Wang Cang Hai’s palms were damp with sweat as he gripped Qilin’s shoulder blades, as if he could tear him open to see inside—to see if his heart still held him, if it had ever held him at all.
Sixteen years and eight months.
Why had Qilin forgotten—while he remembered everything?
Why was it that only he remembered?
Wang Cang Hai stared into Qilin’s confused, innocent eyes, and a cold emptiness spread through his chest.
In a life as short as mine, how many sixteen-year spans can I afford to waste?
Qilin, do you have any idea how much you meant to me?
Sixteen years ago.
A thirteen-year-old boy named Zhi Nu stood by West Lake in Hangzhou, having just lost his mother in the crowd.
But he did not search for her, nor did he seek help from the authorities.
Because he already knew—his mother had abandoned him on purpose.
Thirty days ago, Zhi Nu’s father was imprisoned for being implicated in the treason case of Grand Chancellor Hu.
Twenty days ago, though his father had never even spoken a word to Hu, he was sentenced to be executed after the autumn assizes.
Ten days ago, his mother took him and fled the capital to seek refuge with their relatives in Hangzhou.
But those very same relatives, who had once benefited from his father’s generosity, denied knowing them and coldly drove them away.
Three days ago, his mother led him to the tea merchants’ caravan that had brought them to Hangzhou, begging for work—anything that could help them survive.
And then, last night—
His mother thought Zhi Nu was asleep.
She snuck out of their rented room to meet with the tea merchant in secret.
Zhi Nu lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
At the break of dawn, she finally returned.
She did not notice that Zhi Nu was awake.
She reached out, gently stroking his hair, and sighed.
Then, in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible, she murmured:
“If I didn’t have you, my life would be much easier.”
That single sentence shattered something deep inside him.
That day, when his mother suggested going to West Lake for a last outing before the caravan left Hangzhou, Zhi Nu obediently followed without a word.
When they passed a vegetarian pastry shop outside Jingyin Temple, she handed him a string of coins and told him to line up and buy some pastries while she went to the latrine.
His heart pounded violently in his chest.
But his expression remained calm as ever.
"If I finish buying the pastries and you haven't come back," he asked, "where should I wait for you?"
His mother replied, "This is the largest temple in Hangzhou—Jingyin Temple. If you feel cold outside, go inside and ask the monks for shelter. They are merciful and will take you in."
Zhi Nu nodded.
His mother turned and left.
Zhi Nu couldn’t stop himself. He called out:
"Mother."
She turned back.
Her eyes were already slightly red.
In a soft voice, Zhi Nu said, "Be safe on your journey. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you. Always stay alert."
His mother let out a bitter laugh.
"I’m only going to the latrine. How could I possibly run into trouble? You worry too much, child."
Zhi Nu nodded again. "Then I’ve spoken too much. You should go."
After his mother left, Zhi Nu did not line up for pastries.
Instead, he held the string of coins in his palm and counted them.
Fifty copper coins.
Then, he walked over to the temple wall, found a sheltered corner, sat down, and counted them again.
If he spent two coins a day on steamed buns and pickled vegetables, he could survive for twenty-five days.
But if he wanted to walk back to the capital, it would take at least forty days.
Even if he begged for food along the way, he wasn’t sure he would have the strength or the luck to make it back before his father’s execution.
And even if he did make it back to the capital—what could he possibly do to save his father?
Zhi Nu tucked the string of coins into his robe and looked up at the temple’s roof eaves.
Perhaps seeking shelter at Jingyin Temple was the better choice.
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