Beneath the Ashes (Part 1)

Sorkov actually disliked Belgrade ever since he came here at the age of twelve.

He didn't actually have any reason to dislike this place. Compared to that remote and quiet town, this city was so bustling and prosperous that it felt like a glamorous new world, especially to him.

A brand-new, clean room, his dream villa with a swimming pool, a new family warmly welcoming him with the aroma of cookies, and a future that seemed perfect and full of promise.

The darkness of the past seemed to have been left far behind him, never to be remembered again with the rising and setting of the sun. Sometimes, Sorkov would feel dazed, wondering if he could really start a completely new life like this? Wouldn't everything from his childhood come rushing back under the cover of darkness?

Perhaps it's possible for some people, but he's not someone who's so open-minded as to let go of the past and move forward without a care.

This was a completely unfamiliar city to him. Beneath the dense steel jungle, traffic flowed day and night. Convenience stores along the roadside sold a wide variety of goods 24 hours a day, and all sorts of people walked on the wide asphalt roads. Unbeknownst to him, he was among them.

It took him a whole year to get used to his new identity, to force himself to develop a conditioned reflex to the name Elberlint, and to get used to the sunlight streaming in through the open window at 8:30 in the morning and falling on his face.

Life seemed to be getting better. The warm and happy family of three would always have breakfast together, their cups always filled with fragrant hot cocoa. The water in the pool rippled in the gentle afternoon breeze. Sorkov looked at his reflection in the water and suddenly felt that the person seemed very unfamiliar.

What's strange about him is that he seems so happy.

He seemed to have never seen himself so happy.

He doesn't have to worry about spoiled canned goods in his dilapidated refrigerator, nor does he have to worry about the sounds of chairs being dragged and women screaming coming from downstairs. His bedding won't get damp and stiff in the rainy weather, and of course, the town's police officer won't knock on his door with a bloodstained receipt.

The Belgrade sun was warm, but shadows were inevitable under the sun. The moment he looked behind him, half of the shadow lightly climbed onto his shoulder.

How can a person completely sever ties with the past? It's even more impossible for him.

The first twelve years of his life seemed to have left an indelible mark on him, something few things could do, but the fire tongs by the fireplace could.

But fate can be crueler than fire tongs. The huge burn on his left arm had long since become barely noticeable, but the burning in his heart had recurred year after year. In the very moment he felt happiness, his heart was suddenly gripped tightly.

Sorkov sometimes even felt that he had actually died long ago, on that stormy night. He probably didn't even get to see the family he adopted ring the doorbell before he was imprisoned, soul and all, in that old house in the corner of the town.

That person won't let him go. He hates him so much, how could he just watch him leave and start a new life in a brightly lit place?

So even though Sorkov was far away, he could still hear a series of heavy footsteps following him, the old slippers making a dull rustling sound as they dragged on the ground. He knew someone was following him.

Even though that person was dead, and Solkov even had his death certificate with his own hands and watched him being pushed into the morgue with his eyes open, he seemed to still be there, forever.

Solkov found it ridiculous, but he wasn't actually a cheerful person. Most of the time, when he smiled, it was just for sarcasm. The only time he showed a genuine smile was very rare, and it was never for that person.

But he was always there, and sometimes you could even see him in the mirror. He would stand half a meter away from Solkov, staring at him with wide eyes.

Little Luca, do you still remember your name? Are you happy? When you're happy, do you ever think of your deceased father?

He's always been waiting for you.

Waiting? Where to wait? In hell? Sorkov once wondered, what was so terrible, hell itself, or the person waiting for him in that hell, all wet and drenched?

So Sorkov began to fear rainy days again.

Whenever he is awakened by nightmares in the dead of night, he always opens his eyes wide in terror, vaguely hearing lightning and thunder outside the window, and the pattering rain sliding down the windowpane, as if dragging him back to that stormy night.

Was he destined to never escape that torrential rain for the rest of his life?

Mr. Elberlint noticed his abnormality earlier than Sorkov. This kind, plump man was sometimes too perceptive, noticing everything without needing to say much.

This was inevitable, in fact. Solkov never thought his disguise could fool the psychiatrist, and besides, he had no intention of covering it up. Some things are destined to be impossible to conceal with lies.

Sorkoff didn't like psychology. He hated the huge, heavy books and complicated concepts in his study, so he felt that countless therapy sessions were a waste of time.

Every Friday evening, when he had to sit in the soft chair opposite Mr. Elberlint, he would reflexively feel pain and bewilderment. He didn't know where this feeling came from; he just instinctively loathed it.

Psychotherapy proved ineffective due to his strong self-resistance, and everything returned to the same old routine. Sorkov remained alone, and the nightmares continued unabated. The past that he desperately wanted to escape, however, unknowingly entangled him once again.

He joined the high school swimming team and quickly became a star, with almost no one able to rival him. This was to be expected, and Sorkov felt no extra ripples in his heart.

Because he already knew he was a genius.

Youthful arrogance seems inevitable, especially for him. He displayed amazing talent in this area at a very young age, a talent that was hidden in a remote town at the time, but now it can be exposed to the world without any concealment, which is what he deserves.

He deserved all of this, he deserved to win it all. It seemed that only in the moment when he was surrounded by water in the pool could his inner fear and anxiety be slightly relieved. Water was like a mother's gentle embrace, he always subconsciously thought so.

His mother's words still seemed to echo in his ears. She was so beautiful, holding him quietly in her arms, telling him that he shouldn't limit himself to this place, that the world and the future were worth seeing, and that he could become someone who was no less than anyone else.

He had always believed her words without question, but it turns out that no one's words are always right, not even one's mother.

For example, she always believed that the future would be better, but she never saw that day come true. Or she always hoped that he could leave this place and grow up again, but that was also impossible.

Sorkov shouldn't have any illusions; he was just temporarily numbed by his comfortable life. In fact, no one would let him go—not the nightmares, not that person, not even the days of the past.

The locker room door closed, plunging the room into darkness. He turned to look at Radetz, who was walking towards him, and asked him coldly what he wanted to say.

Radetz smiled at him, his gaze wandering maliciously across his face, before reaching out and placing a file in front of him.

The file contained a thin sheet of paper with only a few lines of text, representing twelve years of Sorkov's life.

Those twelve years were the most painful, the most depressing, the time I was trapped in a damp corner and could never find peace.

Solkov laughed, ignoring his thoughtful words and feigned friendliness. He was long past the age of being heartbroken and weeping over a few words. What Radetz wanted was simple: his position.

And he won't give it to me.

The price of resistance was simple and efficient; soon everyone in the school knew his background. But that wasn't a big deal; it was bound to happen sooner or later. Sorkov hadn't been unaware of this, but those days were still much harder than he had imagined.

Gossip and pointing fingers were inevitable, accompanied by strange looks and sarcasm, but mostly people avoided him. He became completely alone, and everyone was afraid of him.

But fear seemed much better than bullying, and loneliness was merely a necessity in his life. He didn't need confidants; those were too rare and too luxurious. He just needed to walk his own path and move forward without a care in the world.

The days ahead were still long. He endured the monotonous training alone, spending silent days in the pool and gym, trapped in those heavy and complicated tomes with exhaustion, typing the last word of his thesis, and then collapsing wearily onto his bed, waiting for the familiar nightmare to engulf him once again.

Occasionally, just occasionally, during a torrential downpour, Sorkov would sit by the window and suddenly open his phone case, and a yellowed photograph would gently fall out and land in his sweaty palm.

The world is never fair; some people are happy, while most others are unhappy.

But Sorkov wasn't a cynical person; he simply felt that if someone in this world was destined to be happy, then she was the one who deserved the most happiness.

Right, Zhou Zeyu?

The girl's smiling face was reflected in his eyes; it was a face he had seen countless times and knew by heart. But under the moonlight shattered by the rain, her smile seemed inexplicably pale.

He first met her outside a dilapidated newsstand in the small town. The competition held in Belgrade should have had nothing to do with this peaceful place, but the papers, still smelling of ink, could still deliver news, even though no one had any connection to them.

Sorkov had no interest in reading and absolutely disliked newspapers. He fled his home to avoid that person, and he simply stood under the newsstand to avoid the rain.

He heard scattered sounds on the radio, seemingly an introduction to the ongoing competition. The host's broken, hoarse voice intermittently uttered a few strange syllables. He listened carefully and discerned that they were probably a person's name.

But after hearing it clearly, he laughed.

Seeyou, who would have that name?

It's both seeing you and saying goodbye, so what exactly does this name mean?

Sorkov prefers the latter.

The streetlights came on at 7:01:15, which was of course not the exact time, but Sorkov was not one to follow a set pattern.

If things had gone according to plan, he should have left silently as the rain began to subside, as if he had never been there, instead of suddenly looking up at the newspaper displayed on the top shelf of the newsstand without warning.

Many years later, he still didn't understand why he did it back then. It seemed like a completely inexplicable reason. If he really had to explain it, he could probably only attribute it to fate.

Oh, fate, why did you have to let him see her?

The glass lampshade of the streetlamp had long been shattered by sun and rain, and the fragmented light scattered sparsely through the shards, then shone directly on the face of the unfamiliar, laughing girl holding flowers and medals.

The flowers were beautiful, the medals were as radiant as the smiles, and that was happiness, without a doubt.

Their happiness was dazzling, warm, and so enviable that one couldn't bear to be jealous.

Sorkov rarely smiled; his life was a tragedy built on suffering, so smiles, like happiness, became unattainable strangers.

In this little-known town, all that's talked about are soaring wheat prices and dirty streets. Sunny days are rare at 45 degrees north latitude, so everyone lives for the chance to see the sun again, and he was no exception.

And in that very instant, in that hasty, chaotic moment, he suddenly felt as if something was wrong.

For example, even on rainy days, you can still see the sun. In the narrow space under the eaves of this newsstand, less than three inches away, the faint artificial sunlight reflected directly onto his face, so beautiful that it made him feel apprehensive.

He was no longer an ignorant child, and of course he knew that it was just the dim light of the street lamp, but why did it shine on that smiling face, and why did he look up and see all of this?

And why would you want to see such a beautiful scene when he was soaking wet, with wounds on his face, and in his most disheveled state?

Isn't this a form of irony and mockery?

No, he knew it wasn't.

The man, who had been tormented by fate, finally received a rare act of generosity in this downpour, even if it was just to be allowed to glimpse the happy smiles of others.

But that was enough. He didn't pray that one day that expression would appear on his face. He knew he would never experience such pure happiness, but there were always others who could, and that was the purpose of fate.

Fate so clearly told him that his previous despondent self-destruction was just an excuse for a coward to escape, that life was not always painful, that happiness truly existed, and that it was powerful enough to make him feel joyful.

Even if it's just a blurry black and white photograph.

This was the first newspaper Mrs. Salko had ever bought. She sat in a spot by her front door where she wouldn't get wet, cut out the photograph with a razor blade, and put it inside her pocket.

Later, the photo ended up in a book's inner compartment, then it was pasted onto the inside of a metal cabinet, and eventually, it was tightly tucked inside his phone case. He never forgot her.

Even Sorkov himself probably couldn't explain why this photograph had stayed with him for so many years, even though it had become yellowed and rotten from years of handling, and could even break if you applied too much force. It was something that should have been discarded, but he always carried it with him.

Why?

It's probably to prove something.

This proves that even during those twelve years, he experienced more than just the pain of indecision.

There were also brief, fleeting moments of happiness felt from being bathed in the afterglow of the sun.

See you, see you, see you.

Zhou Zeyu.

When Sorkov first learned her name, he sketched it out on the scrap paper with a ballpoint pen, stroke by stroke, like three knotted balls of yarn.

He started trying to pronounce her name along with the Chinese broadcast. The flat tongue sounds were always a bit too difficult for him, and "ze" was easily pronounced as "se" without him realizing it. "yu" was also hard to pronounce as "you". But there is nothing that long time and repeated practice cannot achieve.

Anyway, he still succeeded.

It wasn't "seeyou" with an accent, but rather the three words pronounced clearly and precisely, almost like a native speaker.

He didn't know why he spent so much effort learning this. Perhaps it was simply so that he could remember the name deeply and then pronounce it accurately when he met her.

As for exactly when, nobody knows.

Many things happened afterward, and Sorkov was no longer the child sheltering from the rain under the eaves. He also began to experience intermittent moments of joy, joys that seemed precarious yet were undeniably real, and that was enough.

Beijing, a city high in the mountains and far away, is more than 7,400 kilometers away from Belgrade. Her life is seven hours ahead of his, which seems to have become an insurmountable distance.

He watched her competition, scrolled through her resume on Wikipedia, and occasionally flipped to that old photo, but it was all in vain.

News photos from the media, fleeting glimpses of the game, and the cold, impersonal letters in official introductions—that's all he knows.

Or rather, that's all he wanted to know.

Sorkov selfishly thought that perhaps he would rather simply regard Zhou Zeyu as a piece of paper to whom he could entrust his beautiful wishes than to ask who Zhou Zeyu really was.

Just as seeing Jackie Chan evokes images of martial arts films, and seeing Johnny Depp brings to mind Pirates of the Caribbean, for Sorkov, seeing Zhou Zeyu brings to mind happiness.

Over the years, that smile seems to have transcended the power of a simple expression, at least for him.

In his eyes, she had won almost every championship she could win, become the captain of the national team, her name was mentioned in various sports daily newspapers, and her smile was printed on the outer packaging of various milk bottles and health products, still looking as radiant as ever.

So Sorkov arrogantly believed that she was happy then, and had always been happy, and would be happy forever in the future.

But he was wrong.

This mistake persisted for many years, even numbing his rationality. He accepted this flawed excuse until the truth was fully revealed to him.

The person who was forever happy and always existed in his illusion was not the real Zhou Zeyu. Her happiness seemed to have only lasted for a short time when the flash went off at the age of sixteen. Therefore, the photo was fortunate enough to record this moment and happened to be seen by him.

The person who appeared before him at this very moment, with a detached expression and a deathly pale face, was Zhou Zeyu.

The unfamiliar gaze, the resistant expression, and that clearly misunderstanding—she didn't know him at all, of course she wouldn't know him.

All the encounters were not accidental. Of course, Sorkov deliberately approached him. He was not a meddlesome person. No matter how painful other people's experiences were, they had nothing to do with him in the end. But Zhou Zeyu was different.

She deserves happiness.

In the bustling table tennis hall, Solkov stood quietly on the periphery of the crowd, watching Zhou Zeyu being surrounded and blushing, and suddenly thought.

He doesn't care how many people in the world can truly be happy; at the very least, he will make Zhou Zeyu one of them.

\\

Still under the streetlights, but this time on the country road in front of the police station, Solkov snapped out of his long-forgotten memories, looked at Zhou Zeyi who was patiently waiting for his answer, and suddenly smiled.

"I met you when you won your first championship, and that's when I learned your name."

So many years later, after experiencing so much, they can still look into each other's eyes and say these words without regret.

This suggests that fate is not entirely unforgiving, at least not now.