Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Back to Thirteen Years Old Chapter 1: Chapter 1: Back to Thirteen Years Old Chiang Xiao had another nightmare, dreaming of those in white coats pouncing on her like starving wolves upon a little lamb, their faces filled with viciousness.
In panic and fear, she struggled desperately, retreating step by step.
Then, someone pushed her violently, and she fell from the ninth floor, her brain splattering and her body a twisted, bloody mess.
That was her, her thirty-year-old self.
With such a brutal death, she ended a life of being deceived, used, framed, harming others and herself, living like a fool.
Unable to help herself, Chiang Xiao burst into tears.
She hated, hated those people, but hated her own stupidity even more.
The plain printed door curtain was hurriedly flung open, and someone strode in, repeatedly asking, “Little, what’s wrong, what’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare again?”
Chiang Xiao felt her flailing hands being grasped by another’s, hands bearing calluses yet incredibly warm.
She opened her eyes, blurred with tears, and saw a familiar face fraught with concern and heartache.
Thin eyebrows, long eyes, and ear-length short hair held by three black hairpins, her eyes always seemed to bear a touch of subtle sorrow.
Tremblingly, Chiang Xiao called out, “Grandma?”
Grandma sat down by the bed, looking at her with tenderness, “Don’t be scared, Grandma is here. Go back to sleep, my little girl.”
Hadn’t Grandma died of a heart attack at the end of that summer when she was thirteen?
At that moment, Chiang Xiao looked at her own hands.
They were slender, with pearly white skin, so delicate that veins could be seen, and there were some dark traces under her fingernails, seeming a bit dirty.
No matter what, these couldn’t be the hands that had later drawn such beautiful paintings, these were the hands from her memory.
Chiang Xiao was dazed.
Hadn’t she already died?
Fallen from the ninth floor, her body mangled beyond recognition, how could she still be alive?
“Grandma,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse, “I didn’t expect to see you first after dying. Grandma, my death was so ugly, but thankfully, I didn’t come to see you looking like that; it would have scared you to death.”
At these words, Grandma Chiang Ge Liutao was startled, fear filling her eyes as she watched Chiang Xiao fall back into a deep sleep, her heart pounding with anxiety.
She sat for a while longer, then tucked Chiang Xiao’s hands under the blanket and quietly slipped out.
The Chiang family had three rooms, one main hall, and stepping out of the main hall, there was a not-so-large courtyard with walls 1.2 meters high made of yellow earth.
The courtyard was squarely shaped, with the gate facing directly opposite the main hall. On the left was a wampee tree, surrounded by slabs of stone, and in the corner lay a pile of neatly chopped firewood. On the right, a chicken coop had been built. That side of the courtyard wall was shared with the Old Chiang family. Grandpa Chiang’s eldest brother and his family lived next door.
It was early afternoon, and Chiang Xiao’s grandfather, Chiang Songhai, was squatting in the courtyard, turning over the medicinal herbs to continue drying them under the sun.
Early spring, the sun was not too harsh, and these herbs had only about two hours at midday for drying. If they rotted, they wouldn’t fetch any money.
Ge Liutao stood under the eaves of the main hall and softly called out to him.
“Uncle Hai, come here quick.”
Here, the ranking of succession was recited, “Yi Hua Shan Bo Guo Shu,” and in the village, Chiang Songhai was of significant standing, part of the Hua (华) generation. Many older than him had to call him uncle. Ge Liutao was of a younger generation, part of the Bo (伯) generation, and had called him Uncle Hai even before they were married. The name stuck even after marriage and remained unchanged with age.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you see I’m busy?” Chiang Songhai didn’t even turn his head, continuing with his work.
The moment he heard ‘Little,’ Chiang Songhai stood up immediately and turned towards the house, asking anxiously, “What’s wrong with Little? Fever again? I’ll go check.”
Ge Liutao pulled him back, glanced over at the neighbors, and asked in a low voice, “The elders say there’s a ghost down by the stream, is it true?”
Chiang Songhai was taken aback, and replied irritably, “Don’t talk nonsense!”