Chapter 11: The Wish for Home

Old Well Village—a place so small, it could hardly be called a village at all. There were plenty of houses, but few people. The young had all gone to work in the city; those who remained were the elderly, women, and children. Every household kept dogs; in fact, there were more dogs than people. Whenever someone entered the village, all the dogs would bark in unison. It was noisy, but at least it was better than utter silence.

With no one around, even a dog was good company.

There were countless empty houses in the village; those with some ability had taken their elders and children to the city, so renting a house here was especially cheap. When the iron gate was opened, a few chickens in the yard fluttered their wings and followed, surrounding Xiao Cheng, waiting for food. He nudged away the pushy leader, a large rooster, with his foot. Glancing at the chicken droppings scattered across the yard, Wen Xiao Cheng sighed softly—the chicken coop hadn’t been properly locked again, and the flock had soiled the entire place.

He pushed open the door, set his things down on the stove, tossed his backpack into his room, rolled up his sleeves, and began his daily work. From the market, he’d collected a burlap sack of cabbage stalks and wilted leaves, which he quickly washed and chopped up. Scooping half a ladle of cornmeal from the flour sack, he mixed it all together, making more than half a basin of feed. Carrying the basin, he opened the door; the chickens, sensing food, went wild, crowding around. Xiao Cheng coaxed and chased them into the coop—night was approaching, and chickens, born with night blindness, couldn’t see or recognize people in the dark; any touch would send them flying in panic, possibly into someone else's yard, which would be troublesome.

He dumped the feed into the trough, and the only sounds were the pecking of hungry beaks. He found a thin wire to reinforce the coop door, splashed a basin of water, and cleaned up the yard. Only then did Wen Xiao Cheng return indoors to light the stove and start dinner.

There was a gas tank at home, but it was only used for stir-frying; stews were done directly on the stove. A bundle of firewood could cook a big pot of food and boil a kettle of water—much more economical in winter, keeping the heated bed warm for hours.

He washed and trimmed some beans, peeled a few potatoes, sliced pork belly, gave everything a quick stir-fry, then added water and dumped all sorts of ingredients into the pot—a rustic stew. In the rice cooker, the rice and water were already prepared, most likely by his grandmother before she left. After plugging it in, the aroma soon filled the air.

He turned off the fire and served himself a bowl of rice. Ladling a spoonful of stewed kidney beans, he poured it, broth and all, over the rice. He covered the pot; a few embers still glowed in the stove, so when his grandmother returned, the food would still be warm. Wen Xiao Cheng ate quickly, glanced outside—the sky was darkening.

Once night fell, bathing was out of the question.

On the roof, Wen Xiao Cheng had rigged up his own solar water heater—a simple contraption: an old iron barrel, sliced open across the middle, coated inside with black paint to absorb heat, and fitted with a pipe at the base. The water inside had been heated all day, now likely at least forty degrees; perfect for bathing. But it had to be used before sunset, or it would cool off quickly.

He bathed while the water was still warm, washed his dirty clothes, and hung them to dry. With daily chores done, he would usually start homework or review lessons—but now, it seemed unnecessary.

He wiped off the creaking bamboo recliner in the yard, sat down, leaned back, and gazed up at the star-studded sky. With his eyes closed, the stars remained, yet the humble yard and dilapidated village faded away; only the vast earth, sky, and the constellations were left. Two recliners stood side by side beneath the starlight; Wen Xiao Dao beside him also stared at the sky, lost in thought.

“Our lives shouldn’t be like this, should they?” Wen Xiao Dao said angrily.

With a snap of his fingers, the scene changed rapidly—a luxurious villa stood by the sea, and the two reclined on chairs by the pool, clad only in swim trunks. Between their fingers was a cigar of some unknown brand, and a tall wine glass half-filled with crystal-clear red wine sat on the table. Beautiful women in bikinis drifted back and forth before their eyes, and a messenger dressed as a bunny girl approached respectfully, bowed, and asked if they needed anything.

“This is the life we deserve!”

Wen Xiao Cheng shook his head, waved his hand lightly, and the villa, beach, and beauties vanished, replaced by a large dining table. In the center, a bubbling hot pot of red broth, surrounded by an abundance of vegetables, sliced meat, and fish balls. Grandmother, father, and mother sat around the table, laughing and chatting, warm and joyful. Outside, firecrackers boomed—it was reminiscent of that New Year, like a soda commercial.

Wen Xiao Dao shrugged, “Alright, that’s not bad, but should we add something more?”

The scene shifted again; the table full of dishes remained, grandmother and parents still gathered, but the chopsticks hadn’t yet moved. The doorbell rang, and two people entered one after the other—the man was Wen Xiao Cheng, seemingly older than now, and the girl, faintly recognizable as Yang Liu Shan, radiating pure charm. She politely greeted Wen Xiao Cheng’s parents, handed over gifts she’d brought, and afterwards, the family enjoyed hot pot together, now with one extra person at the table. It felt like an ad for thermal underwear: the scene of bringing a girlfriend home and gifting warm clothing to the parents.

Commercials are always beautiful; next comes the evening news.

“My wish is simple—we can achieve it if we have the money. But your wish is far more complicated! First, we need to get your father out of prison—he’s already serving his sentence, which isn’t easy. With the right connections, maybe medical parole or supervised release is possible. Second, we need to find your mother—not too difficult, not too easy. Finding her should be possible, but whether she’ll return, what changes have occurred over the years, and whether your father and grandmother will accept her afterward—these are all problems.”

Annoying as it was, that was the reality. Some things could never return to how they once were.

“How about we focus on wishes for the present?” Wen Xiao Cheng grinned, snapped his fingers, and the scene changed again.

On the rooftop, a crowd of students shouted and cheered, watching the spectacle. In the center, Lu Qi, drenched in sweat, charged like a bull searching for a red cape, while Wen Xiao Cheng remained calm as a matador. Eventually, Lu Qi, famed as the school's solo fighting king, wobbled, knelt, and admitted defeat: “I lost.” The crowd erupted in cheers; Wen Xiao Cheng raised his hand triumphantly, declaring his invincibility. Yang Liu Shan threw herself into his arms, eyes shining with adoration: “Xiao Cheng, you’re amazing!”

Wen Xiao Cheng frowned; he’d imagined this scene before, but now it felt sickening.

“Want to try another?” Wen Xiao Dao winked.

This time, Zhang Peiyue knelt at Xiao Cheng’s feet, begging loudly for mercy, slapping his own face as he pleaded: “Brother Cheng, I was wrong! I’m not human, please forgive me! I’m nothing but a beast, please don’t hold my mistakes against me…” Behind Zhang Peiyue was his mother, bowing her head repeatedly.

Still sickening.

These were problems to solve, not wishes. In Wen Xiao Cheng’s heart, the most important thing was to gather everyone from those commercials—grandmother, parents, the girl—around that big dining table.

——————

Does this chapter feel like filler? A few words could sum up half its content: home—feeding chickens—cooking—bathing—daydreaming. When I used to write Black Silk, I liked to gloss over trivial matters with a stroke; it was concise, but missed many details. The phrase “impoverished family” can’t compare to the satisfaction of a complete scene: chickens in the yard, the stove vs. the gas tank, the homemade solar heater from an iron barrel—all sketching Xiao Cheng’s daily life, showing Old Knife’s delicate prose.

And it adds more word count.

Is it filler? The best water flows gently.

The imagined scenes that follow—what is the meaning of life? Is it seaside villas, beaches and bikinis, wine and yachts, or is it family gathered around a round table, sharing a hot pot in warmth?

It feels as if I’ve reached a philosophical height; even I feel grand after writing it.