Chapter 2: My Father's Silhouette

He had cried. He had raged. Now, Wang Qiang simply felt exhausted. From the other room, all had gone quiet—his parents must have already drifted into sleep.

In the darkness, he sat curled into a corner of his bed, knees drawn to his chest as if only this posture could keep him warm. The truth of his rebirth was still too much to bear.

How was Meili doing now?

When they were together, he’d often found his wife’s nagging irksome; sometimes even a simple meal would devolve into bickering, igniting his temper. But now, the thought of losing her forever sent a dull ache through his heart, leaving his lips pale.

And his son? Was he preparing for the high school entrance exams? Was he studying hard?

Wang Qiang’s mind was crowded with worries for his wife and child, but he couldn’t help recalling his parents’ gray, aged faces.

Before his return to this era, his parents were already in their sixties.

Every morning, his mother would rise at five thirty, as she had for decades, to sweep the floor and prepare breakfast before shouldering her farming tools and heading to the fields.

He rarely saw his father, who, stooped by the years, still shouldered sacks of cement on construction sites, all for the sake of supporting his son’s mortgage payments in the city.

His parents shouldn’t have to live such arduous lives.

A long sigh escaped him. He blamed only himself for not being able to give them a better life...

Not able to give them a better life?

He froze. In the darkness, his dim eyes seemed to regain a glimmer of light.

In his previous life, perhaps he lacked ability—but in this one?

Could it be that Heaven had let him relive his years to make amends for the guilt he bore towards his parents?

A bitter smile touched Wang Qiang’s lips. Perhaps that was truly the case.

That night, his mind was a ceaseless reel of his wife, his child, and his parents’ faces.

Without realizing it, dawn crept in, faint and gray.

It must have been four or five in the morning; visibility was still low.

Just then, the door creaked open from the outside. Wang Qiang looked up and saw, through the gloom, the silhouette of his father. “Dad?” His voice was hoarse.

“Awake so early?” His father’s tone was surprised as he groped his way in, fingers searching for the light cord.

Back then, wall-mounted switches weren’t common; most households still used a nylon cord to operate the ceiling light.

With a snap, sudden brightness made Wang Qiang squint, shielding his eyes with his hand until he adjusted. “Why are you up so early?” he asked.

His father moved to the wardrobe. “Getting ready to go to Xixi,” he replied, rummaging through drawers for clothes.

Wang Qiang was taken aback. “Aren’t you staying home a few more days?”

Without turning, his father answered, “Every day off is a day’s wages lost. No point idling here, I’ll head to the site.” He paused. “You stay home and listen to your mother, don’t be naughty, understand?”

Wang Qiang gave a soft “mm” and hugged his knees, watching his father search for clothes.

His father kept on with his advice—school would start in a month or so, study hard, and so forth.

When he finished, he turned with a bundle of clothes in his arms. “You—” he began, but caught sight of Wang Qiang’s bloodshot eyes and stopped short. “You didn’t sleep all night?”

“Couldn’t,” Wang Qiang managed a weak smile, climbing out of bed. “I’ll walk you to the bus in a bit.”

His father frowned and waved him off. “No need. Get some rest. I’ll eat breakfast first.” With that, he headed out.

Wang Qiang slipped on his vest and shorts, shoved his feet into his grimy rubber shoes, and stepped outside.

…

At the crossroads by the town.

In the end, Wang Qiang stubbornly insisted on seeing his father off. There was no direct bus to Xixi; he’d have to transfer at Shanghai. In those days, there were no fixed stations—most buses were privately run, passing through the town each morning, and would stop at a wave.

Rain had fallen the night before, so the dawn air was cool. Drops dripped from the dawn-red sequoias lining the road, sometimes carried by the breeze to his face.

Soon, a distant horn sounded, and twin headlights cut through the gray. Wang Qiang spotted the bus to Shanghai and quickly signaled.

The bus pulled over.

His father didn’t board immediately but hefted his bundle to the door. “How much?” he asked the driver.

“Twenty.”

“It used to be eighteen.”

“Brother, that’s the price now. Look, the bus is full.”

“Fine, I’ll wait for the next one.”

“No, no, all right—eighteen it is. But listen, don’t tell anyone else I gave you that price.”

Watching his father haggle with the driver, Wang Qiang was transported back to the day he’d left for university. His father had seen him off, bargaining over the fare. Back then, Wang Qiang had found his father’s words awkward and had always felt the need to step in—how much this moment resembled that one.

A sturdy man from the bus helped his father load the bundle into the rear compartment.

His father, a thin man, looked strained after carrying the load for half an hour. Wang Qiang had tried to help, but his father had insisted on carrying it himself.

He watched his father toss the bundle in. The back of his faded white shirt was already soaked through with sweat. This man, barely into his forties, was already slightly stooped with years of toil—a sight that made Wang Qiang’s heart ache. Tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks. He wiped them away quickly, afraid his father or others might see.

“Qiangzi, I’m off,” his father said, coming over. “Remember to study hard.”

Wang Qiang nodded firmly. “Write home when you get to Xixi.”

His father, wrinkles etched into his face, nodded. “I will. Take care of yourself and your mother.”

The driver called out, “Hurry up, old man, everyone’s waiting on you.”

Seeing this, Wang Qiang urged, “Go on, get aboard.”

His father waved and turned, blending into the crowd on the bus, soon lost from sight. Wang Qiang stood motionless, tears falling once more.

He didn’t cry easily—it was simply beyond his control.

A man just past forty, hair already half gray, his back hunched.

Wang Qiang’s heart ached for all his father had done for the family, for him. As more tears blurred his vision, the image of his father’s future, trembling figure merged with the one vanishing into the bus—a single stooped silhouette.

With a sputter of black smoke, the bus rumbled away.

The sound of tires against asphalt snapped Wang Qiang from his despair, awakening an old, buried resolve—this life, he would let his parents enjoy peace and comfort.

At that moment, a streak of light appeared in the east, illuminating the dawn sky.

A new day had come.

Wang Qiang clenched his fists, raised his head to the sky, and gazed up at the distant, unreachable future. Taking a deep breath, he knew that this was not just the start of a new day, but the beginning of his life anew.

Poverty is a sickness that seeps into one’s bones.

Then let him, armed with knowledge of the coming decades, cure this disease that makes people numb and despairing.