Bu Yuchuan · Chat

London, October, 3:20 PM. The gray sky looked like old, soaked newspaper, and the leaves of the plane trees were scattered across the ground in front of the elementary school. Bu Yuchuan stood across the street, staring at the boy with the blue backpack at the school gate through the bustling crowd of children leaving school. The child wasn't playing with his classmates; he was just standing quietly by the steps, looking down and kicking a small pebble with the toe of his shoe. Sunlight leaked through a rift in the clouds, landing right on his profile. That face. The curve of the brow bone, the line of the bridge of the nose, the slight downward angle of the lips when pouting—it was exactly like the photograph of Bu Yuchuan as a child that hung on the wall of the old family estate, as if it had been photocopied. His breath hitched. The driver asked something from behind him, but he didn't hear it. His legs reacted before his brain could, carrying him across the street and through the crowd. Every step felt like walking on cotton, yet also like treading across five years of empty time. He crouched down in front of the boy, bringing himself level with those deep brown eyes that were identical to his own. “What is your name?” The boy tilted his head, blinking those eyes that looked so much like his own, and looked at him with an expression that was polite but completely alien. Then, in standard, milk-soft yet crisp English, he replied: “Sorry, I don’t understand. Can I help you?” He didn't speak Chinese. Bu Yuchuan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He suppressed his surging emotions, switched to English, and kept his voice very soft. “What’s your name?” “Ethan.” The boy answered briefly, his big eyes assessing the man. This uncle was so tall; even while crouching, he was still much taller than him. And, he looked a bit like... himself in the mirror? “Bu Yiyang?” When the boy heard those three syllables, his eyes lit up, but then he frowned, struggling to explain in English: “My Chinese name, yeah. But I can’t say it well. Mummy calls me Dou Dou.” Bu Yuchuan’s fingertips dug into his palms. Bu Yiyang. The 'Yang' of the poplar tree. He took a deep breath, steadying his voice. “Ethan, how old are you?” “Five.” The boy held up five fingers, then tilted his head and asked in return, “Why do you look like me?” Bu Yuchuan was frozen in place by that question. “Do you know my mummy? Is that why you’re here?” Before he could answer, a voice so familiar it made his blood run cold came from behind him— “Dou Dou—” The sound traveled through the air and hit his eardrums. His back stiffened instantly. The boy leaned out from his side, waved in that direction, and called out in English: “There’s a tall man here. He looks like me!” The sound of footsteps drew closer. Bu Yuchuan stood up slowly and turned around.