Chapter 11

They climbed up to the third floor. Miss Lin said, “Here we are, Room 301.” The door to 301 was tightly shut. They knocked, but no one answered.

Xian Xiaoya asked, “You haven’t contacted the owner?”

Miss Lin replied, “I have. He said the previous tenant hasn’t moved out yet, but we could come up and see the apartment. He promised to be home today…” She looked helpless.

Xian Xiaoya glanced around. The corridor was narrow, and beside the main door of 301 was the window of 303. The window of 303 was open, allowing a clear view into the dining room. Drawn by curiosity and a vague sense of unease, Xian Xiaoya found herself irresistibly compelled to take a closer look.

She slowly approached, poking her head inside. The living room was lit by a dim yellow chandelier. Though the outside was gloomy, the interior was brightly illuminated. Inside, a boy of about eighteen or nineteen was placing a pot of porridge onto the dining table. The boy looked familiar. Xian Xiaoya studied him closely—it was the young waiter from the restaurant near her office. He seemed delighted by the steaming pot of porridge, and was about to eat a large bowl when—

“Don’t eat!” Xian Xiaoya shouted unexpectedly, without knowing why. “Stop, don’t eat that!”

The boy was startled, and Miss Lin hurried over to see what was happening.

“What’s going on?” Miss Lin asked, standing behind Xiaoya.

Xian Xiaoya herself was confused, unable to explain her own actions. “N-nothing… I must have lost my head,” she stammered, not knowing what she meant to say.

The boy walked over to the window and saw the two of them. He became excited.

“Sister, it’s you! How did you come to my house?” His surprise was genuine and joyful. “Won’t you come in and sit?”

Miss Lin asked, “You know each other?”

Xian Xiaoya shook her head and whispered, “Not really.” She paid little attention to the boy, who was just a restaurant waiter she barely remembered, but he seemed enthusiastic to see her.

“Guests are always welcome, come in and take a seat. Have you eaten lunch? We have millet sweet porridge at home! Let me treat you,” the boy invited them again.

Hearing about the porridge, Xian Xiaoya was stunned. An inexplicable agitation surged within her. She rushed into the room and knocked over the pot of porridge in the boy’s hands.

“All you know is to eat, eat, eat!” she yelled, startled by her own actions. What was happening to her?

The boy was frightened and began to cry like a child. Somehow, things had escalated to this point.

Seeing him cry, Xian Xiaoya impatiently scolded, “Stop eating that stuff, throw it away, and never eat it again!” With those words, she turned and left the dining room, not looking back as she dashed down the stairs.

Miss Lin was unable to catch up, and instead felt a bit entertained by the drama. Since Xian Xiaoya had left, she decided to stay and continue viewing the apartment. She glanced at the boy and at the house, feeling satisfied. Although the orientation was different, the layout was similar. If she rented it herself, it would be quite nice.

Xian Xiaoya had descended half a flight when she suddenly heard eerie music coming from the neighboring building. Guided by the music, she unconsciously wandered back to the third floor, but this time in the adjacent building.

She arrived at a unit with its door wide open. With the door ajar, she could see most of the interior. The furnishings and decor looked as though they belonged to twenty years ago. Facing the entrance was a cabinet with a large photo collage frame. Inside were aged photographs—children and adults—showing the progression of growth and aging: adults growing old, children growing up. The music grew clearer, coming from an old-fashioned radio. Radios like this were rarely seen nowadays, but here it matched the vintage decor perfectly.

Xian Xiaoya checked the unit number. It was the opposite unit in the adjacent building; from the north-facing window, she could see the boy’s window across the way. Same floor, different building, facing each other—no wonder the layout was similar. The music continued, and an elderly man, about sixty, emerged from the room, turned off the radio, and noticed Xian Xiaoya standing inside, perplexed.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for someone. Uncle, do you know which unit Zhong Shiqiang lives in?” Xian Xiaoya asked, remembering an old client her company had asked her to visit.

“What do you need him for?” the old man replied defensively.

“I’m with Prosperity Fund Company.”

“Oh… What’s your business?”

“I need to speak directly to Mr. Zhong. Uncle, do you know which unit he lives in?”

“I am Zhong Shiqiang. What do you want?”

“So you’re Mr. Zhong! That’s wonderful. I’m Xian Xiaoya, a fund manager from Prosperity.”

“Oh, I see…”

“I’m here on behalf of our company for a post-sale visit. Your investment at our company is about to mature, and I wanted to ask if you’d like to renew it. As a valued longtime customer, we’d offer an increased deposit interest rate. Your combined interest and returns are substantial; would you consider continuing your investment?”

“I’m practically ready for the coffin. What do I need returns for? I want to withdraw my funds.”

“Wouldn’t you reconsider? This interest rate is only available to longstanding customers like you.”

“No, I’m terminally ill. I want my money back for medical treatment.” His words were resolute; he was determined to reclaim his funds.

“Mr. Zhong, perhaps you should think it over again? You can rely on insurance, or medical coverage for treatment. You don’t necessarily have to withdraw this money.”

“I want to spend it all before I die. I refuse to leave it to them!” The “them” in Zhong Shiqiang’s words—could he mean the children in the photographs? Xian Xiaoya glanced at the photo frame.

“Not a cent left. It’s all mine, and I’ll spend it all myself.”

Xian Xiaoya was at a loss for words. At that moment, a man in his early thirties rushed in from outside. He was slightly overweight, of average height, with greasy hair. He stormed up to the old man and began to curse.

“You old fool, hand over the money already. What’s the point of keeping it? You’re nearly in the grave, but you won’t give it to your own son.” As he ranted, he raised a wooden chair, ready to strike the old man.

Seeing this, Xian Xiaoya rushed forward to intervene. The man slammed the chair onto her arm; the force was strong enough to break the chair, splintering the wood. Yet Xian Xiaoya felt little pain. She was overcome with melancholy, her eyes involuntarily moist as she looked at the old man. The music suddenly resumed, and the man, worried that things might escalate and Xian Xiaoya might call the police, angrily fled, leaving only the old man and Xian Xiaoya behind.

The old man was surprised by her intervention. She had shielded him from harm.

He helped Xian Xiaoya up. “Are you alright?”

She merely shook her head, gazing at his face, which seemed increasingly familiar, though she had only just met him.

“Go back and bring me my money. Don’t come again for anything else.”

“Will that man cause you more trouble?”

“He will, no doubt. He’s my own child—how could it not be my concern? If I ignore him, he’ll only become more reckless.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“My money is only for paying his debts, but I won’t let him use it to gamble on stocks or other risky ventures. Otherwise, sooner or later he’ll end up jumping off a building! I’m old, incapable, and he’s squandered all my money.”

His words struck a chord deep in Xian Xiaoya’s heart, as if he were speaking about her.

“Alright, Mr. Zhong, I’ll submit your redemption request when I return,” Xian Xiaoya said sincerely, feeling she ought to help him as much as possible.

Looking out the northern window, she saw Miss Lin and the boy still inside. Miss Lin waved to her, and the boy shouted, “Sister! Did you come to see Dad?” Xian Xiaoya didn’t understand what the boy meant, nor did she care, assuming he was speaking to someone else—not to her.