Always Home

"Jing Qichi, I'll give you a joke in return."

Huan'er calmed herself and unclenched her fists.

"I was born premature with a tumor in my brain. Back then, medical conditions were limited, and being born in Four Waters, the surgery wasn't very successful. The hospital issued a notice saying I wouldn't survive. Of course, this is what my dad later told me. He said everyone had given up—my grandparents, relatives, the doctors, even my helpless father himself. They were still young then; having another child wouldn't have been a problem. But my mom refused. She felt it was wrong to bring me into this world without letting me see it."

"She asked everyone she knew, even those with remotely relevant expertise, and spent days and nights researching medical records. She sent materials and emails to pediatric specialists abroad. Maybe she moved China, or maybe I was just lucky, but I was eventually transferred to a major hospital in Beijing for a second surgery. It was somewhat successful, and I survived. My dad loves photography, you know? If it weren’t for the photos he took back then, I wouldn’t have known how difficult the beginning of my life was. All in the hospital—from the incubator to the ward, discharged only to return for check-ups, then readmitted when abnormalities were found. I was dealt the worst possible hand."

"When I first started elementary school, I passed out during a playful scuffle with classmates. The hospital couldn’t find a cause, but there might have been some lingering effects because I was always sickly after that. That’s when my dad began teaching me boxing—just so I wouldn’t collapse if someone pushed me. Running, punching sandbags—exercise became the most important thing in our home. Later, when a boxing gym opened in our county, I started systematic training. Remember when I won the Flower of Four Waters? My talent performance was a boxing routine with my dad on stage. You all thought it was impressive, but for my parents, it was all about saving my life. No one knows what the future holds—what if?"

"My name is Chen Huan'er. Say it again—doesn’t it sound a bit odd? Back in the hospital, doctors would call patients by their bed numbers, like 'Bed Three' or 'Bed Five.' My mom would flinch whenever she heard those words, thinking they were calling me. She said since we couldn’t avoid it, we might as well turn something bad into something good. They hoped I’d grow up happy and joyful, so they changed two characters and gave me this name."

"So, Jing Qichi, I despise anyone who treats life as a joke. Some people fight so hard just for a sliver of hope to live—how can healthy people casually squander their lives? I can’t promise everything will pass. If I hadn’t survived, things would have passed, but my parents would have carried that grief forever. I just know that doing nothing won’t make anything better—your guilt toward your uncle, your debt to your aunt, the hurdle in your own heart. The more you avoid them, the more they’ll torment you."

The autumn wind was crisp, the autumn moon bright. Fallen leaves gathered and scattered; a startled crow perched and took flight again.

On a late October night, the two stood facing each other, their breaths rising and falling in turn.

It was a long and earnest speech—Chen Huan'er had never spoken so much to him before, yet Jing Qichi absorbed every word. Finally, he understood why she always lied about being healthy and why she never spoke of the origins of her boxing skills.

That night, she told him a story she had never shared with anyone—and never intended to.Because the story was tragic and lengthy, spanning her past, present, and even future. Aunt Lina would fly into a rage at the slightest bruise on her veins—her parents and family had been on tenterhooks to this day, treating minor illnesses and mishaps as if they were life-threatening catastrophes. Surviving was a miracle, and seeing this world was a gift from fate. But do miracles and gifts have an expiration date? No one knew, and no one could ever know.

Jing Qichi now understood why Chen Huan'er had never mentioned it before—she was the protagonist of this tragic tale, so she didn’t dare speak of it. To speak would be to remind the heavens, and she desperately wanted to be forgotten.

Don’t remember me, don’t miss me, don’t see me. Just let me live this life in mediocrity.

Yet he also understood all too clearly why Huan'er had chosen to speak now—he had fallen too deep, to the point where self-rescue was no longer possible. So he had decided to give up, to end it all, to vanish from this world along with the guilt that had nowhere to go and the remorse that could never be resolved. Perhaps—perhaps only then could he see his father again, the man he missed day and night but who now existed only as a shadow. He missed him so much.

The tree shadows swayed, the evening breeze rustling the leaves.

"I..." His throat was dry as Jing Qichi forced out a sound, his eyes reddening once more.

A man does not shed tears lightly. He covered his eyes with his hands, telling himself this was the last time.

The last time he would cry. The last time he would feel guilty. The last time he would be foolish.

Huan'er stepped forward and hugged him from the side, resting her head lightly on his shoulder, patting his back with one hand.

There was nothing left to say, and she had done all she could. As for the future—that was Jing Qichi’s own journey.

After a long while, she let go and instead took his wrist. "Let’s go back. I’ll wait for you at the compound gate tomorrow morning."

Side by side, she pulled him along, and he willingly let himself be led, the two of them walking home in silence under the moonlight.

Before parting, Jing Qichi asked, "Your health... is there still anything wrong now?"

Huan'er looked at him, her gaze as clear as the moonlight. "If you're fine, then I'm fine."

The next morning, Jing Qichi appeared punctually at the Family Compound gate. His school uniform was clean, but his bicycle was visibly coated in a layer of dust. His eyes were slightly swollen—last night’s tears had honestly manifested as obvious signs. A faint stubble lined his lips, unkempt from a week of neglect, though he had never cared much about appearances. As for his face...

Huan'er mounted her bike and took the lead. After riding for a while, she finally apologized, "I couldn’t hold back yesterday—went a little too hard."

She had actually swollen his face, and somehow only focused on the right side. If she had punched both sides equally, it might not have been so obvious.

"I should thank you," Jing Qichi said, eyes fixed ahead. "I mean it."

If the past few days had been the pain of losing his father, then returning home late last night to find his mother sitting alone in the living room, lost in thought, had filled him with overwhelming guilt. His mother hadn’t asked why he was late—she had only pointed to the school uniform drying on the balcony. I have to leave early for the hospital tomorrow. If it’s not dry, use the hairdryer.

As if mother and son shared the same heart, he hadn’t told her he was already prepared, yet she had known.

Then his mother turned off the living room light. Get some rest early.

In the darkness, Jing Qichi replied, Mom, you still have me. He had almost, just narrowly, lost himself. All these days he had been consumed by his own guilt, never once thinking to share his mother's grief. They were bearing the same weight of loss—it was his father, but also her beloved. He had nearly compounded this tragedy, and he was infinitely grateful he hadn't continued down that wrong path.

There was so little he could do.

He had cried, suffered, and screamed. After days of numbness and sleepless nights, Jing Qichi realized the only thing left was to be the son they could be proud of.

Legally, he wasn’t even considered a fully capable adult yet.

After morning self-study, Jing Qichi was called into Lao Xu’s office. He didn’t return until halfway through the first-period English class. Huan’er glanced back—his physics textbook lay open on his desk, and it remained open for many days to come.

Everything seemed normal on the surface. He ate, went home, and still skipped the mid-morning exercises. But whenever the classroom buzzed back to life, Jing Qichi never looked up, his single-minded focus making him seem like a different person. No one knew what had happened to him. Only a few close friends in the back row joked that senior year was a slaughterhouse—even the fearless Jing Qichi had started studying.

It was late October, just over half a year until the life-defining college entrance exams.

On weekends, Huan’er went to the Jing household to study. She arrived at eight in the morning to find Jing Qichi already reading, and when she left past ten at night, he was still at it. Occasionally, he would ask questions, and Huan’er answered without hesitation. Sometimes Song Cong would drop by, seizing the chance to explain complex problems to them and summarize key points. Song Ma had returned to work at the hospital, struggling with readjustment, so Song Cong had little time left for friends.

One evening, Jing’s Mother visited Huan’er’s home. Peeking through the door crack, Huan’er overheard her say that Qi Chi probably knew why his father had switched shifts—it had spurred him into studying late into the night.

Chen Ma worried, "Can his body handle this?"

Jing’s Mother sighed. "He won’t listen, and we can’t stop him. Yesterday, I found tissues with blood in his trash bin. When I asked, he said it was just a nosebleed—since when has this boy ever had nosebleeds except after playing soccer?"

Everyone said Jing Qichi had been shocked into change. Only Chen Huan’er understood—he was forcing himself to atone.

What he owed, he wanted to repay. That was all.

By the final exams, Jing Qichi had climbed from the bottom of the class, with his math score reaching the top tier of the grade.

Huan’er squeezed through the crowd to check the results and relayed his scores and ranking to him. He merely nodded in acknowledgment, as if still far from the finish line, indifferent to the milestones along the way.

During winter break, Huan’er’s father returned, and the family of three went back to their hometown, Sishui, for the New Year. On New Year’s Eve, Huan’er joined a group call with her two friends. She and Song Cong were enthusiastically discussing the Spring Festival Gala when Jing Qichi, who had been silent, suddenly interjected, "Isn’t potassium permanganate the catalyst for potassium chlorate’s decomposition to produce oxygen?"

The call fell silent. The questioner pressed, "Isn’t it?"

Song Cong burst out laughing. "It’s New Year’s Eve—can’t you lighten up a little?"

"I’m watching," Jing Qichi chuckled. "That close-up magic act was pretty good."

Jing’s Mother’s voice cut in, "Pretty good? It’s all staged. If you’re watching TV, watch TV. If you’re studying, study. If you’re chatting, chat. How can you multitask like this?"Huan'er chuckled quietly before answering, "No, potassium permanganate decomposes to produce manganese dioxide, and manganese dioxide is the catalyst."

"Oh, I see." Jing Qichi noted it down but deliberately stirred trouble, "Lao Song, is this correct? Don't let someone mislead the crowd."

"You've got some nerve." Huan'er huffed angrily.

Song Cong burst into laughter, "Teacher Chen gave the standard answer, stop teasing her."

The New Year's bell tolled.

The gate to adulthood had just opened, yet everyone was already trudging forward with heavy burdens. These fleeting moments of joy were like flowers blooming on a cliff face—fragile yet precious. But those on the journey couldn't stop; they could only whisper silently in their hearts, "Till we meet again."