The Child Within the Narrow Gate

Beijing's early mornings always carried a hint of coal smoke and the sour tang of dòuzhī, seeping under the grey sky into every hutong. Zhang Ma, as the neighbors called her—what her actual name was, she herself had almost forgotten over time. Her day began with dressing her son, Ming'er.

Ming'er was seven this year, tall for his age, with features so fine he seemed out of place in the hutong. But he didn't speak, and his gaze always seemed to drift, sometimes fixated on an ant in the corner for ages, or staring at his own fingers as he twirled them round and round. The doctor called it "that... syndrome thing." Zhang Ma didn't understand the term, nor did she want to. All she knew was that this was her son, the flesh of her heart.

They lived in a small dwelling off the main courtyard at a corner of the hutong, just two north-facing rooms, the door as narrow as a slit. Usually, Zhang Ma washed clothes and cooked, while Ming'er sat on a small stool by the door, fiddling with his pebbles or watching the clouds. Life in the hutong passed like the rings of the old locust tree in their courtyard, slow and repetitive. Zhang Ma found it peaceful, quiet.

But somewhere along the line, this tranquility was disturbed, like water rippled by a tossed stone. First, it was Auntie Liu next door, who, returning from grocery shopping, would always crane her neck to steal a couple more glances at Ming'er. "My, Zhang Ma, your Ming'er is getting more handsome by the day, isn't he!" Zhang Ma would just force a smile and gently pull Ming'er inside.

Soon, it wasn't just Auntie Liu. Old Man Wang who played chess at the hutong entrance, the young man delivering coal briquettes, even unfamiliar faces who rarely used this alley—their steps would inevitably slow as they passed her door, their eyes lingering on Ming'er's face. Their gazes weren't necessarily malicious, but they were far from ordinary greetings. They held a kind of... scrutiny, a morbid curiosity, as if Ming'er wasn't a child, but a rare curio.

"That child, he really looks like someone out of a painting." "Such a pity, he doesn't talk." "I heard these kinds of children have some special abilities?" "Maybe he's an immortal descended to earth!"

Idle gossip buzzed into Zhang Ma's ears like summer mosquitoes. At first, she tried to explain: "He's just a bit introverted." Later, she couldn't be bothered. Could a few words change the thoughts rooted in people's hearts? She simply kept the courtyard gate shut more often.

But the narrow gate couldn't block out the gazes from outside. Someone, catching Zhang Ma off guard, secretly snapped photos of Ming'er with their phone. When Zhang Ma discovered it, she trembled with anger, rushing out to shout, "What are you photographing! What's there to see!" The person sheepishly put away their phone, muttering, "Just looking, right? He's good-looking, can't people look?"

Zhang Ma's heart felt pierced by a needle. Good-looking? Yes, her son was good-looking. But now, his appearance had become the reason for prying eyes, another label for his "abnormality." What kind of twisted logic was this? Zhang Ma couldn't fathom it. She would rather Ming'er looked ordinary, as long as he could live his days in peace.

Ming'er seemed to sense something too. He no longer wanted to sit by the door, preferring to shrink back inside the room, clutching his little teddy bear, his eyes even more vacant. Sometimes, looking at his eyes—so clear they could reflect the whole world, yet seemed shut off from it entirely—Zhang Ma felt a wave of panic. Was this world too noisy for him? Too... bewildering?

One afternoon, while Zhang Ma was washing clothes in the courtyard, she heard a knock on the gate. Not the casual rap of a neighbor, but a careful, tentative "tap-tap." Wiping her hands, she went to open it. Outside stood a man in a suit and leather shoes, holding a tablet.

"Excuse me, is this where a particularly... particularly beautiful little boy lives?" The man wore a wide smile, a smile that struck Zhang Ma as uglier than tears.

"Who are you looking for? What do you want?" Zhang Ma stood defensively in the doorway.

The man turned the tablet towards her. On the screen was Ming'er's picture, clearly taken secretly by someone and posted online. "You see, it's him. Everyone online says he's incredibly... spirited. We're an MCN agency, and we were thinking... maybe we could collaborate?"

"Collaborate on what? Get lost!" Like a firecracker ignited, Zhang Ma slammed the gate shut, pressing her back tightly against the wood, her heart pounding like it would leap out of her chest. MCN? Collaborate? She didn't understand the words, but she understood the flippancy and calculation behind them. Her son, the child she protected with all her might, was nothing more than a commodity to be "collaborated" with in others' eyes?

She crouched behind the door, tears streaming silently down her face. She remembered years ago, when she first learned about Ming'er's condition, she had cried then too—crying for his hard fate, crying for her own helplessness. But back then, at least the world was quiet. Now, the world had become clamorous, not out of understanding or acceptance, but for consumption and gawking. What was this? A crueler form of "punishment"?

Inside, Ming'er was carefully arranging a row of small pebbles on the windowsill. Sunlight streamed through the narrow window, casting a soft glow on his focused profile. He was oblivious to the storm outside the door, unaware of the turmoil raging in his mother's heart. His world was simple, pure, like the pebbles he arranged, possessing its own order.

Zhang Ma wiped away her tears, stood up, walked over to Ming'er, and gently stroked his head. The child didn't react, still absorbed in his pebbles.

"Ming'er," Zhang Ma whispered, her voice hoarse, "Don't be afraid. Mama's here."

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, whether those curious, probing, even calculating gazes would continue to fix upon this narrow gate. All she knew was that as long as she drew breath, she would guard this gate, guard the silent child within it, guard the tiny, stubborn flicker of light they possessed.

Life in the hutong went on. The leaves of the old locust tree turned green, then yellow. The neighbors' topics of conversation changed like seasons. Zhang Ma still dressed Ming'er and cooked for him daily, but she rarely opened the courtyard gate anymore. That narrow gate stood like a silent declaration, shutting out the noise from outside, shutting out the "attention" she could neither comprehend nor accept.

Occasionally, she would take Ming'er out, either before dawn had fully broken or late at night, for a walk in the small park at the end of the hutong. Ming'er would crouch to look at dewdrops or gaze up at the stars. Zhang Ma would stand beside him, watching him, and watching this world that felt both familiar and alien. Sometimes, a fleeting sense of Lu Xun-esque desolation would cross her mind: people in this world were indeed forgetful and numb, chasing anything that offered momentary amazement, yet stingy with true understanding and respect.

But most of the time, she just stood there silently, like a tree striving to root itself against the wind. Her very existence was a form of resistance. Perhaps, this was life: hearing thunder in the silence; guarding the faint light within the narrow gate. Even if this light was so faint it might extinguish at any moment, as long as she guarded it, there was still a shred of hope, wasn't there? At least, that's what Zhang Ma thought, and perhaps, all she could think.