Chapter 11

In any case, Qinghe was no longer able to manage the situation outside. His quilt had been aired out again today, and it smelled warm and cozy.

It's great to have someone at home who can take care of the elderly and young children. He sighed, "It's just a bit tiring."

He stared at the ceiling, intending to dismiss everything that had happened so far as sheep before bedtime.

Tomorrow, he's going to work at the bookstore. Sometimes he doesn't have classes on Fridays, so he has a whole day of free time. To avoid wasting it, he found someone with limited time to cover his shift.

He had never worked in a bookstore before, but after glancing at the general process provided by the other party, he knew exactly what to do.

It's not exactly difficult, but it's certainly tedious. It involves taking books to or from the warehouse, arranging each bookshelf neatly and attractively. That's just the job content; the most important point, the work principle, is: don't get too absorbed in the books yourself.

The books to be arranged tomorrow should be done by today's staff. Qinghe became a little curious, wondering what kind of mood and aesthetic sense this staff member would have when completing this task.

He remembered his senior mentioning that he loved reading. Would he run into Xavier at the bookstore tomorrow? After all, his part-time job was at the city's largest bookstore.

Speaking of Xavier, they haven't spoken since this morning. Are they too busy? In a few more hours, they'll practically be out of contact. Qinghe rolled over in bed, pressing his ear to the pillow, and seemed to hear the chirping of crickets in the distance, sometimes near, sometimes far.

The soft blankets and pillows enveloped him, the gentle warmth gradually cooling in the night, yet the feeling lingered. He buried his head in the pillows, taking a deep breath—like petting a cat. He chuckled at his own behavior, feeling incredibly childish, yet also thinking that he would probably be very happy if he really had a kitten.

The kitten will be everywhere in his sight. The toys on the cat toy bounce and jump, and the kitten bounces and jumps too; the scratching post is rough and uneven, but the kitten's claws remain smooth; the cat tree has fur clinging to the joints, but the kitten still looks fluffy. The kitten looks down from the top of the bookshelf, and there's a ball of yarn the kitten played with in the corner. In the morning, he'll be woken by that barbed tongue, and touching it reveals a slight sting to his cheek; at noon, the kitten will hook its tail around his ankle, asking where lunch is—you haven't forgotten to prepare it, have you?; and at night, he'll find the kitten sleeping beside his pillow, next to the torn sheets.

His fantasies about owning a cat were so vivid that he would become so engrossed in them that when the fantasy faded, he would be faced with an empty reality and his smile would fade away, looking somewhat lost.

Qinghe hadn't had such a vivid imagination about life in a long time; but looking back, he wasn't sure if he had turned raising cats into an obsession. The joy of the past combined with the loneliness of the present, and he unusually stopped trying to figure out what he really thought, instead staring blankly into a corner.

There was nothing there, just as there was nothing in this room.

Qinghe's room was very simple. There was a bed with a cheap four-piece bedding set that could be bought at any furniture market at any time. At first, he wasn't used to sleeping on it and felt pain all over, but later he was able to let himself lie on it. There was a bookshelf with only the books he needed for this semester. There weren't even any from last semester, let alone so-called children's literacy books, childhood story collections, or young adult novels. There was a desk with a lamp on it and a notebook spread out in front of it. A chair leaned against them, and a schoolbag hung on it. It had a pencil case with three black pens, one red pen, two pencils, an eraser, and a set of student rulers. There was also a green potted plant.

One of him.

This is all the room has: the walls are a ghastly white, the overhead lights are bright and white, and the wooden floorboards creak underfoot.

Qinghe deeply reflected on his mistakes. He shouldn't have let the two children stay with him when he felt tired and empty; otherwise, he wouldn't be feeling his heart and lungs tighten in the stillness of the room.

His body fears loneliness, and so does his mind.

Time ticked by, and he realized he shouldn't be preparing for sleep outside of his normal bedtime. He sat up in bed, paused for a second, then lay back down heavily, childishly kicking the blanket into a corner and curling himself into a ball.

"That voice?" he asked softly, finding a particularly good question to ask, "Are you still thinking the same thing?"

No one responded.

The surroundings were so quiet it was suffocating. Even with his ears pressed tightly against the pillow or the bed frame, he couldn't hear the crickets chirping.

Qinghe felt a mix of disappointment and something else. He turned his face towards the wall, above which was a window, through which the shadows of trees and the moon shone. The hazy moonlight cast a gentle, ethereal glow on the dark trees, like the thin mist he had seen when he first arrived—familiar and dreamlike. He was mesmerized, his eyes fixed on the moon. In the soft, diffused light, he saw the legendary Moon Palace, where Chang'e danced gracefully. Only then did he realize that today was the Mid-Autumn Festival.

No wonder those two children were so obedient, acting like real children, spoiling and cuddling him. The sweet fragrance of osmanthus blossoms seeped into the room, lingering and sweet, making the room feel dreamlike.

He heard a slight movement from the other side of the door at just the right moment—light footsteps, unnoticed. He wouldn't remember the sound when he was woken up by his alarm clock tomorrow, but he still thought about it carefully, trying to etch that heartbeat into his mind.

Qinghe fell asleep. A sigh followed.

The building was collapsing, and I was standing in an unfamiliar place, not knowing if anyone was inside.

The crowd was noisy, but no one had time to squeeze inside. I heard people shouting that there was a fire here, a flood there, and a crater—a punishment from the sky, a call from the devil, as meteors fell mercilessly.

I didn't know what to do next. Many people passed by me, but many didn't even look at me. I looked down at myself: coarse cloth clothes, worn and patched, with a cloth bag at my waist.

Before I could even finish looking around, the ground trembled violently again, and I began to separate from the house through a deep crack in the middle. Everyone saw it, screaming, some running away, some stunned, some crying, all circling the cracked earth.

My body jumped over it uncontrollably, and because I was not strong enough, I rolled on the ground, getting covered in stones, sand and dust, with broken leaves getting into the stitches of my clothes.

No one noticed my movements, and I didn't know what I was supposed to be facing here. I stood there, with nothing to do, I thought. My feet started moving uncontrollably again, running, and I stopped in front of the house.