prynovel Chapter 1765 Extra Chapter: Su Ming'an Found a Red Fortune Stick (Part 1)
Chapter 1765 Extra Chapter: Su Ming'an Found a Red Fortune Stick (Part 1)
Chapter 1765 Extra Chapter: "Su Ming'an Found a Red Fortune Stick Box" (Part 1)
Su Ming'an found a red lottery ticket box.
Made of rosewood, it is exquisite and beautiful, with a cute white rabbit pattern carved on the body.
"Who left this?" He turned the divination tube over, and there was a note on the back: "[This divination tube is given to the person who finds it].
He was going to meet a Bilibili employee at a coffee shop tomorrow. After returning to his dorm, he stayed up all night editing his recent game videos before finally having some free time. He then tried shaking the fortune-telling container.
To his disappointment, there were only a few sticks inside, with strange words like "red bean paste," "bread," and "star-shaped fried skewers" written on them. They were not "lucky sticks" or anything like that, and didn't look like a proper fortune stick container.
As he rocked, he suddenly felt very sleepy, perhaps because he hadn't been sleeping enough lately.
As he placed the divination sticks in the container, he involuntarily closed his eyes...
"Tick...tick..."
……
"What does Ming'an want to be when he grows up?"
"I want to be a scientist, I want to invent lots of amazing things! I want to be an astronaut and fly into space! I want to be a policeman, I want to catch bad guys and be a great hero!"
"—Hehe, what ambition! But you can't do it just to become a hero."
"—Then what should we do?"
"—You need to have a fire burning in your heart."
"—Won't that cause burns? It will hurt a lot."
"—It really hurts. You'll feel your body burning hot. When you see someone suffering, someone doing bad things, or something injustice, a flame will ignite in your heart. You'll feel your heart being driven by a warm current, making you unafraid of fatigue or pain, daring to be a superhero and rush towards danger... If you really have that kind of fire, you'll become a truly amazing person."
"—Yes. I know, Dad has that kind of fire in his heart!"
The father is busy with police work and is often away from home, so the little boy often sits alone in front of the TV watching cartoons.
The golden cudgel is hurled at demons and monsters, and Rainbow Cat leaps off the cliff with a sword in his hand. The people in the small cube fight their way through thorns and brambles, hating evil as their enemy. Even if they are covered in wounds and misunderstood, they will still strive to create a bright and just world.
Something seemed to ignite within him; the little boy clutched his pounding heart and heard a rapid "thump-thump-thump" sound.
"Eeya—Hey!"
Every child is a mischievous little devil. He cut out a golden cudgel from colored paper, regarded mosquitoes as monsters and flies as demons, muttered their crimes, and raised the golden cudgel to "fight for justice".
"You audacious mosquito demon, how dare you suck human essence! Today I, 'Sun Wukong,' will make you pay for your blood debt! Behold my golden cudgel!"
He shouted, and wherever the paper stick swept across, the evil spirits fled in disarray—at least that's how he imagined it.
"Clang!" The water glass suddenly shattered. He shrank back and saw his mother standing at the door with a clothes hanger in hand, her face full of anger, about to hit him.
"Are you still playing or not?! Are you still playing or not?!"
"Pop!" "Pap!" "Pap!"
His little hands were red from the beating, but he neither flinched nor cried. He knew he was wrong, but he kept staring at the broken "golden cudgel" as if it were still warm in his palm.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, March 9, Sunny]
"Dad, Mom, I know what kind of person I want to become. Yes, I want to be someone with a fire in my heart..."
……
Su Ming'an was half asleep when a red divination tube suddenly appeared in his dream, containing three divination sticks with different characters written in cinnabar ink:
[First sign: The red bean paste in the kitchen smells so good, go and try a bowl.]
[Second sign: The bread on the table looks delicious, go and have one.]
[Third suggestion: The fried skewers with stars outside the school are really crispy, let's go buy some.]
Half-asleep, he groggily shook the divination tube, and the first divination slip fell out...
……
Red bean paste, is that the smell of red bean paste? It smells so good.
The little boy sneaked into the kitchen and saw a pot of freshly heated red bean paste, which his mother had just made.
For some reason, as he grew older, his once gentle and kind mother became easily angered, and he could often hear his parents arguing.
"I told you not to read netizens' comments. They don't understand your piano at all. They're all laymen. What right do they have to criticize you for playing without emotion and cyberbully you?"
The man's angry voice echoed in the bedroom. In the kitchen, Su Ming'an stood on tiptoe and lifted the pot lid.
"It's all your fault! If you could come home more often and spend more time with my son and me, would I have gotten this disease? Would I be in such poor condition?" The woman's high-pitched scream instantly drowned out the man's voice.
Su Ming'an put the pot lid aside, took out a bowl and chopsticks, and turned on the tap.
Swish-swish-swish-swish
"I'm sorry, but I've been working on a case recently..."
Su Ming'an tiptoed and washed the bowl and spoon clean, then placed them on the table.
"Busy! Busy! You've been saying you're busy ever since we got married, neglecting the family every other day. You go out to be a hero, leaving me to be pointed at and gossiped about. Where were you when I was at my most vulnerable? Are you even a responsible father anymore, Su Changming!"
Su Ming'an picked up a spoon, scooped out a large mouthful of delicious red bean paste, and put it into the bowl. The enticing aroma wafted over.
"Wang'an, make sure you see your therapist on time and take your medication... I'll definitely come back to be with you after I'm done with this; that case is very important..."
smell good.
He immediately leaned close to the bowl and stuck out his tongue... Ouch, it's so hot! Let me blow on it before eating...
"You think you're the most responsible? You think you're the smartest? Your colleagues all look at you like you're an idiot. You take on all the work, work the most overtime, take on the most tasks, and don't know how to refuse anything others push onto you! You're always the first to rush into the most dangerous situations, and you don't even know to back off when you encounter criminals. You're always twisting your ankles and spraining your ankles. Just keep playing the hero, and you'll get yourself killed like this sooner or later!"
"Crack-!"
Su Ming'an's hands went empty, and he lost his grip on the porcelain bowl, which then broke.
Shards splattered everywhere, grazing his ankles. Blood seeped into the scalding red bean paste, spreading a vibrant, almost demonic color. He stared at the shattered, delicious red bean paste, his hands stinging.
From a young age, he understood from his grandmother that his parents' social classes were mismatched, and their love was a twist of fate. His mother had lived in a Western-style house since childhood, and her hands were only used to touch the piano keys. From childhood to adulthood, she won awards, toured, and sat side by side with musicians whose names were gilded, as if she were immersed in a radiant glow.
The year she met her father was the year she shone brightest. Music critics in the newspapers said her piano playing was "as powerful as thunder and lightning, like spring tides breaking through ice." Everyone said that although the girl's playing lacked emotion, her technique was extraordinary, and her future was limitless.
He first met her in an incongruous setting. He had been assigned to keep watch at a high-end concert on official business. He was wearing a borrowed suit, the collar pulled tight, and he didn't know where to put his hands. The surrounding sounds of whispers, perfume, and clinking wine glasses were all unfamiliar to him.
Then, the lights went out, and a beam of light shone on the Steinway piano on the stage.
She came out, wearing a long silver-white dress, like a ray of moonlight.
She sat down, and Debussy's "Clair de Lune" burst forth, moving, precise, and brimming with almost unrestrained passion. The music froze him in place, and he gazed at her slightly upturned profile under the spotlight; all the splendor in the room seemed to serve as a backdrop to her.
His face flushed inexplicably, and he knew clearly in his heart that this beautiful moonlight was not from the same world as his life of toiling day and night in the wind and rain.
After the concert, he walked alone to the riverbank. A night breeze, carrying moisture, blew. He loosened his tie, leaned against the railing gazing at the lights on the opposite bank, lost in thought, when suddenly he heard someone behind him cry out, "Someone's fallen into the water! Help! Help!"
Without a second thought, he climbed over the railing and jumped. The river was cold and swift, the stench of fish filling his mouth and nose. He struggled to hold onto the struggling old man, choking on water several times, before finally managing to push him ashore. As the crowd gathered, he pushed his way through, dripping wet, and silently left.
As I turned around, I almost bumped into someone.
It was that "moonlight"-like lady who had followed us all the way here!
Her eyes were wide open, devoid of any social reserve, filled only with an almost transparent innocence and amazement: "I...I just saw you jump! You're amazing!" Her tone was clear, untouched by the hardships of life.
He was so embarrassed he didn't know what to do. He could only awkwardly accept her handkerchief, which smelled faintly of gardenias, and exchange contact information. What he thought was just a chance encounter turned into the beginning.
Another time, feeling down after get off work, he habitually walked to the riverbank to stare blankly. Dusk fell, and the river waves lapped against the shore. Suddenly, a voice behind him cried out in alarm, "Don't jump! Don't do anything rash!"
He turned around in surprise and saw her running towards him, panting, clutching his arm tightly, her face filled with genuine panic. He was initially taken aback, but then he realized that she thought he was someone who wanted to commit suicide.
He was both amused and exasperated, yet felt a warm hand gently squeeze his heart.
“That’s how it is in stories: a man who loses his beloved will jump into the Huangpu River!” she earnestly advised him.
He looked into her untainted eyes and suddenly smiled.
She was stunned for a moment, then suddenly realized that he wasn't going to jump into the river. She scratched her face and smiled.
That smile seemed to bridge the seemingly insurmountable distance between their two worlds. Before long, they actually became acquainted. He told her interesting stories from the streets and alleys, the trivialities he encountered while on duty; she played the piano for him, discussing Chopin's melancholy and Beethoven's powerful melodies. She loved his down-to-earth, relatable nature, and he admired her untouched innocence. Like two stars on different orbits, they unexpectedly converged, emitting a light no one could have predicted.
Finally, she stood resolutely before him, holding her family's household registration booklet. Her family was furious, severing ties with unwavering resolve. But she pursed her lips, her eyes filled with an unyielding stubbornness.
That year, the wind still blew along the river, but an extraordinary couple joined an ordinary couple.
……
"Oh no, it's broken..."
Su Ming'an immediately knelt down to pick up the red bean paste and fragments, but a whirlwind-like figure rushed over and suddenly grabbed Su Ming'an's ear.
What came into view was not the beautiful and charming "Moonlight" Miss, but a yellow face filled with fatigue, anger, and hysteria.
"Why can't you give me a break! Have you even played the piano? You practice for six hours every day, why are you so disobedient? Why can't you be as obedient as other children?" His face twisted and became ferocious, like a monster from an animated film.
—At that moment, he saw the "fire" in his parents' hearts, but it was different from the fire of the heroes in the cartoon; it was a fire of disappointment, sorrow, and helplessness.
It is the "fire" of the secular masses, unlike those paper figures who are detached from worldly affairs... it is the "fire" of painful reality.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, December 12, Cloudy]
The medicine Mom takes is very expensive.
Our maternal grandparents don't care about us, and our house is getting smaller and smaller...
My hands hurt so much, sitting at the piano bench is so tiring. I really want to eat that bowl of red bean paste. It's all my fault for being so clumsy; I can't even hold the bowl properly. If I had scooped up the red bean paste and taken it to Mom and Dad's room, they wouldn't have kept arguing... It's all my fault...
……
"I solemnly swear! I guarantee to obey orders and commands; to strictly abide by discipline and keep secrets; to enforce the law impartially and remain honest and incorruptible..."
My father is a proud policeman.
His mother loved his radiant and inspiring presence, and was immediately captivated by his fearlessness in rescuing people from the water. Having grown up in a sheltered environment, she had always admired heroes.
But she was too naive, failing to understand that love and marriage are not the same thing. Cracks gradually appeared in their married life. People from different worlds eventually revealed themselves in the mundane realities of daily life. The love she had given up for everything didn't lead to the fairytale-like days of daily bliss. He was busy with police work, often staying out all night, leaving only a piano and her lost soul in the empty house.
After severing ties with her family, she, once a pampered princess who never lifted a finger, now had to turn on the coal stove herself and stare blankly at the dark, grimy countertop. The initial passion of love had faded, leaving behind only a mess of insurmountable琐碎 (trivialities). She didn't understand why the outer leaves of a cabbage had to be peeled off; she carried a whole, dirty cabbage home, only to be snickered by the vegetable vendor. She also didn't know that crucian carp needed to be scaled and gutted; the first time she brought a live fish home, the feeling of its struggle startled her so much that she dropped it. The fish thrashed desperately on the kitchen floor, and she huddled in a corner, trembling with it.
She tried to pick up the piano again, only to find the melodies stagnant. Having escaped the carefully nurtured golden cage that allowed her to focus solely on art, her inspiration seemed to have lost its soil. Outside the window, neighbors argued noisily over utility bills; inside, there was only a desolate emptiness with no one to help.
Public opinion has subtly shifted. What was once a romantic legend of a "prodigy pianist who gave up everything for love" has gradually become a sigh of "falling from grace" and "losing her talent." People are secretly hoping to see just how badly this delicate flower will fall.
She was already criticized for "having skillful playing but lacking emotion," and without the protection and support of her family, her flaws were magnified. She used all the money in her bank account to pay for piano lessons, which led to a big argument with her husband.
The birth of her son, Su Ming'an, pushed this predicament to its peak. Without her parents' help or a nanny, she had to do everything herself. Staying up all night breastfeeding, washing diapers, dealing with the baby's endless crying... these unimaginable hardships quickly eroded the light in her eyes.
She suffered from postpartum depression. In the few concerts she later mustered the courage to attend, the audience's gazes were complicated, the applause was sparse, and the music reviews were as sharp as knives: "She has lost all her spirit" and "She is all show and no substance."
The thought of divorce had crossed her mind before. Especially after Su Changming missed their child's birthday again due to work, she broke down in tears facing the burnt food and the crying child.
But that love did not completely die out; it turned into a lingering pain, lingering in my heart.
She was an eccentric person who lived in a vacuum. Unlike ordinary people, her world consisted of only two things: the piano and love. Pure to the extreme, and fragile to the extreme.
She had thought about leaving. Until that day, Ming'an, who was not yet three years old, wobbled to the piano, stretched out his chubby little finger, and pressed down a key.
"Boom-"
A single note, clear and distinct, echoed in the quiet living room.
On the verge of collapse, she looked up in astonishment.
The child seemed drawn to the sound and pressed a few more keys haphazardly, creating a rough version of "Moonlight Sonata" that she had played before—how incredible! A child who had never touched a piano key before could produce music the moment she started playing!
Suddenly, he looked up and gave her a smile without any gloom, instantly warming the corner of her heart that had been dormant for so long.
In an instant, all was silent. She seemed to see herself in the center of the light through the child before her, whose features resembled her husband's. That most primal and sincere love and passion for music had never disappeared; it had simply shifted.
She practically lunged forward, embracing the bewildered child tightly, tears streaming down her face. This time, it wasn't resentment and despair, but a near-mad certainty.
"Ming'an... Hahahaha! Ming'an! Ming'an! You are a treasure bestowed upon me by heaven, it must be you, you can save your mother! You can save your mother!"
Criticism pouring in? Career collapsed? Life a mess? None of that matters anymore.
She lost her stage, but she found another rough gem—a genius! She wanted to pour all her unfulfilled dreams, her remaining passion, and her twisted, stubborn hope into him. He was her son, her continuation, the only lifeline she could grasp after being trapped in mundane life, the only thing that could prove her worth!
She must nurture him. Keep him. With his fingers, touch once more the sky she cannot reach. With him, prove to those people that she has never lost her spirit.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, December 12, Cloudy]
I never understood what my mother was thinking. Her way of thinking, her temperament, and her behavior patterns were all different from ordinary people. She was used to using various musical pieces to describe her feelings, to play music instead of speaking, and to use musical sounds instead of responding, like someone living in a cocoon.
After her spiritual energy disappeared, she poured all her energy into me... I don't understand why she did that.
The teacher said that ordinary people can't understand people who suffer from mental illness. They are sick, which is why they become different from us.
Mom is not sick.
My mother is my mother.
She wants me to play the piano, so I'll learn. If I practice well... she'll recover, right?
I want my mom to be happy, and I want her to recover.
……
"Snapped!"
"Another wrong note, keep going!"
"Snapped!"
"Play it again!"
"Mom, it hurts so much. I've been playing for eight hours. I want to rest..."
"Why don't you like playing the piano? Why did I give birth to a child like you! Do you know how much your mother envies your talent? You can't waste your talent!"
"Snapped!"
"Mother……"
"Snapped!"
The world became a chaotic piano piece, with him and his mother leaping across the black and white keys, anticipating, tormenting, and hating each other.
He is the rabbit with the pocket watch in his mouth, and his mother is Alice chasing after him. The floating teacups and flowers are the disruptive piano music. They grow bigger and smaller, bounce and spin endlessly in the twisted vortex.
The excessive practice time, the overly strict discipline, the frequent use of a ruler to beat and scold him… and on the verge of collapse, she would suddenly transform back into that gentle mother, stroking his swollen hands, holding him tightly in her arms and crying:
“Ming’an, you’re all I have left… You’re my hope… I love you… Many people are hoping I’ll fall, please understand me, okay?”
Perhaps "love" is inherently about mutual torment, and little Su Ming'an understood this.
When he began to fall out of love with her, she would magically produce the glittering crystal piano ornament he had long coveted from the shop window as a reward, gently coaxing him. Extreme harshness and extreme indulgence intertwined to form an impenetrable net, trapping him within, unable to breathe, unable to escape. He longed for his mother's fleeting warmth, yet feared her strictness and madness.
He wanted to love her.
His parents' arguments were a never-ending background noise. The clatter of breaking dishes, his father's suppressed growls, and his mother's hysterical screams echoed throughout his childhood.
"Keep playing."
Beside the piano bench, Mom's face gradually became distorted and aged, no longer resembling the wedding photo hanging on the wall—that spirited "Moonlight" Miss.
"Wrong again."
The slap was swift and fast, striking his cheek in an instant, leaving a burning pain.
He continued playing numbly, his eyes filled with the salty taste of tears. His gaze fell on the crystal piano figurine, which seemed to be nailed to the piano just like him.
So, love is pain.
Until one day, Mom suddenly became very happy.
He asked his mother what was wrong, and his mother smiled and said:
"Because today, very happy things will happen."
She seemed to have transformed back into a young "Moonlight" lady, humming a cheerful tune as she returned to her room.
Su Ming'an wondered why his mother was so happy; he hadn't seen her smile in a long time. The red bean paste on the table smelled delicious, but his mother hadn't drunk any. He tiptoed closer to his mother's room…
……
【The pages of happiness, those lily-like hands[1]】
……
What came into view was my mother's wrist lying in the "red bean paste".
The wrist is bright, eye-catching, and beautiful.
……
[It grips my life with a deadly force.]
……
A simple smile graced her face; it turned out she had finally decided to leave.
Her fair and slender hand was covered in calluses, a testament to the fact that she was no longer an ethereal being detached from the world.
……
I will caress you, and hold you tightly with the softest ribbons of love.
……
Su Ming'an stood at the door, the lamplight stretching his shadow long, and the moonlight falling on the window like salt.
He heard the moonlight.
If it's so painful, why wear a wedding dress? If it's so painful, why love him?
—Is "love" really a brainwashing agent? It can make hormones control thoughts, make humans overcome their will to survive, and make a body made of chemical substances contract a deadly virus?
How can a spirited and radiant young lady be trapped by love, unable to break free, and suffer in the mundane realities of daily life?
……
Like a prisoner before a conqueror, you tremble with fear.
……
In the end, it was Mom who used all her strength to spill the red bean paste, gave up leaving, and held him tightly in her arms.
The two sat amidst the aroma of red bean paste, bathed in moonlight that mingled with water and red.
She was clearly free, but the moment he burst in, she gave up flying and returned to this "prison" called love. She held up the moonstone crystal ornament that had always sat in the center of the piano, symbolizing the beginning of her love, and her wedding photo with her father—
"Bang!!!"
The moonlight shattered.
It overflowed the windowsill and flowed into the room. It filled the room, yet did not encroach on anything; it was as clear as water, yet could not be scooped up.
Su Ming'an swallowed the fragrant red bean paste, while her mother sat beside her bandaging her wounds. Moonlight fell on her, and the wings on her back disappeared.
Her gaze was both bleak and clear.
"Ming'an, I won't bother you anymore," she said.
He didn't understand what she meant until one day in the future, he never saw her again.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, December 31, Cloudy]
[Mom moved into a pale, empty house.]
She was locked up, surrounded by many people... Is this treatment? I hope Mom gets better soon.
I hate her, but I love her too.
I want a good mother, not a bad one.
Oh God, I beg you, please give me back my wonderful mother. I don't want to be a child without a mother.
……
"Tick, tick..."
Su Ming'an woke up from his sleep, and one of the divination sticks fell out of his hand.
He paused, realizing he was having a childhood dream.
He covered himself with a blanket; his roommates had already turned off the lights and gone to sleep. After washing up, he climbed into bed, made his bed, and drifted back to sleep.
In his hazy dream, he saw the red divination sticks again:
……
[First fortune slip: The red bean paste in the kitchen smells so good, go and try a bowl. (Slipped)]
[Second sign: The bread on the table looks delicious, go and have one.]
[Third suggestion: The fried skewers with stars outside the school are really crispy, let's go buy some.]
……
Bread...? He groggily drew a second slip of paper, his vision blurring as sleep began to wash over him...
……
That was New Year's Eve when I was ten years old.
The little boy ate bread and pickled vegetables by himself and spent the night wrapped in a blanket.
In the dimly lit room, only the square boxes glowed. The Golden Cudgel was hurled at demons and monsters, and Rainbow Cat leaped off a cliff with a sword in his hand… The heroes continued their chivalrous deeds, as if they would never die. But in reality, heroes die so easily; mortal bodies standing in front of a little girl are no match for an oncoming truck.
The dining table was empty except for bread and pickled vegetables. Black and white photos hung on the wall, and the police uniform was not on the coat rack—the owner of the uniform had passed away.
The police officer faithfully carried out his mother's curse: "Keep playing the hero, you'll get yourself killed this way sooner or later!"
That man wasn't a good father, nor a good husband, but he was certainly a hero—he rushed into a large truck to save a little girl from the road.
In his final moments, was it the "fire" in his heart that propelled him to rush towards the truck? If it weren't for that "fire," could he have lived a good life, spent quality time with his mother and himself, and lived happily ever after?
Su Ming'an touched his chest, somewhat unsure whether he should possess "fire." He realized that becoming a hero was so difficult, so painful, and could even cost him his life.
He didn't want to die. He wanted to live a very long time, to become a great adult, to see what university was like, to see how big the world was...
His gaze shifted from the screen to the empty dining chair. There sat his father, who used to laugh heartily and ruffle his hair with his rough hands; now, only the cold, empty moonlight shone upon him.
He suddenly jumped off the sofa, staggered to the desk, and rummaged through the red paper left over from wrapping lucky money during the Lunar New Year. His little hands trembled slightly. Instead of imitating the Monkey King subduing demons, he folded the red paper repeatedly with utmost seriousness and almost piety.
A paper-folded "golden cudgel" took shape in his hands.
He clutched it tightly, facing the window—where there were no demons or monsters, only the warm yellow glow of lanterns from other windows outside, symbolizing family reunions.
He took a deep breath, and with all his might, he swung the paper "golden cudgel" toward the void, toward the invisible "big truck" that existed in his memory, roaring and taking everything away!
"Hey! Break!"
His youthful voice was extremely resolute, as if the light paper stick could truly carry immense power, shatter steel, and freeze time.
The paper stick landed silently on the floor not far away.
Unwilling to give up, he suddenly turned around and rushed to the sofa where his father often sat. Facing the air and the flowing moonlight, he frantically and chaotically made more and more complex hand gestures—the kind of vague "divine resurrection spell" he had seen in cartoons. He whispered them over and over again, as if in prayer, or perhaps as a command:
"Mimi Mama Hum! Daddy... come back... come back!"
The moonlight flowed silently, without dazzling golden light, and no miracle occurred. The father's photograph on the wall remained silently watching over Su Ming'an.
Outside the window, distant laughter and the aroma of the New Year's Eve dinner drifted in through the glass, as if from an untouchable world. The lively sounds pierced his illusions sharply.
"It's Chinese New Year! Fireworks are going off!"
"Mom, look at those fireworks! I want some too! I want some too!"
"Dad, I want to eat glutinous rice balls again..."
The room remained silent. He gazed through the window at the children holding their parents' hands. His strength suddenly vanished. He stood there blankly for a moment, then slowly walked to the old piano in the corner of the living room and climbed onto the piano bench.
The moonlight also flowed here, illuminating a row of black and white piano keys. The love song that his father had once played, and that his mother had said sounded like "the moonlight dancing," Debussy's "Clair de Lune," flowed from his hands.
He played very softly and slowly, as if afraid of disturbing the moonlight, afraid of disturbing something sleeping in the moonlight.
The sound of the zither flowed like water, past the portrait on the wall, over the paper golden cudgel lying on the ground, and onto himself, his small figure stretched long and thin on the zither bench.
A ten-year-old child attempts to use music to hold a quiet funeral for his disordered world.
"Wow—"
Outside the window, a huge firework suddenly exploded, illuminating a single tear in the corner of his eye. The cheers of the crowd could be faintly heard.
In the middle of the night, the ten-year-old boy who had lost his father fell asleep.
Half a steamed bun rolled to the ground, resting on the dream of a "superhero" under the moonlight.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, March 11, Sunny]
My maternal grandparents are abroad, and I can't find them... It seems they've really abandoned my mother. I don't understand; how can they abandon their own flesh and blood?
My father passed away, and my mother was hospitalized. Many uncles and aunts came to visit, offering their concern and care. But when asked who would be willing to raise me… they all gave awkward smiles.
I overheard them whispering behind my back, "If it's not our own, we won't care about it even if we raise it," "His mother is mentally ill, what if she comes out of the hospital and tries to attack us with a knife?" "Such a good person as Su Changming has been cursed to death by him..."
I sat on the sofa, hugging my knees. People from the neighborhood committee came and went, all looking at me with pity. I heard them say one word: "welfare home."
I'm so scared of that kind of place. What if I get bullied? What if I get isolated? I don't like being in the spotlight, I don't like forcing a smile, I don't like being someone everyone likes. What I'm even more afraid of is that if I go to an orphanage, I might never have a piano again.
In the evening, I took Yueyue's hand and we went out onto the street.
"If you still can't find someone to take care of you after a while, you'll have to go to an orphanage or the neighborhood committee..." Yueyue said.
"Don't worry about me," I reassured her, knowing she was in dire straits herself.
"You play the piano so well, you're sure to have a bright future," Yueyue said. "You're so wonderful, why don't the adults appreciate you?"
"In adults' eyes, children are priced. They pay more for their own children, more for those with talent, more for those with good grades, but I'm worthless," I said. "To continue learning the piano, I need a teacher, and to reach my mother's level, I need a very good teacher and a very good piano… I'm not sure I can become very good; maybe I'm just a little better than the average person. And my relatives are already struggling to raise their own children."
She was called home by her mother, and I walked alone on the street.
I silently made a decision: I would prove to people that I could support myself. I wasn't an unwanted child.
……
The adults gradually noticed that the carefully cultivated "piano prince" demeanor of the little boy had suddenly faded, replaced by a silence and proficiency inappropriate for his age. It seemed that he had suddenly grown up after his father's death.
He began to take care of himself. The stove was high, so he stood on a stool. The rice was sometimes undercooked, sometimes burnt, and the dishes were always unevenly seasoned, but he swallowed them silently. He learned to buy the most filling vegetables with the least amount of money: potatoes, cabbage, and discounted noodles nearing their expiration date. He would carefully compare the prices of wilted vegetables at the market closing time with discounted items at the supermarket, calculating which would be more filling. He would cut the soap into small pieces, save the water from washing clothes to mop the floor, and sit in the dark waiting for dawn when the light bulb burned out.
He felt a naive, unrealistic panic: if he spent too much money, if people found out he couldn't survive, he would be taken away and locked up in a place called a "welfare home," never to touch his piano again. He had to prove, prove that he could survive.
No one told him how naive the idea was.
The world has changed drastically. Before, he was the center of the world; toys in shop windows and the steam rising from food stalls could easily become objects in his hands. If he fell, his mother would immediately cry out and hug him, gently patting the dust off his knees. Now, he's in the crowd, carrying heavy things, when he falls, vegetables and potatoes scattering everywhere, blood seeping out. People rush by, no one stops for him.
He even tried to find work, running downstairs to a small eatery and mustering the courage to ask if he needed help washing dishes. The owner sized him up, his small frame scoffing, "Whose kid is out here experiencing life? Don't cause trouble, go home! Go ask your parents for money!" Before he left, he overheard customers talking: "Kids these days will do anything for a little pocket money to buy a phone and play games, they're so immature..."
Later, he finally found a place willing to take him in: a greasy, dark kitchen hidden deep in an alley. Endless grease and grime covered the dishes, and his hands, once used for playing the piano, were now white and wrinkled from being soaked in water. During the day, he would pretend to go out to play, but actually help with chores. At night, he would return to the adults' sight, listening to them discuss his future.
His self-esteem was trampled into the sewage beneath his feet, leaving him speechless.
...He wanted to prove, to prove that he could survive!
He'd even been scammed. A dark-haired man with rabbit ears claimed to have easy money-making jobs, requiring only a deposit. After much hesitation, he pulled out his tightly rolled-up banknotes. The man took the money and vanished into the crowd, never to be seen again. He stood at the agreed-upon alleyway entrance, waiting from afternoon until nightfall, until the last vestige of "hope" in his heart burned out, leaving only cold ashes.
He gradually came to understand a truth: love fades, promises break, embraces loosen, but the money you hold in your hand is real and won't suddenly betray you. It can buy food, shelter, and the right to live. Love is like a crystal ornament, beautiful yet fragile; money, however, is like life-saving rations, rough but enough to fill your stomach.
Only when you have enough to eat and survive can you have the right to talk about ideals.
Every day, dragging his exhausted body home, his only outlet was to open the piano lid. His fingers would fall, challenging Chopin's "Nocturne" and Liszt's "La Campanella," the wild piano music engulfing him like a tidal wave. He was immersed in the world of music, laughing out loud.
Mom, I play the piano very well. I will become a great pianist, and I can support myself! I'm not unwanted, and no one dislikes me!
The music penetrated the thin walls. The neighbors chattered incessantly:
"Tsk, Dad's dead and Mom's gone mad, and she still has the leisure to play the piano?"
"Without parents to care for him, he's really gotten too ambitious..."
"Keep your voice down! Don't let him hear... Sigh, but then again, what kind of normal person is the son of a madman?"
……
[Ming'an's Diary, March 29, Sunny]
[Dad, Mom.]
Being a hero is exhausting.
……
"Tick...tick..."
Su Ming'an leaned against the pillows and woke up again in a daze, staring blankly at the ceiling.
My roommate's snoring continued all night, like thunder. The night sky was clear, and a bright moon hung overhead, like a silver plate suspended in the heavens. The hoarse meows of stray cats came from downstairs.
He slowly reached out the window, spread his five fingers, and gently pinched them together, as if he could grasp the moonlight.
"...It's like a revolving lantern. Why am I having these dreams? Am I going to die tomorrow?" He shook his head, warning himself not to think about such ominous things.
He took out the divination tube and was astonished to find that two divination slips had indeed fallen out.
……
Please shake your fortune-telling container.
[First fortune slip: The red bean paste in the kitchen smells so good, go and try a bowl. (Slipped)]
[Second fortune slip: The bread on the table is delicious, go and have one. (Drawn)]
[Third suggestion: The fried skewers with stars outside the school are really crispy, let's go buy some.]
……
Red bean paste, bread, and star-shaped fried skewers, all tinged with a vibrant vermilion red, were so magical they made him tremble all over.
Did he find something magical? Or was it just a hallucination from oversleeping?
He tentatively shook it again, and the third stick fell out. As if suddenly overcome by a wave of drowsiness, he abruptly closed his eyes.
……
"Fried skewers! Fried skewers! Five cents a skewer!"
"—Rice noodles, rice noodles, five cents a bowl!"
At the school gate a few years ago, you could make a lot of money with just two or three yuan.
The boy, now a junior high school student, touched the 50 cents in his pocket, swallowed hard, and finally headed to the market to buy half a pound of potatoes to fill his stomach.
He was not sent to an orphanage; a man surnamed Zhao adopted him.
Zhao Zhuozhong, a man in his forties or fifties, once had a bright future. He used to wear crisp shirts to office buildings, was financially well-off, and had adopted Su Ming'an. Later, the economic downturn struck. His company went bankrupt, and he suffered stock market losses, leaving him penniless and forced to take on odd jobs to make ends meet. Carrying steel bars, pulling carts, waiting tables, running errands… He sighed countless times, lamenting his lack of education, the jobs he had found by chance, and his inability to save money; now he could only endure hardship for a living. He repeatedly urged Su Ming'an to study hard, find a stable nine-to-five job, and live a comfortable life.
At the dock where he unloads cargo in the early morning, at the sweltering courier station in the afternoon, and in the kitchen piled high with dishes late at night, Zhao Zhuozhong is like a worn-out battery, rapidly releasing his energy in different positions to earn just enough money to make ends meet.
"What are you doing here? Go back to your studies!" On the construction site, a man carrying goods, sweating profusely, watched the boy run towards him.
"Uncle, I want to help you, to help you make money," the boy in his school uniform said timidly.
"Don't worry about me, just focus on your studies, that's how you'll have a bright future!"
"You'll be exhausted."
"Making money is our adult business. Go back and study!"
Occasionally, on weekends, at Su Ming'an's insistence, Uncle Zhao would take him along to run errands and set up a stall, selling straw toys. The man would ride a creaking bicycle, like a weary gust of wind, weaving through the city's vast shadows. Sitting on the back, Su Ming'an would look up at the skyscrapers and suddenly feel that the city was like a giant monster, possessing both a dazzling, decadent beauty and a spine-biting quality, telling people—you are nothing but worms here. The bustling metropolis doesn't belong to you.
He had seen his neighbor, the always-smiling porter uncle, suddenly collapse one day; long-term high-temperature work had taken his life from heatstroke. He had also heard the deepest weeping under the pale walls when he went to the hospital to get medicine for Uncle Zhao; it was a group of chemical industry workers who had contracted cancer because of shoddy workmanship in protective measures.
He dreamed of becoming a brilliant pianist, a scientist who would benefit humanity, an astronaut who would land in space, and a great hero who would descend upon the suffering people... However, his youthful dreams gradually faded in the face of reality, and even the piano in his room was taken away by a group of strangers in exchange for a stack of banknotes that would last him a long time.
It turns out that dreams are worthless in the face of money.
In this world, he can barely even protect himself.
……
[Ming'an's Diary, March 2th, Cloudy.]
I don't believe it.
I don't... believe it.
……
Uncle Zhao's health was ruined by his relentless efforts, and his dream became the first luxury he had to abandon.
Su Ming'an silently bid farewell to the sheet music and the black and white keys. In Chinese class, the teacher asked them to write down their future aspirations. Holding his pen, he hesitated and wrote "pianist," "game streamer," "great hero"... Then, as if burned by something, he forcefully crossed them out, the ink spreading, and wrote three more practical, and heavier words:
Finance, teacher training, law.
He went to his classmate Bolong's lavish birthday party at home. The enormous cake, the deafening music, Bolong's parents' enthusiastic kisses on his forehead, Bolong looking like a little prince in his finest attire… it all seemed like a scene from another world. He returned to his cold home, his head covered in confetti and cream, took out a half-expired, discounted loaf of bread from a plastic bag, and then carefully pulled a few burnt-out candles from his pocket—the ones Bolong had carelessly tossed on the table after blowing out his wishes. He carefully stuck them into the dusty bread, closed his eyes, and made a wish.
He could only have his turn after Bolong had made his wish. He could only have his turn after Bolong had used up his candle. He didn't think anything of it.
"Happy birthday to me."
"Happy birthday to me."
"Happy birthday to me..."
"Happy birthday to me..."
……
[Ming'an's Diary, December 31st, Sunny]
[Bolong's cakes are really delicious.]
Thank you for treating me to dinner.
……
Back in school, Bolong had been indignant on his behalf: "Su Ming'an, you play the piano so well! Why don't you give it your all? Let your family... let Uncle Zhao support you! Earning hundreds of thousands a year in the arts is much better than working from dawn till dusk for three thousand a month!"
Su Ming'an simply shook his head: "My family doesn't have the luxury of making mistakes."
"Nonsense! You're so good, you'll definitely succeed! I've never seen anyone play better than you!"
"Even if I succeed in the arts, what about the subsequent expenses? I don't even have a piano anymore... Out of billions of people, even if I am a genius who is one in ten thousand, there are tens of thousands of people like me."
You can definitely do it!
“What if Uncle Zhao gets sick before I become famous? What if I have an accident like my mother and can no longer play the piano? How will I support my family?”
"Uh... what about psychology, which you like? Are you giving it up too?"
"……Um."
Bo Long's face held an almost naive bewilderment, like a seashell that had never experienced storms, being pushed ashore by the waves for the first time, only to discover in astonishment that the sunlight revealed not just pearls, but also countless dried and crushed grains of sand. He couldn't understand why Su Ming'an, whom he considered so outstanding, would willingly trap himself in such a situation.
One day, the music teacher approached Su Ming'an and said regretfully, "Ming'an, your talent is rare. Are you sure you don't want to develop it further?"
Su Ming'an was indeed tempted. When he got home, he planned to tell Uncle Zhao, but he saw Uncle Zhao lying on the sofa covered in sweat, as if he were asleep. His skin was tanned dark, and there were unfinished straw toys scattered all over the floor. His snoring was deafening.
Uncle is too tired. Each straw toy costs three yuan. How many does he have to weave to support Su Ming'an's piano lessons?
Su Ming'an squatted down and silently and slowly finished weaving the toy.
“…Ming’an, we’re different. Our family can’t afford to lose. If you like playing the piano, just play it occasionally, don’t take it too seriously. Listen to your uncle, learn something practical, find a stable job in the future, that’s better than anything else.” He could almost predict what Uncle Zhao would say.
Yes, there isn't even a piano at home. What is he longing for?
Late at night, he seemed to see his future self standing at the head of his bed talking to him.
“Every time I get scolded by my boss, I think, if I had been determined to learn the piano from the beginning, would I have succeeded?” the figure said. “It’s such a pity that I have become an ordinary person.”
Su Ming'an was silent for a moment before replying, "Can liking something put food on the table? Those who succeed based on their dreams are extremely rare. Most people are just nameless nobodys at the bottom."
"But I always feel... like you're trapped by something."
“My father is gone. I should have realized it sooner.” He paused, touched his heart, his fingertips were icy cold. “Perhaps there is no such thing as ‘fire’ in the world.”
He saved up his pocket money to buy a roll-up piano, hoping to keep it in touch, but in the end, he had to sell it to pay the electricity bill. He was depressed for a long time, but finally found it in a street trash can—the roll-up piano he cherished was lying dusty in the trash, and its owner didn't care about it at all.
He pulled it out of the trash, held it in his arms as if it were a lost treasure that had been found again.
"You're back," he murmured, hugging it tightly. "It's so good."
……