters, two different matters…”

“I’m just saying offhand. I heard that man’s surname is Lu, comes from a good family, and works as a university teacher now. The benefits are pretty good…”

Suddenly, a heavy bang interrupted the gossip. The startled women turned their heads and saw a young boy had given the charcoal brazier a hard kick.

The brazier tipped sideways. Wind whipped up the ash, sending sparks flying high.

Chen Annan was also startled, cowering back in fright and dropping the biscuits in his hands.

The boy who kicked the brazier was much taller than Chen Annan. He wore a padded jacket, his small face wedged between thick layers of collar, drawn tight, making his features look especially deep.

“Whose kid is this?” the gossipy woman said with an awkward laugh.

The woman next to her tugged at her, murmuring into her ear: “That’s the Lu family’s boy.”

“If you want to gossip, go home and do it. Don’t wag your tongue in someone else’s house. Aren’t you afraid they’ll come demanding your life in the middle of the night?” The boy’s tone was unfriendly, his gaze seemingly wanting to burn holes right through these women.

The women exchanged looks, nudged each other, and shuffled off to another side.

The boy picked up the fire tongs from the ground and walked toward Chen Annan.

Chen Annan couldn’t help shrinking back, blinking timidly at him. But the boy merely used the tongs to poke the coals in the brazier.

The fire blazed up at once. The boy tossed a stack of spirit money into it.

The flames instantly devoured the scraps. Chen Annan heard him say, “Are you mute? You’re willing to listen to others talk about your mom like that? I’m not even willing to hear them talk about my dad that way.”

Chen Annan didn’t answer. He hadn’t really caught what those aunties were saying in the first place. Even if he had, he couldn’t understand the implications. A four-year-old kid, what could he know?

He felt hungry. He crouched down, picked up the biscuits from the ground, and was about to put them in his mouth.

The boy smacked them out of his hand. The biscuits went rolling far away: “Are you stupid or what? Not even afraid of getting dirty?”

Chen Annan looked up at him, his eyes brimming with helplessness. His small hands clutched the hem of his clothes.

The boy rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a lollipop, unwrapped it, and handed it to him: “Eat this.” He said nothing else, got up, and stalked away.

Chen Annan sat back on his stool. The lollipop melted in his mouth, spreading a sweet strawberry flavor.

After some time, the crying in the mourning hall gradually dispersed. The lollipop had dissolved completely, leaving only the sweetness lingering on his tongue.

The sky darkened. A final streak of blue shone through the gray haze. The fire in the brazier was just about to go out.

People began helping to tidy up the last remnants. The neighbor auntie stepped back in through the front gate, carrying a long strip of white cloth that fluttered in the wind.

She strode over to Chen Annan. Seeing that he was still sitting on the same stool without having moved an inch, she scooped him up into her arms and pinched his cheek: “Such a good boy.”

Chen Annan wrapped his small hands behind her neck. He heard her ask, “Do you need to pee?”

Chen Annan shook his head, then turned and saw that the auntie’s eyes were very red, the tip of her nose red too—whether from the cold wind outside or not, he wasn’t sure.

The auntie rubbed his head and adjusted the collar of his padded jacket: “Nannan, you have to remember what Auntie told you these past few days.”

“Your mom’s going away on a really long trip this time and won’t be able to look after you anymore. Soon, an uncle will come to take you. When you see him, you must call him ‘Uncle,’ understand?”

Chen Annan nodded.

“You have to be sweet-mouthed. That’s how you’ll be liked in someone else’s home, and only if they like you will they keep you. Got it? You absolutely must be obedient… Don’t cry or fuss. Kids who love to cry are different from us. You have to be a good boy…”

The auntie’s voice grew heavier with a nasal tone, and she couldn’t continue.

Just then, a man strode in through the main gate. The boy who had been standing in the courtyard spotted the man and followed him in. The two entered the main hall, one after the other.

The auntie wiped her eyes with her sleeve and gently turned Chen Annan’s face toward the man: “Nannan, this is your Uncle Lu. Do you still remember him? Back when your mom was still here, he held you before.”

Chen Annan blinked, silently watching, not making a sound. From behind, the auntie quietly nudged him, signaling him to greet the man.

The man smiled at him, a gentle smile: “The last time I held him was over half a year ago. How could he still remember?” There was warmth in his eyes, like a lotus pond in midsummer, still carrying the residual heat of the sun’s scorching.

“That’s true. The child’s so young, he doesn’t remember things,” the auntie sighed. “This child is truly pitiful…” She wiped away a tear and continued, “His parents gone so early… what’s going to happen from here on?”

“That’s all in the past now. The days ahead are long; after all, we have to keep moving forward. We still have a road to walk,” the man said.

The two talked about adult matters. Chen Annan couldn’t understand. He hugged the auntie’s neck and looked down, seeing that boy from earlier.

He had seen this fierce big brother before.

Maybe because he’d been standing in the courtyard just now, the boy’s cheeks were still flushed from the wind, the childlike softness tempering his coldness. Or maybe because of that lollipop, he didn’t seem quite so fierce anymore.

Sensing the gaze from above, the boy suddenly lifted his head and looked over.

Chen Annan instantly buried his face in the auntie’s neck, pretending he hadn’t been looking.

The auntie patted the child’s back, wiped away tears, and said, “The child is shy around strangers, but he’s so well-behaved, very likable. When you take him back, he’ll be easy to raise.”

“It doesn’t even have to be that well. Just enough to feed him and keep him alive will do… His parents in heaven will remember your kindness.”

The man nodded in agreement, reaching out to take Chen Annan.

Chen Annan was indeed very obedient—not like other children who, when separated from their parents or familiar people, would cry for a long time. He neither cried nor fussed, just spread his arms and was carried over.

That boy stared at him with an unfriendly gaze, but said nothing.

By the time the sky was completely dark, Chen Annan’s mother’s funeral had concluded. The body was cremated into a handful of ashes, placed in an urn, and buried with the coffin.

The grave was set up in those few acres of field behind the house. The wind swept across the vast land, and over the endless wheat fields rose many earthen mounds.

Chen Annan’s father and mother were both in there.

Children are sensitive and fragile at heart. Later on, Chen Annan also realized he’d been held by the uncle the whole time; the auntie wasn’t holding him anymore. He wanted to cry, but remembered what the auntie had taught him—to be likable.

So Chen Annan suppressed the urge to cry. His mouth only pouted fiercely, his lashes drooping.

The uncle coaxed him a couple of times. Chen Annan nestled in his arms, wrapped in the warmth of the overcoat. Children are easy to soothe, and before long, he fell asleep.

As time passed, the people in the house gradually dispersed. The courtyard grew quiet and desolate again. The uncle had to go see off the old neighbors from the village who had helped.

Chen Annan was laid on the double bed in the inner room, covered with a thick quilt. With him was that same boy from the daytime.

The boy leaned silently against the iron railing at the head of the bed, occasionally lifting his lids. He’d been told by his dad to watch the kid. He glanced over—the kid was sleeping soundly, his little belly rising and falling rhythmically. Only the occasional barking of dogs outside made him curl up a little.

The charcoal brazier was lit in the room, the fire burning vigorously. A quilt hung over the door as a curtain, blocking the wind outside. Dressed in his little padded jacket, Chen Annan sweated a little on his head from the heat and soon woke up.

Waking up, he needed to pee. But looking around, there were no adults in the room. He was afraid to go outside by himself.

The howling wind, the fluttering white mourning banners, the dark, damp main hall—all of it frightened him. Besides, his mother wasn’t there.

As he was spacing out, his groggy gaze fell on the boy. The boy sat at the other end of the bed, his face buried in shadow, hugging his arms and saying nothing.

Chen Annan’s little fingers traced back and forth on the bedsheet, rubbing the tips red. His bottom squirmed restlessly, but he still didn’t say a word.

After a while longer, remembering the auntie’s words, he carefully scooted his bottom inch by inch over to the boy’s side. In an ingratiating tone, he called out, “Big brother.”

A child’s voice, soft and tender, sounded like a plea. Unfortunately, the boy’s mind had already wandered off to Siberia and he hadn’t heard a thing.

Chen Annan didn’t get a response. He didn’t dare call again.

The temperature in the village dropped even further at night. The window didn’t close tightly, and the cold wind slipped in through the cracks, making it even colder.

The boy noticed the chill and came back to his senses. Suddenly, a damp, icy sensation brushed the back of his hand. Startled, he turned his head and saw that this little kid had somehow scooted right up next to him without him noticing, pouting, tears pattering down.

It was the first thing the child said to him after all this—grievance mixed with a tremble: “Big brother… I want to pee.”