On an autumn street, a sudden drop in temperature had plunged the entire city into the feel of winter. Cold winds whistled through, turning grass and leaves brittle and yellow. Though it was already morning, the sunlight failed to break through; thick clouds blocked the meager warmth, leaving only a penetrating chill.
On the wide street, vehicles moved past each other with little pause, and the few pedestrians on the sidewalk hurried along, bundled in layers, as if trying to wear winter in advance.
Only one boy walked slowly, standing out against the street scene.
He wore only a thin shirt, clutching a bouquet of white flowers. Keeping his distance from the pedestrians, he reached the intersection. Passersby glanced back at him, curiosity and awe in their eyes.
Those gazes, which might have made another youth feel proud, meant nothing to him now. It was as if he had entirely detached from the world.
He stopped by a lamppost at the corner and looked toward the passing traffic ahead.
The autumn wind blew, scattering the layers of white chrysanthemum petals and whipping at his thin clothing. It slipped through the collar and hem, lifting the fragile fabric like a sail.
A few days ago, Qi Ji had still felt heat, an internal blaze consuming him. Now, finally, he felt cold. His fingertips stiffened, and his chest seemed frozen—not from the wind, but from what lay ahead.
Just a few steps away was the site of his nightmare. Closer still, he might see the dried blood trapped in the cracks of the asphalt.
It had been crushed by passing tires, buried under layers of dust, and absorbed into the ordinary street scene, overlooked by everyone.
Yet it churned endlessly, flowing forever in Qi Ji’s heart.
Standing between the gray sky and the gray pavement, he felt the heaviest weight of all the gray haze. He remembered that morning. The night before, his father had called from the road, saying he would soon arrive in S City, even stopping to buy Qi Ji’s favorite malt-filled candies.
Qi Ji had insisted he was too old for candy, yet hearing his father’s voice made his mouth taste sweet.
He had woken before dawn, enthusiastically preparing breakfast for four, ready to share it with his parents after their long journey.
But before the final chopsticks were set, a phone call came.
A bolt from a clear sky, a thunderclap under the blazing sun.
Qi Ji still could not bring himself to fully recall that day. He had pieced together the scene countless times, vivid down to the tiniest detail, as though reliving it in person—a compulsion of thought beyond his control.
That morning, a cargo truck, having traveled hundreds of kilometers, descended from the ring highway into the city. All seemed normal. But just as the truck approached the intersection, another truck with failed brakes came barreling across. Its driver panicked, slamming the horn and struggling to steer, but it was too late.
Fate did not favor them. The two massive trucks collided. Two were killed, one injured.
The accident report reduced it to cold lines of text and numbers, but at that moment, a river of blood surged forth. Qi Ji had listened to the detailed report: at the moment of impact, his father instinctively steered to shield the other side, protecting his mother. He had even stretched out at the last instant, using half his body to shield the passenger seat.
“Bang!”
That should have been a deafening crash, yet the sound branded itself into Qi Ji’s ears, unrelenting.
His father protected his mother but underestimated the collision’s force. Miraculously conscious amid the impact, he watched the passenger-side window shatter into glinting shards. Cold and sharp, they pierced his mother’s body, tearing through the airbag.
His father had tried so hard to save the woman he loved. When the earth-shattering crash finally ended, he watched helplessly as his mother exhaled her last breath in his arms.
Because he had braced the car head-on in the final moment, the driver-side door twisted open. The phone lying under the steering wheel was flung out, rolling into the dirt.
His mother’s phone had been out of service—she had transferred the line to his father’s SIM, planning to pay it the next time they went out. To call Qi Ji again, his father had to reach the phone rolling just a few meters away.
He was not invincible; no one survives such a collision unscathed. Crawling toward the phone, with the street deserted at that early hour, he had no one to call for help. Inch by inch, he dragged himself to it.
A long trail of blood marked his path, like stripping skin from a tender, unbroken heart.
Finally, he reached the phone and, with life bleeding away, tried to dial Qi Ji. Bloody fingerprints smeared the screen, a shocking sight. But the phone was poor quality; the screen cracked from the fall, colors smeared in confusing patterns. No matter how hard he pressed, he could not activate the call button.
The blood-stained spot over the dial key was so dense that it could not be wiped away.
Qi Ji never received that call.
He carried a rugged, nearly indestructible “brick” phone afterward, afraid that another chance might be lost—a futile consolation, unable to heal the scar already carved deep in his life.
The horrific scene drew onlookers. Someone called the police and ambulance; others carefully approached and saw the phone screen unable to dial. They used their own phones to reach Qi Ji’s father.
Qi Ji arrived at the scene. By the time he got there, the ambulance had just arrived. He climbed in, seeing his mother covered in a white sheet on one side, and his father bleeding profusely on the other.
The sirens blared through the morning streets, but in the anxious hearts of those waiting, the ambulance felt unbearably slow.
The hospital gates finally appeared. As they crossed the threshold, the heart monitor emitted a sharp alarm:
“Beep—”
The faint wave flattened into a hopelessly long line.
Racing, shouting, swerving, resuscitation—the last his father was wheeled into the emergency room. Qi Ji, in a daze, followed the medical staff, then found himself outside, watching the red emergency light flicker on and off.
The air was thick with blood and the smell of disinfectant, choking and harsh.
Amid it all, Qi Ji heard the doctor’s heavy, cold voice:
“Time of death: 09:17:11.”
Qi Ji felt as if the disinfectant burned his lungs; the smell of blood choked him, making him cough uncontrollably. Someone emerged, saying, “Please accept our condolences”—but before finishing, their expression shifted from solemn to horrified.
“What… what’s wrong? Quick, someone help! This person is bleeding from the mouth and nose!”
That day stretched endlessly.
Qi Ji had no time to cry, only recorded the countless streams of blood—the blood of his father, his mother, his distraught younger brother, and even his own.
Overwhelmed by despair, he could not shed tears, moving numb, like a walking corpse, yet somehow methodically handling what fell upon him.
The true flood of grief came later—after handling his parents’ affairs, rushing home for documents, and opening the door to find the breakfast he had prepared for four completely cold.
Later, at the police station, when handling evidence, he saw a young female officer holding a bag containing a blood-stained, misshapen malt candy—his father’s last failed attempt at reaching him.
It was only later, when Qi Ji encountered people, places, and things he had once shared with his parents, that he suddenly realized he would never experience those moments with them again.
Qi Ji had loved to cry as a child. When he was very small, his father would hold him, pinch his nose, and say with concern, “Our Qi Qi cries so easily—what would happen if you were hurt or treated unfairly without Mom and Dad around?”
At the time, Qi Ji could not grasp the harsh realities of life. Hearing this alone was enough to make him wail, clutching his father’s neck and demanding a promise that they would never leave him.
As he grew older, however, he could no longer cry.
He had been so willful as a child that he had used up all his quota for being spoiled. Now, no matter how many tears he shed, no one would come to comfort him.
Qi Ji understood this.
The wind grew harsher, whipping up leaves, carrying a chill, tearing across the sky with mournful cries.
Qi Ji understood. When his parents had traveled for business in his youth, it wasn’t that they didn’t want to bring him—they thought he was too young, incapable of being properly cared for. Alone in his hometown, he studied everything diligently. His mother had been a math teacher, so he aced every math test. His father had taught art, so Qi Ji spent his days learning and painting.
He had been greedy, trying to win praise with these accomplishments, though in reality he was a burden, someone his parents could not take along, yet whose presence weighed heavily on their hearts.
When he was older, his parents settled in S City and brought him to study there. The family could finally be together—until new regulations prevented him from taking the local college entrance exam. He had no choice but to return to his hometown with his father and brother, while his mother continued to work elsewhere. The family remained separated.
It was his fault—his existence had kept the family apart.
Later, he got into F University, his younger brother into S City’s No. 1 High School. The long separation was about to end. But his parents were deceived by a so-called helpful partner in their hometown. Their company collapsed, their fortune vanished, leaving a debt of twenty million yuan.
Even if they had come a year earlier, his parents would never have trusted that so-called “kind-hearted” fellow.
Qi Ji understood.
All of it—his fault.
Even after, working day and night on design projects, hustling from place to place with odd jobs, even risking his life in fighting arenas or clubs to earn money, it was only to repay a fragment of the harm done to his parents.
Yet he owed so much that he could never repay it all.
And still, he dared to hope for their love.
He should have realized sooner.
It was a delusion, a fantasy. He was unworthy.
And so, his parents left him, walking away without looking back.
The white chrysanthemums lay by the lamppost, staring silently at the ordinary, unremarkable street. Qi Ji lifted his dry, hollow eyes to the cold, gray sky.
The wind carried the sound of rain.
In the blink of an eye, a torrential downpour drenched the city. Pedestrians hastened, seeking shelter.
The boy beside the snow-white bouquet did not move.
He stared at the street ahead. The rain splashed against the asphalt, as if finally attempting to wash away the bloodstains.
Through the blurred curtain of rain, a familiar figure approached, reaching out a hand.
“Qi Qi…”
Qi Ji blinked but did not look away, fixed on that place.
“Mom… Dad…”
Have you come to get me?
You wouldn’t leave me behind, would you? Wherever you’re going, please take me with you. I won’t cry again. I’ll be good. I’ll change. Please don’t abandon me…
Take me with you.
The cold wind and rain cut to the bone. The lost boy’s gaze was empty, as though drawn forward by invisible strings, slowly moving toward the place that haunted his nightmares.
The rain fell heavily, blurring the view through car windows. The intersection, where traffic flowed thickest, approached. Cars sped toward him, the heavy rain making it nearly impossible to avoid the boy’s path—
Then a figure shot out from the curb, grabbing him back with a sudden, forceful motion.
The speeding vehicles were still some distance away, but close enough that water and mud splashed over the two of them. In the nick of time, the rescuer pivoted, holding the boy tightly against his chest.
Mud and water drenched his back.
The waiting crowd finally surged forward in disarray, opening umbrellas, offering jackets.
Pei Yusheng ignored them, lowering his gaze to the boy in his arms.
The rain roared, lightning cracked, yet all he could hear was the rapid thump of his own heart.
He held the boy close, repeatedly confirming that he was safe, barely able to calm the racing panic.
Qi Ji’s eyes were open, but vacant, unable to see.
A faint voice murmured, the most familiar address Pei Yusheng had heard in days:
“Dad…”
But there was no longer the comfort or happiness that had once accompanied it.
A wide umbrella shielded them from the rain, yet hot tears slipped down Qi Ji’s pale, damp cheeks, distinct from the raindrops.
In Pei Yusheng’s arms, the boy finally fainted.
The man’s jaw clenched, veins pulsing at his temples.
He drew a deep breath, lifted the boy horizontally, and stepped into the car that had been waiting.