Go Ahead · Chat

In the summer of 1999, the cicadas in the old district of Xiamen chirped longer and louder with every breath, heating up the very air. A moving truck stopped at the entrance of the apartment block. The latch on the metal cargo bed came loose, and a chair tumbled out, rolling across the concrete—half of its leg snapped off. Ling Heping bent down to pick it up, his neck slick with sweat, a dark patch of perspiration soaking through the back of his blue uniform. He looked up and shouted toward the second floor: "Ling Xiao—bring your dad some rope!" No one answered. A tall, thin boy lay propped up on the second-floor windowsill, motionless. The hair on his forehead was a bit long, partially covering his eyes. The broken chair below seemed to remind him of something; his Adam's apple bobbed once, and he slowly retreated back into the room. A "clatter" came from the neighboring unit—the sound of an aluminum basin hitting the ground. Li Jianjian ran out in her slippers, still clutching half a piece of watermelon, her face flecked with seeds. She looked up, saw the moving truck, and then saw Ling Heping moving boxes while drenched in sweat. She tossed the watermelon rind into the trash can and yelled at the top of her lungs: "Uncle! Are you moving in upstairs from us?" Ling Heping turned around and forced a smile: "That's right, little one. We'll be neighbors from now on." Li Jianjian grinned, showing a missing front tooth. Just as she was about to ask more, Li Haichao's voice called out from the noodle shop: "Jianjian—come back and serve the bowls!" Li Haichao was wearing a faded blue apron, a lump of kneaded dough sat on the counter, and his fingers were still dusted with flour. He leaned halfway out, froze for a moment at the sight of the moving truck, and then saw Ling Heping—the two locked eyes, and Ling Heping scratched the back of his head sheepishly. As Li Jianjian ran back, she caught a glimpse of a figure in her peripheral vision—at the stairwell, the tall, thin boy had come down at some point and was bending over by the trash can, picking something up. His white shirt was a bit oversized, the sleeves rolled up twice to reveal thin wrists. What he picked up was a crumpled piece of photo paper. Ling Xiao stood up, unfolded the photo for a quick look, then balled it back up and gripped it in his palm. Li Jianjian stopped in her tracks, wanting to call out to him but not knowing how. "Ling Xiao—" Ling Heping's voice came from the truck, "Come over and help." Ling Xiao stuffed the photo into his pants pocket and walked over with his head down. As he passed Li Jianjian, he glanced at her, his lips moving as if to speak, but no sound came out. Li Jianjian noticed his eyes were red. Inside the noodle shop, Li Haichao placed a steaming bowl of noodles on the table by the window. Sitting opposite the table was a boy—He Ziqiu, wearing a faded T-shirt. His hair was a bit long, his head bowed, and his hands were placed neatly on his knees. The bowl of noodles before him emitted white plumes of steam, but he hadn't touched his chopsticks. "Eat up," Li Haichao handed the chopsticks to him, "There's more if that's not enough." He Ziqiu gripped the chopsticks, his knuckles turning white. He looked up at Li Haichao, his lips trembling slightly, his voice as raspy as sandpaper: "...Thank you, Uncle." Li Jianjian squeezed in through the door, saw He Ziqiu, and turned her face away. Li Haichao gave her a light tap on the head: "Come here, meet your new brother, this is Ziqiu." "I don't have a—" Before Li Jianjian could finish, Li Haichao shot her a glare. She swallowed the rest of her words and sat down at another table, grumbling and poking the tabletop with her chopsticks. A "砰" sound of a door slamming came from upstairs. Ling Heping walked out of the stairwell and looked up at the second-floor window—the curtains were drawn tight. He let out a long sigh, squatted by the entrance of the unit, and lit a cigarette. Ling Xiao sat on the floor of his room, the wrinkled photo spread out on his knees. The photo showed a man and a woman holding a baby, with a younger version of himself—missing a front tooth—standing beside them. He smoothed out the edges of the photo bit by bit, then opened a drawer. Inside were three or four other fragments of the same photo, neatly arranged—the same family portrait, torn apart and pieced back together, over and over again. He placed this newly recovered piece inside and closed the drawer. Li Jianjian's laughter drifted up from below, as crisp as marbles rolling across a floor. Ling Xiao turned his head and looked out the window—on the laundry line of the opposite balcony, a small pink dress hung, fluttering in the wind. In the noodle shop, He Ziqiu finally picked up his bowl. The steam from the noodle soup hit his face; he took a sharp breath, and a tear suddenly dropped into the bowl, creating a small ripple. He hurriedly raised his hand to wipe his eyes. With his back to him, Li Haichao was chopping green onions on the cutting board—the sound rhythmic and steady. "No rush," Li Haichao said without turning around, "Now that you're staying, take your time to eat." He Ziqiu buried his face in the bowl and began to eat ravenously. The soup was scalding, burning his tongue, but he refused to stop. The setting sun filtered through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, scattering broken gold across the ground. Chen Ting stood behind the curtains on the second floor, watching Ling Heping extinguish his cigarette below. Her face was expressionless as she pulled the curtains shut, closing the last remaining gap. The fates of the three children, on this evening filled with the sound of cicadas, became silently intertwined. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>