ATC 02

Chapter 2

Kyoto

Jiang Wanju grew up in a second-tier city. Her father was a senior executive at a foreign company, and her mother worked within the system.

To most people, this family seemed almost perfect. But for Jiang Wanju, growing up in it wasn’t particularly happy.

Her father loved socializing and showing off, often inviting a few friends over to drink. The night always ended with him dead drunk, vomiting everywhere, leaving the house filled with the stench of alcohol. Her mother, on the other hand, was proud and competitive; her greatest pastime was comparing herself to others—comparing husbands, houses, children’s grades, children’s talents…

Still, despite all that, they did love Jiang Wanju. Because of the one-child policy, even though her father often sighed that he wanted a son, she remained their only child. They loved her, but not in the way she wanted to be loved.

Especially her father, who liked to say, “Look how good we are to you!”

“See Old Liu’s kid? His father beats him with a shoe whenever he’s upset. Have I ever hit you once? Isn’t that good enough?”

“See Old Wang’s daughter? She was cooking by the time she started middle school. Have I ever made you cook? Don’t I spoil you?”

“Look at…”

Jiang Wanju was always trapped in these endless comparisons—or dragged along by her mother to social events she didn’t care for.

Perhaps it was growing up in such an environment that made her develop a strong sense of self from her second year of middle school. Kids that age were just entering adolescence—bodies maturing, curiosity about the opposite sex awakening, becoming self-conscious in how they spoke or acted.

Not Jiang Wanju.

She found her peers childish—the blushing, the secret note passing, the boys who yanked her hair after class just to get attention.

But Chen Zhuren was different.

He was tall—so tall she had to look up to him. Unlike the men her father knew with their bulging beer bellies, or the skinny, sweaty boys in her class, Chen Zhuren had a calm, mature air about him—like a rose in full bloom.

Her father instinctively offered him a cigarette, but he smiled and declined. After understanding the trouble they were in, he went back to his car, fetched a new tow rope, and helped her father pull the stuck car out of the pit.

It was like magic. With effortless ease, he solved the problem that had had her father stumped.

And not just that—he noticed her father was a first-time traveler and asked, “What kind of gas does your car use?”

“93,” her father said.

In that region, 93-octane gasoline was common; 97 was rare and could only be found in cities, while 90 was almost nonexistent.

Chen Zhuren nodded, kindly advising, “When you see a gas station, fill up. If you can, bring a couple of spare cans. There aren’t many stations on the highway—you might have to take the national road.”

Her father nodded eagerly.

“And keep some extra food in the trunk—you’ll need it,” Chen added. “In southern Xinjiang, the signal’s bad, and GPS often drifts—oh, is this your daughter?”

He said this when he saw Jiang Wanju approaching. She stood beside her father, looking up at him.

“Yes,” her father smiled. “She’s about to start high school.”

“Not in high school yet?” Chen Zhuren said with a grin. “You’re already so tall?”

When he smiled, a small dimple appeared on his right cheek—only the right one.

Jiang Wanju had always hated her height, shooting up like a bamboo stalk after rain—thin, awkward, ungraceful. Yet adults always praised it.

Now, suddenly, she didn’t think being tall was so bad.

But that was the last thing Chen Zhuren said to her. She didn’t utter a single word the whole time, even when her father told her to call him “uncle.” She just held her breath stubbornly.

Her mother had to smooth things over, explaining that her daughter was shy and not very talkative.

Chen Zhuren smiled kindly—he wasn’t the kind to take offense.

Before leaving, he gave Jiang Wanju a bag of candy, saying it came as a freebie when he bought something; since there were no children in his car, he’d give it to her.

Perhaps because he had helped them, her usually strict father—who always told her never to take food from strangers—actually let her eat it.

The Northern Xinjiang Grand Loop wasn’t too long, but not short either. After leaving the spectacular sunset of the Devil’s City in Urho, they drove straight to Buerjin. Her parents marveled at the wild fish caught from the Irtysh River, part of the Arctic Ocean watershed, while Jiang Wanju sucked on one of Chen Zhuren’s candies.

Each candy tasted different—same wrapper, different flavor. You could never guess what the next one would be. Sweet, sour, bitter, spicy, salty—chocolate, milk, matcha, orange… everything.

The one she was eating now was a light matcha flavor—so faint it slipped away like wind, leaving only a touch of sourness in the middle, probably from a nearby orange candy bleeding through.

Then the trip took a small turn. After leaving the colorful Wucaitan, her father decided to detour through the Kanas half-loop, from Beitun to Koktokay and Wucai City.

The last candy she ate was while soaking in the hot springs of Wucai Bay. Her parents had a fierce argument—she overheard fragments. Her father hadn’t deleted certain text messages, and the words cut her mother deeply. They quarreled violently, even mentioning divorce, property division, and custody.

Left alone, Jiang Wanju sat in the hot spring, holding that final candy. It was so bitter that she frowned, wondering if it was bitter melon flavored. The taste tormented her tongue; she splashed water onto her face, her eyelashes and hair clinging wetly, smelling faintly of sulfur. Her eyes stung and tears spilled out.

But her parents didn’t divorce. The next day they were all back in the same car, heading to Ürümqi, then flying home. No matter how badly they fought, by the time she reported to high school, they were affectionate again, sending her off together as if nothing had happened.

High school life was nothing like what she’d imagined—no colorful clubs or storybook romance. The boys were just taller, with more pimples; the classes heavier, and her parents’ fights louder. Step away from your desk for a minute, and another test paper would appear.

There was little joy in those years. Teachers always dragged class overtime; PE was canceled half the time because the teacher was sick—or about to be. Under all that pressure, what Jiang Wanju remembered most were fleeting sensory moments:
a cup of hot rice milk on a spring morning, blended with peanuts and glutinous rice;
an icy can of Coke during a summer nap break, condensation dripping down the sides;
a handful of roasted chestnuts on an autumn evening, their shells crackling;
and the late-night skewers after self-study—tiny cubes of lamb grilled till the fat sizzled, sprinkled with fennel, chili powder, and sesame, smoke rising thick into the night.

The smoke drifted upward—and three years passed.

She scored high enough to make her parents proud, was admitted to a prestigious university, took graduation photos, went to the thank-you banquet and farewell gatherings.

Her coming-of-age ceremony and her admission letter arrived together. So did a bouquet of roses—her first love.

His surname was Dou, given name Qie. He was the class monitor of the neighboring class, also admitted to the same university. A typical science student—polite, studious, with a shy smile and a single dimple on his right cheek. His mother was her mother’s colleague, his father a businessman—the sort of boy any parent would approve of.

But Jiang Wanju couldn’t say for sure if she liked him.

Their first time holding hands was right after he gave her the roses. Maybe because he was nervous, his palms were damp with sweat. The brief touch lasted less than a minute before she excused herself to buy soda. Quietly, she wiped her hand with tissues, and when she got home, she washed her hands three times with soap.

Why had she agreed to date him? She tilted her head, staring at the running water, thinking for a long time—then suddenly remembered.

It was because, when he confessed, he smiled. And that dimple on his right cheek looked just like Chen Zhuren’s.

In truth, her memory of Chen Zhuren had long faded. He was just a man she’d met once on a trip—perhaps remembered only because he had “rescued them from trouble.” Over the years, his image in her mind had fallen apart piece by piece, until nothing remained.

She’d tried to reconstruct him, piecing together faces of actors, but it was useless—like gluing shards of glass. No matter how carefully she fit them together, it wasn’t the same as before.

And Dou Qie was just one small shard.

In college, Jiang Wanju’s old habits became more apparent. She didn’t force herself to “fit in.” She couldn’t understand why people had to go to the restroom together, eat together, shop together.

Unwilling to waste time on meaningless socializing, she gradually became solitary. It didn’t bother her—she preferred saving her energy for things that actually mattered.

Dou Qie was similar.

But as she spent less time with him, he eventually succumbed to the attention of an enthusiastic upperclasswoman. One day, someone sent her a photo—Dou Qie and that girl walking side by side under golden ginkgo trees, the distance between them subtle, tender.

Jiang Wanju didn’t say anything. She was cramming for her computer certification exam, and when she saw the picture, she didn’t feel sad—just relieved. Ah, finally, it’s over.

That night, she took a cab to Houhai, drank beer in the cold wind, feeling her foggy mind slowly clear.

That was when Chen Zhuren appeared.

She heard a man’s amused voice:
“Cold night like this, and you’re drinking beer? Aren’t you freezing?”

She turned around—and saw him.

It was like watching a sheet of handmade paper rise from cloudy pulp—the fibers and texture gradually becoming visible, distinct, and pure.

The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. The glass was whole again.

The blurred figure from her memory now stood before her—alive, real.

The dimple on his right cheek appeared faintly as he said,
“Don’t drink too much. It’s not safe around here at night.”