Yan Chengli stared at the words “closeness and dependence cannot be earned” and fell into a daze.

In the haze of drifting thoughts, his still mind was struck by a fleeting image, shaken loose from somewhere nearly forgotten.

He had once asked someone else the same question, though with far less composure. Back then he’d been going through a rough stretch at work, in the low point of his life, unable to summon the patience needed to face the small irritations of daily living.

Vexed and fraying — near the point of furious — he had shouted at the still-young Yan Lie: “What do you even want?!”

He could no longer remember Yan Lie’s expression, or what Yan Lie had been feeling. No matter how hard he searched, memory refused to give Yan Lie more than a walk-on role. He only remembered that Yan Lie had gone obediently quiet, retreating to the corner of the room to play with his remote-controlled car.

Come to think of it, Yan Lie had been different from other children — he never showed much enthusiasm for toys.

Whether it was an elaborately designed transforming car or a problem-solving set of building blocks, the look on his face when he turned them over in his hands was rarely one of joy. It was more like a way to fill time — a gesture of compliance with their attempts to placate him.

Every set of blocks was demolished before it had been assembled into any recognizable shape. The expensive remote-controlled car was just pushed back and forth across the floor.

Yan Chengli would sometimes be seized by the impulse to go and show him how to use them, but Yan Lie would prove so clumsy that he seemed incapable of learning — carrying right on with the destruction, as reliably as ever.

At the time, Yan Chengli had genuinely wondered whether the child was simply disobedient, or simply not bright.

His mother believed it was because Yan Lie had received irregular early education out in the countryside, and that children of the new generation couldn’t be treated that way.

The two of them had no experience whatsoever with raising a child properly. Pressed by the demands of life, they had drifted instinctively toward the path of least resistance.

They’d reasoned it through that way to themselves, and tried to reason through it with the child.

Yan Chengli seemed to see, once again, that small figure standing in the corner of the room — watching him from a distance with a hesitant, wary gaze.

It sent an unbidden chill through him, as though he could hear, echoing back from years ago, a question Yan Lie had never been able to voice.

Yan Chengli relaxed the rigid set of his spine, and then hunched over again as his fingers moved across the screen, half-slumped over the desk.

Yan Chengli: So what does Yan Lie want, then?

Fang Zhuo: What do you mean?

Fang Zhuo: Oh — if you mean whether Yan Lie’s coldness and distance toward you now is him throwing a sulk and wanting something in return — I don’t think so. Past a certain age, there are some things a person simply stops needing. He probably has no particular wants left.

Fang Zhuo: Of course, this is only my speculation. You could ask Yan Lie directly. He’s a mature and grounded person — I’m sure he could have a calm, clear-headed conversation with you.

Fang Zhuo: I would suggest, though, that you do some honest self-reflection first. If you come out of that self-reflection feeling you’ve done nothing wrong, then don’t bother.

Whenever Yan Chengli spoke with Fang Zhuo, he had the strange sense of talking to a contemporary. It was hard to believe this conversational manner came from a girl who had barely started university.

But then he reconsidered, and felt it made sense.

Fang Zhuo’s world was a different kind from his. Reality in her life was leaner, more transparent — human nature had been sharpened down to the bone, stripped of its various soft deceptions, laid bare for her to see plainly simply by opening her eyes.

So she understood more clearly what was worth holding onto, and what should be let go of despite the pain.

In matters of family, she had more genuine insight than Yan Chengli did.

What Yan Chengli couldn’t fathom was why Yan Lie had fallen for Fang Zhuo in particular.

He had always assumed Yan Lie would go for someone livelier — someone who was, at the very least, less reserved than he was himself.

Was it because Fang Zhuo understood him? Yan Chengli turned this over inwardly. Or was it a shared sense of loneliness?

Following Fang Zhuo’s words, he couldn’t help tracing his mind back to the stage when Yan Lie had once needed them — trying to locate exactly where it was, and what had happened.

He remembered that after Yan Lie had been brought back to live with them in order to start school, their household had gone through a brief period of upheaval.

They had tried to be tolerant of Yan Lie’s various childish, clumsy acts of protest — but that tolerance hadn’t lasted long before it collapsed.

Husband and wife conferred and concluded that strict discipline was the only way to shake the spoiled habits he’d cultivated out in the countryside. They were both too busy to allow Yan Lie to keep acting out.

One holiday, the family had made plans to travel together. For a reason Yan Chengli could no longer recall, Yan Lie threw a tantrum and shut himself in his small room, refusing to open the door.

Yan Chengli had been furious at the time.

Standing at this remove, he was startled to discover that in his younger years, he had always been excessively volatile when it came to Yan Lie — working himself into inexplicable resentment over all manner of strange reasons, with none of the restraint or consideration one might expect from an adult.

He and his wife had exchanged a few admonishing words through the door. When Yan Lie wouldn’t listen, they simply left him there alone, got in the car, and drove away.

Late that evening, when they returned from a dinner engagement, they received a call from the police. They went to the station to collect their son, who had run away from home.

In the cold small hours of the night, Yan Chengli had exploded in anger, telling Yan Lie that his grandmother was gone and there was nowhere for him to go.

Yan Lie — who had spent half a day wandering outside without eating a single meal — had simply sat in that chair and looked at him.

A police officer at the side labored patiently to mediate between them, and the person at the center of it all sat there like a bystander, entirely calm.

What had Yan Chengli been thinking at the time?

He’d thought the more silent the child was, the more defiant it looked. That he had no awareness of his own wrongdoing at all.

The friend who had brought Yan Lie in told him that every child has thoughts of running away at some point — it was perfectly normal, but it needed to be made clear that that kind of behavior could absolutely not be encouraged, because he might not be so lucky every time.

Yan Chengli had agreed wholeheartedly. He took Yan Lie home, delivered his reprimand, and demanded that his son learn to be sensible.

Yan Lie covered his ears and said he didn’t want to listen. Yan Chengli struck him across the face.

In the end, what it all amounted to was small things.

The kind of grievances that, for most people, become impossible to bring up with parents once they reach adulthood.

To do so would be to earn the label of “ungrateful” or “holding a grudge.”

And yet those real, genuine hurts had accumulated, with nowhere to go. They became something especially lasting for that very reason — needling, persistent, lodged in the heart like pins.

He had been such a poor father — he hadn’t even been able to recognise his own errors.

Yan Chengli had a dim, formless sense that it was around that time Yan Lie had stopped treating them as family.

And there had been so much else after that. His own arrogance as a parent. His coldness. The times he had chosen to look away, or given licence to things he shouldn’t have.

Yan Lie had grown up inside that household.

Perhaps during those years when Yan Chengli had moved to City B, Yan Lie had been happier on his own.

Did Yan Lie respect him, as Fang Zhuo had said?

He did, already — quite a great deal.

Did Yan Lie understand him?

Most likely, yes.

And so Yan Lie had become exactly what he had hoped for: excellent grades, self-reliant. But nothing beyond that.

With a bleak sort of clarity, Yan Chengli realised that Yan Lie’s current lukewarm indifference left him without even the occasion to use the word “sensible.” He was the one who had, all along, been the one failing to be sensible. He had never properly fulfilled the responsibilities of a father, yet had wielded the towering identity of one to issue commands from on high.

Yan Chengli: Is it too late for me now?

Fang Zhuo: I think it probably is.

Fang Zhuo: I don’t hold grudges, but I can’t find peace with my past self either.

Yan Chengli pressed his knuckles against his forehead and sat in silence, then opened his eyes, puzzled.

Yan Chengli: But you said he hadn’t told you anything about me.

Fang Zhuo: It’s true he hasn’t said anything bad about you. He’s mainly just making self-deprecating jokes and letting me comfort him.

Yan Chengli: I wonder if he’s still angry with me.

Fang Zhuo’s fingers moved slowly across the keyboard, her gaze drifting to her phone screen. She stopped work for the evening again, and almost instinctively typed back something along the lines of “it’s not that serious, not worth it” — then, before sending, felt the sarcasm in it was a little too pointed and made a small revision.

Fang Zhuo: He has no reason to be, as long as you don’t provoke him.

She could see that Yan Chengli was grasping at any available help. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he sent another request.

He clearly hadn’t noticed that her emotional intelligence wasn’t really suited for this kind of high-level assignment.

Yan Chengli: How do you normally talk to each other?

This had the look of a long heart-to-heart in the making. Fang Zhuo’s head began to ache.

Fang Zhuo: If there’s more to discuss, add me on QQ. Text messaging is too expensive.

Yan Chengli: Alright.

Yan Chengli switched to a social media app and sent a friend request, then thoughtfully topped up Fang Zhuo’s phone account with a hundred yuan.

Fang Zhuo received the top-up notification… and at that point, the nature of the situation had shifted entirely.

She pushed her laptop to one side and gave this impromptu employer her full attention.

Little Sun: Go on.

Yan Chengli [display name: Yan Chengli]: He seemed a little annoyed when I was chatting with him.

Little Sun: Send me the chat log.

Yan Chengli: Is that appropriate?

Little Sun: 【Oh.】 If it’s not, then I really have nothing to work with.

Yan Chengli hesitated briefly, then gave in and sent over two screenshots.

Fang Zhuo analyzed them quickly — no surprise, given she was Yan Lie’s girlfriend.

Little Sun: ?

Little Sun: He does have every reason to be annoyed.

Little Sun: Why do you always phrase things as directives?

Little Sun: I feel like you’ve already made up your mind and are asking Yan Lie to comply, without asking his opinion.

Yan Chengli: I wasn’t doing that.

Little Sun: You can go back and count how many question marks appear in that whole conversation.

Yan Chengli took note of the shift in tone since she’d moved to QQ.

The “you” had dropped from formal to informal. She was saying a lot more.

Not that he was in any mood to dwell on that right now. He scrolled back through the chat log, and found that she was absolutely right.

Yan Chengli felt a cold wash of alarm.

Yan Chengli: What do I do?

Little Sun: You could add a couple of emoticons. Yan Lie always uses them in his messages — it makes things feel warmer.

Yan Chengli: What kind of emoticons does he like? Could you show me?

Little Sun: 【Husky grinning stupidly】

Little Sun: Use more question marks.

Little Sun: Don’t drop caring remarks out of nowhere. The things you think show you care actually don’t land well with him at all.

Yan Chengli: Ah……

—

Yan Lie was lying on his bed reading when a message suddenly came through from Fang Zhuo.

Little Sun: If your father could grant you one request, what would it be?

Little Sun: Several is fine too.

Little Sun: Don’t overthink it — I’m just asking.

This was so transparently motivated. Yan Chengli had clearly called in outside help.

Yan Lie felt a complicated knot of something he couldn’t quite name settle in his chest.

A Name of Fierceness: Fang Zhuo, something’s off. What are you up to? Gathering intelligence?

A Name of Fierceness: Are you running reconnaissance on him or on me? Whose side are you on? 【Baring teeth and snarling】

Little Sun: 【Husky grinning stupidly】

The typing indicator from Yan Lie’s end appeared and lingered for a good while, then a single message came through.

A Name of Fierceness: Don’t let him drink.

Fang Zhuo relayed it to Yan Chengli exactly as written.

Yan Chengli: That’s it?

Little Sun: I think that one matters a great deal. He genuinely doesn’t like it when you drink.

Little Sun: I don’t know whether you can break the habit.

Yan Chengli: I’ll try.

Yan Lie was staring at Fang Zhuo’s message list, and thinking about her being over there talking with Yan Chengli left him feeling deflated.

The peaceful evening had turned unsettled.

He typed out a few characters — and then, before he could send them, Yan Chengli’s message jumped in.

Yan Chengli: Do you need money lately? 【Husky grinning stupidly】

Yan Lie: “……”

Well. They weren’t even a family yet, and already the emoticons were being shared.

The question threw him off entirely.

He sent back “not short on money” and then Fang Zhuo’s message appeared at the top of his screen.

Little Sun: All done.

A Name of Fierceness: What exactly did you two talk about?

Little Sun: How to say things that make you happy?

Little Sun: He really is terrible at talking to people. 【Something frightening】

And Fang Zhuo thought she had standing to say that?

A Name of Fierceness: Nothing else?

Little Sun: Nothing else.

Yan Lie wasn’t entirely convinced.

He tried to let it go. In the end, he couldn’t.

A Name of Fierceness: No telling me to grow up a little and cut my parents some slack?

Little Sun: ?

Little Sun: You’d better grow up and cut me some slack, then.

A Name of Fierceness: What’s hard about your life?

Little Sun: Nothing hard. But I do genuinely want to earn more of your favour.

About ten seconds later, another message appeared.

Little Sun: Our Ye family doesn’t require anyone to be forgiving. We currently have one vacancy — accepting applications from unhappy young souls.

The corner of Yan Lie’s mouth curved upward. He slowly set down his phone and covered his ears.

He thought: this is unbelievable. Fang Zhuo was at it again, coaxing him along, megaphone in hand, calling out across his entire world.

Sack after sack of goods — all of it inside, anything you could ask for, all of it precious, all of it given away freely, filling in every hollow he had.

A Name of Fierceness: 【Hands raised in surrender】！