Wang Fang felt that the past dozen years or so were like a compressed biscuit, all the flavor, nutrition, and expectation tightly pressed upon her son Xiao Jun's soon-to-be-revealed Gaokao score. To be precise, they were pressed upon the two words: "Peking University."
Liu Fang's heart felt like it was being brutally scrubbed with sandpaper, each stroke bringing a bloody pain. She stared at the small, pale face; it was her son, Xiaojie, a boy who should have been celebrating his third birthday tomorrow. Now, he lay there quietly, like a discarded, broken toy, having stopped breathing forever.
The room was dark and damp, only the ticking of the old-fashioned wall clock, like a dull judgment, knocking on Old Man Li's heart one sound at a time. He sat on a hard wooden stool, hunched over, his cloudy eyes staring at a stain on the floor. The shape of the stain resembled a distorted human face.
The sky was just beginning to lighten. Grey light squeezed through the pathetically small window, casting a slanting glow on the corner of the wall. The paint was peeling badly, resembling the wrinkled faces of old people, silently telling the ruthlessness of time. This room, rather than a home, was more like a pigeonhole, so cramped it made one's heart race.
In the corner of the living room, the blue-feathered parrot sat motionless. It used to be the liveliest presence in the house, greeting each morning with an imitation of Old Li’s voice: “Morning, old man!” Old Li had been gone for three months, and the parrot had also “passed away” with him, at least its voice had.
It was named “Little Smarty,” but now it seemed more like a mute. Old Li’s daughter, Li Mei, tried talking to Little Smarty, but the only response she got was the occasional pecking sound. This parrot was originally controlled by Old Li’s smart assistant, "Butler," and could engage in fluent conversations. Li Mei clearly remembered that in her father’s last days, he barely spoke to her, yet chatted enthusiastically with Little Smarty, as if the vividly feathered bird was the only one in the house who understood him.
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.