Golden Week brought a noticeable surge of people to the park, all converging on the North Gate where the entertainment facilities were more abundant. Even the slides for children came in triple-lane versions. Pei Jingchen wanted to try one himself, but the slides were crowded with kids younger than him, and he felt awkward squeezing in. Remembering there was also a slide at the South Gate, he headed there instead.
North and south—worlds apart. The north gate bustled like a bustling market, while the south gate was utterly desolate. Not even stray cats bothered to come here. Maple leaves, dyed crimson by the golden autumn, littered the ground, adding to the bleakness.
Pei Jingchen felt like leaving. It was broad daylight—probably not haunted, but still…
Pei Jingchen caught sight of something on the ground. Thinking it might be a tic-tac-toe game played by kids his age, he stepped closer. His eyes widened instantly. “This is really well drawn.”
It was a sparrow, etched with the sharp edge of a stone. Unlike the simple sketches he was accustomed to seeing, this was a meticulous painting like those exhibited on television—vividly lifelike, with every feather meticulously outlined.
Pei Jingchen was utterly bowled over. Three steps further revealed more: magpies, parrots, crows, orioles—all birds.
To create such rich, colorful paintings using only stones—Pei Jingchen, who was a whiz at computers but couldn’t even draw a straight line, was so amazed his blood rushed to his head. Before he knew it, he’d moved to the bottom of the slide.
The slide was quite short, suitable only for kindergarteners. Consequently, the space beneath it was cramped. Pei Jingchen hadn’t expected someone crouched inside and jumped in fright, nearly yelling “Holy crap!”
“Did you paint those?” Though it might have been a rhetorical question, Pei Jingchen asked anyway, driven by curiosity.
The space was cramped and low, obstructing his view. Pei Jingchen crouched down to peer inside. The person inside seemed startled, constantly retreating deeper into the darkness. Unable to see the artist himself, Pei Jingchen, unwilling to give up, circled around to the other side of the slide, hoping to catch them head-on. But the person retreated in the opposite direction. Pei Jingchen circled back, the figure retreated again. He circled, the figure retreated. Pei Jingchen found himself amused by the futility. He was scurrying back and forth like a dog on a leash, while the person inside only needed to take tiny shuffling steps.
Not entirely without reward, though. Pei Jingchen caught glimpses of the figure’s slender, pale wrists, the stone clutched in their hand, and the trail of paintings stretching all the way from afar to the base of the slide.
Pei Jingchen suddenly recalled Tom and Jerry. He was that Jerry mouse, while the one inside was Tom the cat. Those drawings were like the cheese Tom had laid out along the path. He’d been lured in, step by step.
“Your drawings are really beautiful. Did you study art since you were little?”
“My mom said boys who can draw have a certain charm. She wanted to enroll me in art classes, but the teacher said I had no talent, and I didn’t like it either. Even though I don’t like it, I really admire people who can draw. They can capture a scene on paper with just a few strokes, like magic. It’s so cool.”
“What’s your name?”
Pei Jingchen blinked, waiting for the boy inside to respond. Though the figure remained hidden in shadow, his face unseen, Pei Jingchen’s instincts told him it was a boy.
“How old are you?”
Taller than most kids his age, Pei Jingchen had always taken pride in his height. Today, however, he realized being so tall wasn’t always an advantage. Take this space, for instance—he couldn’t squeeze inside. To peek inside, crouching wasn’t nearly enough. He had to lower his head, bending over repeatedly like he was crawling under a bed, forcing his “elevation” down again and again.
After straining for ages, the boy inside kept shrinking back. With tremendous effort, Pei Jingchen could only see a pair of white sneakers, black shorts, and the boy’s visibly trembling hands.
“Stop… stop shaking. I won’t look anymore.” Pei Jingchen backed away but didn’t leave. This kid’s got no backbone, he thought.
Was he scared of ghosts? The thought clicked. This place was desolate, overgrown with weeds, rustling leaves whistling in the wind. No heroic aura here—just pure Ring vibes.
“Don’t be scared,” Pei Jingchen felt an unexpected surge of protective instinct. “I’m here!”
“But… if you don’t tell me your name, how am I supposed to address you?”
“Oh, I can’t say my name. I saw Spirited Away. Names are like spells—if monsters hear them, big trouble follows. So don’t say yours, and I won’t say mine. That’s the safe way.”
“Are you scared of ghosts? Hahaha, there are no ghosts in this world. Even though my dad always tells me ghost stories to scare me, I’m not scared at all… really.”
“What else do you do besides drawing?”
“I love computers. I love the ‘clackety-clack’ sound of typing. That sound gets my blood pumping—it’s both stress-relieving and helps me sleep. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s just addictive.”
“But my mom’s worried I’ll become a computer addict, so she won’t let me touch it anymore. Ugh!”
“Hey kid, say something back! Talking to myself is boring.”
“If someone saw me talking to thin air, they’d think I was crazy. Good thing no one’s around.”
“Little brother, aren’t you bored? Come out for some fresh air.”
“Oh, I’m eight years old. How old are you? Is it okay if I call you little brother?”
He’d been crouching, but his legs went numb. Not caring about the dirt, he crossed his legs and sat down.
The midday sun had faded, leaving crisp autumn air. Afternoon warmth filtered through golden leaves, casting dappled shadows.
“Little brother, you’ve been in there forever. Aren’t your legs numb?”
“Why are you alone? Where are your friends?”
“Well, I don’t have anyone to hang out with today either. Wu Lü went to his grandma’s place, Shunzi is in the hospital getting shots for his cold, and Er Pang went to ballet class. You guessed right—it’s Er Pang’s parents forcing him. They say ballet looks pretty and insist he learn it. He cries every day.”
“You draw so well. Do you want to be an artist when you grow up?”
“I like games. The big brother next door asked if I wanted to be a pro gamer? I’m not interested in that. More than just playing, I want to study games so others can experience them. Oh, development—that’s the word, development.”
“Little brother, I’ve been talking this whole time, and you haven’t said a single word back to me.”
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with a magnificent sunset. Golden rays stretched the shadows beneath the slide ever longer.
“I’m so hungry. Little brother, aren’t you hungry?”
“Hunger’s no big deal. The real issue is the cold. My dad said after autumn starts, the temperature swings wildly between morning and night—scorching hot in the sun by noon, then chilly as a ghost at dusk. Are you cold?”
“Ugh, cold and hungry.”
He dusted himself off and took a step forward. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
“If you don’t want to go, then I… I guess I’ll just stay here with you, freezing and starving.”
“What if the ghosts take you away…”
“Don’t worry, I won’t leave. I’ll always be with you.”
“I really do feel a bit creeped out… Ah, I’m not scared! I’m scared you’re scared!”
He reached out his hand: “Come on, I’ll take you to eat something delicious.”
Moonlight shimmered like silver, a faint breeze rustling softly.
A slightly chilly little hand settled into his palm.
He felt his heartbeat quicken. He turned his hand, clasping the small one tightly, and pulled with all his strength.
The little boy, with rosy lips and pearly teeth, stood a head shorter than him. His dark hair framed almond-shaped eyes, long lashes like feathers. He was exquisitely delicate, like a porcelain doll.
Gurgle, gurgle-gurgle-gurgle…
The boy froze, moonlight highlighting his flushed cheeks as he awkwardly covered his stomach.
“Starving, huh?”
“Got it!”
Pei Jingchen suddenly remembered something, tapping his head in frustration. He fetched the forgotten backpack from afar, unzipped it, and pulled out a small cake wrapped in an ice pack. “Chocolate mousse. My dad made it. It’s delicious. Have this to tide you over.”
The boy glanced at him, then at the cake, his lips curling slightly as he murmured, “Thanks.”
With his baby-faced looks and soft voice, he couldn’t help but smile. “Do you like sweets? My family runs a bakery. Come on, I’ll treat you to a feast.”
The boy’s eyes shone like stars, yet if you looked closely, they held neither celestial bodies nor the sun or moon. Not even the distant neon lights could squeeze their way in. His pupils contained only him—completely and utterly consumed by him.
So that was it.
He really didn’t remember. He had truly forgotten.
That explained why Su Qingci had worn that expression when they met again all those years ago.
That explained why, when he lay dazed after the accident, Su Qingci had said: You promised I wouldn’t be afraid with you here. You promised you’d never leave, that you’d always stay with me. You can’t lie to me…
Perhaps to him, it was just another ordinary day among countless years, a commonplace event with nothing special about it. Even if it had made a strong impression at first—even if he’d shared it as a big deal with friends—as time passed and life filled with other trivialities, that chance encounter gradually seemed insignificant until it faded completely from memory.
But for Su Qingci…
That day was everything.
No need for elaborate embellishment—just the word “everything” sufficed.
How many years had they known each other? Ten? No.
They’d met as children.
Eighteen years, to be exact.