Before age eight, Miao Jing lived in Z Province, in a small township nestled in the mountains at the junction of north and south. The mountain ranges stretched endlessly, with distinct seasons—cold winters and hot summers.
Her parents had divorced early. The only family photo was taken when she was two, three wooden-faced people before the photo studio backdrop. She was a tiny bundle in a gaudy peach-pink tulle dress, a red dot painted between her brows, gazing blankly at the camera. On either side were her parents, their features blurred, though one could still make out their youthful handsomeness and beauty through the haze.
After that family photo, the family fell apart. Miao Jing lived with her mother, Wei Mingzhen, but was soon sent to her grandmother’s house in the countryside, growing up in a small village.
Her mother had married due to an unexpected pregnancy when she was barely in her twenties, working as a sales clerk in a township clothing store. Beautiful and fun-loving, she had no shortage of suitors whether married or divorced, and showed little interest in her daughter. In the following years, when the migrant work wave surged, Wei Mingzhen followed her boyfriend to work on the coast, returning each time in fashionable clothes and giving her grandmother a living allowance. Though not much, it was enough for Miao Jing’s needs.
There should have been child support from her biological father. For the first two years, there actually was, but later he went to Xinjiang, married, and had children there. The distance was too great, and he gradually severed all ties with his hometown, cutting off both news and support payments. The paternal relatives, struggling themselves, had long since ceased contact.
Miao Jing grew up on her own. Wei Mingzhen stayed away until their grandmother died of illness. Just as Miao Jing was about to start preschool, she was packed off to her aunt’s house in town. Her aunt had a daughter and a son close to her age; the three attended the same school and became playmates.
The time spent depending solely on grandmother was warm but brief, and being so young, she couldn’t preserve many memories. Living at her aunt’s house—Miao Jing had started forming memories by then—wasn’t a particularly happy experience, whether due to her sensitive nature or other reasons.
Her aunt wasn’t harsh or abusive, but with ordinary family circumstances and life’s daily struggles, there was some alienation and neglect.
Her cousin sister and brother both wore house keys around their necks, but Miao Jing had none. If no one was home, regardless of the time, she could only sit outside the door and wait.
The most memorable incident was when her aunt’s family of four made an emergency trip back to the countryside for a funeral, forgetting Miao Jing had no key. After school, she sat hungry at the door until nine at night, when a neighbor woman saw her and took her in for the night. When her aunt’s family returned and learned she had stayed with neighbors, they showed not the slightest concern.
During family meals and conversations, she never had a chance to speak up. Good food never made it to her mouth. Sharing a room with her cousin sister, Miao Jing was more like a personal maid, always taking second place, fetching and carrying, washing dishes, and sweeping floors. When the sister and brother fought over TV programs, she could only watch from the side, having no say in the choice.
After their grandmother died, Wei Mingzhen visited even less frequently, though she sent substantial support money. Miao Jing wore her cousin’s old clothes and shoes—with two sisters in the house, the younger wearing the elder’s clothes was natural. Fortunately, that winter when Wei Mingzhen returned home, herself bright and fashionable from head to toe, she saw Miao Jing wearing a pair of old cotton shoes, worn through with holes yet still on her feet, chilblains covering her cheeks, ears, small hands, and feet. Everyone said Miao Jing liked touching cold water and didn’t like wearing clothes, but mother and daughter were alike—both particularly afraid of the cold. The hometown winters often brought snow, with no heating or air conditioning, relying only on coal stoves to survive the coldest days.
Though the mother-daughter relationship wasn’t close, seeing that cold, drooping little face—being a mother after all—it would be a lie to say she wasn’t heartbroken.
Wei Mingzhen had been picky about remarriage these years, mostly relying on men for support while working. She lived comfortably but hadn’t saved much money. Her looks weren’t as fresh as in her twenties, but she knew how to dress up, wearing lipstick and fashionable dresses, maintaining a womanly charm. As she grew older, she thought about finding a good man to entrust her later years to. Looking at Miao Jing again, she decided she should take her daughter along, fearing Miao Jing would hate her otherwise.
Suitable men weren’t easy to find, requiring negotiation of conditions and horizons. Wei Mingzhen stayed in her hometown for several months, then suddenly went to a place called Teng City. She had met an out-of-town man through phone chat, from a city further south than Z Province, with a better economy than their area. They got along wonderfully, somewhat like kindred spirits. The man’s circumstances were good—owned an apartment, had an iron rice bowl as a state employee, and was educated and good-looking. Miao Jing had seen his photo: a refined, handsome middle-aged man.
Wei Mingzhen stayed in Teng City for a month, returning radiant and overjoyed to pack Miao Jing’s belongings. Those old cotton jackets left over from her cousin were all rejected—Teng City had good weather, long summers, mild winters, and no need for cotton jackets. These clothes were thrown before her aunt, whose face turned bright red, and who then bought an expensive pretty dress from the mall as a farewell gift.
Mother and daughter packed their few belongings and took the train to a strange city and unfamiliar family. It was Miao Jing’s first train ride, her first time leaving the province. As the green-skinned train passed through dark tunnels between towering mountains, she held her breath patiently waiting for that line of light leading to unknown vast territories. Miao Jing was fascinated by the journey—the diverse crowds and varied accents from all corners, the fragrant instant noodles and peanuts and sunflower seeds from the snack cart, the slowly pausing station platforms, and the blur of speed passing by.
Teng City.
In this city, the trees were particularly gnarled and strong, lush green and well-fed. Any vegetation easily took root, flowers bloomed long and vigorous. The humid, stuffy air held a strange smell, and when the wind blew, it carried hints of sweet floral fragrance.
Miao Jing tugged at her dress, feeling her skin baked dry by the heat, then quickly wrapped in a sticky-plaster stuffiness.
No one came to meet them. Mother and daughter took a taxi, finally getting off in a bustling residential area. Wei Mingzhen held Miao Jing’s hand with one hand and pulled the suitcase with the other, head high and chest out, walking toward a five-story residential building amid the whispered gossip of passersby.
Miao Jing still remembered that scene—everyone stopped to stare. Her mother with dyed yellow hair, wearing a leopard-print dress, black stockings, and high-heeled sandals, like a proud peacock. She wore a ponytail, the hair tie threaded with two shiny round pearls, a white sleeveless dress with purple floral prints, a silk ribbon tied in a bow at the back, the skirt had three layers with purple wave-edged trim—even she was startled when she looked in the mirror.
Wei Mingzhen led her to knock on the second-floor door.
Someone opened it—a rather frail, thin man with a high nose bridge and double eyelids. Seeing the mother and daughter, he smiled gently and helped take in the luggage: “You’re here, welcome, welcome.”
Wei Mingzhen secretly pushed Miao Jing.
“Hello, Uncle.”
“Ah, such a good girl.”
The two-bedroom apartment had both bedrooms facing east side by side, a west-facing balcony, with kitchen, bathroom, and living room in between—quite a spacious layout. Miao Jing had always lived in single-story houses, never in an apartment building. Looking at the yellow wooden floor beneath her feet and the refrigerator outside the kitchen door, she felt something oddly different inside.
In the bedroom was a white machine box with a keyboard and speakers, rumbling music coming from it. Seeing Miao Jing’s curious stare, Wei Mingzhen proudly explained: “Your Uncle Chen is a computer enthusiast, once he sits at the computer he can’t get up.”
Wei Mingzhen had spent a month examining this household, and was quite at home, directing Miao Jing like a mistress of the house to change shoes, wash hands, sit on the sofa, then go to the kitchen to boil water for tea, ask about lunch—she could cook, or they could eat out.
The man was very polite, turning on the TV and putting the remote in Miao Jing’s hands, chatting briefly. His name was Chen Libin, an employee at the power bureau. His ex-wife had passed away a few years ago. He had a son named Chen Yi, two years older than Miao Jing, now in fourth grade. Since Miao Jing was coming with Wei Mingzhen, he had helped arrange the school transfer—she would attend the same elementary school as Chen Yi.
Miao Jing opened her clear bright eyes, nodding again and again, obediently saying okay, I understand, thank you, uncle.
Soon after, Chen Libin went to his room, and sat at the computer. After a while, Wei Mingzhen brought him a cup of tea, also gathering at the computer, and sitting on the chair’s armrest. The two whispered for a few moments, and then the bedroom door closed, leaving Miao Jing alone to watch TV in the living room.
She carefully observed the house. The cleaning was somewhat cursory, but certain details revealed clues—the teapots and cups were elegant and delicate, the TV’s dust cover was hand-embroidered with fine tassels, the walls hung abstract paintings she couldn’t understand, and in the dusty, empty cabinets remained a few cute porcelain dolls—in these little details, one could still sense traces of the previous mistress of the house.
Wei Mingzhen came out of the bedroom, fluffing her oil-treated curls. Chen Libin still sat at the computer. Wei Mingzhen explained he was trading stocks, asking if Miao Jing wanted to go out with her to buy some ready-made dishes downstairs. Miao Jing’s eyes fixed silently on the TV screen, belatedly hearing the door close, realizing her mother had already gone downstairs.
Their first meal was eaten at home—ready-made dishes, stir-fries, and a bottle of baijiu. Just as they were about to start eating, someone came home—a boy, sweaty from playing, changing shoes at the door. Seeing the people inside, he blinked, showing no particular reaction, simply taking his bowl and sitting at the table.
He was a handsome boy wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, clothes dusty, yellowed at the back. When his long eyelashes drooped, there was something inexplicably clean about him, but when he lifted his eyes, revealing that pair of rebellious, stone-hard eyes, you could tell he wasn’t someone to mess with among the children.
“This is my son, Chen Yi.”
“Hello, Brother.”
“Just call her Miao Jing.”
Chen Yi’s cheeks bulged as he chewed chicken bones, spitting bone fragments onto the table, completely lawless. Chen Libin kept his head down, leisurely drinking beside him, while Wei Mingzhen warmly shifted the topic, urging everyone to eat and drink.
Back then, Miao Jing wasn’t pretty—her hair was dry yellow and unkempt, her body thin and withered, her demeanor like a numb little old lady. But those eyes were beautiful, like a clear, tranquil spring, not vulgar and flamboyant like Wei Mingzhen’s. Her nose and mouth showed the makings of a beauty, just waiting to grow and develop.
Miao Jing was eight, and Chen Yi was only ten. Miao Jing in second grade, and Chen Yi in fourth grade. They were two years apart, though not quite—only sixteen months. Chen Yi’s birthday was December 24th. The reason for remembering so clearly was that later, Christmas Eve became a de facto Valentine’s Day in China. Miao Jing was born on April 19th two years later. Chen Yi started school a year earlier than her; they said during primary school enrollment, he tested so brilliantly in the interview that they made an exception for him to start school a year early.
The house only had two bedrooms, so Miao Jing had to share a room with Chen Yi. Fortunately, the room was rectangular and not too small. Another single bed was moved in, with a desk between the beds and a curtain drawn. Miao Jing took the inside spot by the window, and Chen Yi slept near the door. At night with the curtain drawn, it was manageable. Other furniture—wardrobe, desk—was shared, split half and half, territories divided.
After the adults allocated the space, Miao Jing arranged her few clothes and belongings, planning to put her school supplies and notebooks in the drawer next to her bed. Chen Yi was also in the room. Seeing her pull open the desk drawer, he suddenly took two steps over, eyes cold and fierce, heavily kicking her calf. She curled up in tears from the pain, her entire leg crumpling against the desk corner, letting out a cry of pain—which was quickly muffled by Chen Yi’s hand clamped tightly over her mouth, that scream trapped beneath his palm.
Chen Libin and Wei Mingzhen were chatting in the living room. Miao Jing smelled his palm—rust, mud, sour garbage, grassroots, roast chicken, all mixed, utterly repulsive and to be avoided at all costs.
“Say something and I’ll beat you to death,” he bent down to whisper in her ear, teeth clenched, words scraping out of his throat, terrifying.
Miao Jing’s frail body trembled uncontrollably.
That night after showering, everyone went to bed, both bedroom doors long closed. Miao Jing slowly rubbed the purple bruise on her leg in the moonlight, lying stiffly on the bed unable to sleep. She turned over, and through the gap in the curtain, saw Chen Yi lying on his side, head covered, back toward her, wearing a white tank top and knee-length shorts, body curled up, shoulder bones gaunt and jagged, like a silent mountain.