Memory is the human brain’s ability to record, retain, reproduce, or recognize experienced events, forming the foundation for advanced mental activities such as thought and imagination.
Scientific studies indicate that even when a fetus is in the womb, memory exists. However, the embryo’s brain is not fully developed at that stage, so those memories cannot be retained long-term.
Behavioral scientists have conducted numerous experiments, concluding that most human memory begins around two and a half years of age, with a minority beginning at three and a half. Of course, these data exclude extremes: the “late bloomer” six-year-olds and the super-genius infants who remember their own birth.
Song Cheng was neither a late bloomer nor a super-genius. His memory truly began around age six.
From the time he could remember, he lived with his uncle.
But the household was not just him and his uncle; many faces came and went. Song Cheng simply could not remember them, because whenever he began to recognize someone, within days, they would be gone.
When he was a child, he had piano lessons. His piano teacher, in her thirties, had a comforting face that made him feel safe. She was Song Cheng’s favorite teacher, though he never expressed it. Even at that young age, he vaguely understood: it was best not to get too close to someone who cared for him, lest something bad happen.
The teacher merely taught, and Song Cheng obediently followed. One afternoon, after perfectly playing the piece she had given him, the teacher looked at his small, upturned face and sparkling eyes. She could not help herself and hugged him. She had wanted to say something—“Good job, little one!”—but her lips only moved slightly; not a single word came out.
The hug lasted less than half a second, yet Song Cheng felt dizzy with happiness. He lingered a little after the lesson, which was unusual. Normally, he would follow the servant back to his room immediately.
He thought staying just a little longer would go unnoticed by his uncle. He did not expect that within thirty seconds, the front door opened, and his uncle stepped in. First, he glanced at the alarmed child, then smiled at the piano teacher. “Ms. Wang, please come to the study with me.”
Ms. Wang was an exceptional piano teacher; otherwise, Shen Hanshu would not have hired her. She had heard rumors about her employer, so seeing him smile gave her no comfort—only dread. She instinctively glanced at Song Cheng and was shocked to see his face pale, body rigid, and tiny hands clenched tightly. He looked on the verge of tears, yet did not cry. He was trying to suppress it, though a child’s control over emotion is limited; his effort caused his body to tremble.
The servants paid no attention. Shen Hanshu, however, cast one more look at Song Cheng, full of anger and disappointment.
For Ms. Wang, being dismissed meant losing her job, though she could find another. She could go wherever she wished. Song Cheng, however, had no choice but to stay.
Actually, Song Cheng remembered a few people who had shown him affection, but he had a vivid memory only of Ms. Wang. Why? Because her departure was dramatic. She was escorted out by bodyguards, pushed and restrained, yet she kept shouting. A respectable piano teacher had been turned into a near-crazed woman. She continued yelling:
“You’re abusing him! You shouldn’t be a parent! I’m calling the police! How can you treat such a small child this way? You’re all accomplices!”
“Shen Hanshu, you will face retribution! Song Cheng cannot be under your control forever!”
There is truth to the saying that the quieter a person is, the more terrifying they are when they throw a tantrum.
Shen Hanshu’s face turned dark. He turned his head and noticed the small Song Cheng standing outside, watching Ms. Wang being taken away. For the first time, panic appeared on his face.
One reason he kept others away from Song Cheng was fear that someone might plant these ideas in his head. Unfortunately, despite all his precautions, Song Cheng had already heard, leaving him slightly dazed.
Can a parent choose not to be a parent?
What does “control” even mean?
Song Cheng did not dare ask other teachers, nor did he dare ask Shen Hanshu. He looked it up in the dictionary himself. Song Cheng was clever, but a six-year-old, no matter how smart, could not fully grasp such abstract concepts. He understood only partially. Yet Ms. Wang’s words planted a seed of hope in him once more.
Could he have a different parent?
He felt hope, but did not know what action to take, because he did not know who could be his parent. His mother was dead, his father did not want him. The only relative he had was his uncle, who never spoke of other family, not even of his mother or father.
At seven, Song Cheng found an old photograph of the Shen family of four. Looking at the young woman in the picture, he felt a vague familiarity but could not recall who she was. For the first time, he actively approached his uncle, seeking to know who this woman was. Upon seeing the photo, Shen Hanshu exploded in anger, gripping his shoulder and demanding to know where he had found it.
Making mistakes meant being punished by his uncle. Song Cheng knew he had erred whenever he saw his uncle angry. Yet that day, he was not punished. In fact, his uncle fell ill and was unable to attend to him for several days. Song Cheng sat in his room, legs swinging slightly.
A small thrill ran through him. He thought, If only my uncle could stay sick forever…
The incident with the photograph was merely a side note. Not learning the identity of the woman in the photo, Song Cheng naturally forgot about it. As he grew older, even if it occasionally crossed his mind, it never weighed on him.
Shen Hanshu hired a large number of tutors for Song Cheng, organized by subject, with sometimes several teachers rotating through a single course—from astronomy to geography. He expected Song Cheng to master it all. Yet, somehow, Shen Hanshu seemed to forget to give Song Cheng lessons in life itself.
No one taught Song Cheng how to form a correct sense of right and wrong. Shen Hanshu tightly controlled every day of Song Cheng’s life, yet he remained distant from him. They did not even engage in ordinary conversations. When they met, there were usually only two scenarios: silently sitting together, or Shen Hanshu raging at Song Cheng.
When Song Cheng did well, he never received praise. But when he erred, Shen Hanshu vented his anger as if he had been waiting all along for Song Cheng to fail. Only in Song Cheng’s mistakes did he seem satisfied.
As a child, Song Cheng was terrified of Shen Hanshu’s anger. The mere thought of it made him tremble and cry. As he grew older, he remained fearful, but no longer cried, knowing it was useless. He would simply remain in the dark cloakroom until his uncle’s fury subsided, then emerge to confess obediently.
Human potential is boundless. Under such harsh circumstances, Song Cheng nonetheless found a way to survive. He lived by this method, spending the rest of his time reading all kinds of books. Shen Hanshu did not care much for others, but he valued books—they represented knowledge and wealth. Those who read extensively would be learned, though not necessarily bold.
This is the person Shen Hanshu wanted Song Cheng to become: knowledgeable and obedient. Knowledgeable, because both the Shen family matriarch and Song Cheng’s mother admired intellectuals; obedient, because Shen Hanshu believed Song Cheng must obey.
People who lack themselves often insist their children possess everything. Wealthy parents hope their children will live comfortably without hardship; highly educated parents claim formal credentials matter little, only the breadth of knowledge.
Shen Hanshu ignored the opinions of his family, shaking his head whenever they were mentioned. He did not want Song Cheng to follow their model. He wanted him to strive, to obey, to walk within the boundaries he set—becoming the kind of person he himself had once aspired to but never became.
By the time Song Cheng was eleven or twelve, he realized this. All those books had not been in vain. He matured far beyond his peers. Shen Hanshu’s anger still cast a shadow as heavy as a mountain, yet Song Cheng no longer sought perfection—he seemed to have discovered a weakness in his uncle.