Chapter Two: Awakening

He had no idea how much time had passed before he awoke again. This time, he opened his eyes with ease, but could not move his head, as a medical neck brace still encircled his throat. Numbness tingled in his limbs, and when he tried to sit up, he found himself utterly powerless. All he could do was stare helplessly at the snow-white ceiling above, the air heavy with the scent of disinfectant mingling faintly with the fragrance of flowers. Glancing to the right, he saw a pale green porcelain vase holding a bouquet of lilies on the bedside table, next to a round device and two small external speakers. There was no doubt—he was in a hospital.

At this moment, his mind was still shrouded in confusion; he no longer knew who he was. It was as though he had acted in a seventeen-year-long film, and when the performance ended, the line between the character and himself had blurred to nothing. The very fact that such thoughts occurred made it clear: the consciousness of the music director was now dominant. Memories from his life as an illegitimate child ended with him driving down Zhongshan Road—another riverside road—but he couldn’t recall what came after. Whenever he tried to remember, pain would lance through his mind. Yet as the music director, his final memories were intact: a Lamborghini and a Ferrari still raced through his mind, vivid and sharp. He could replay those scenes in his memory, frame by frame, catching even the terror etched on the drivers’ faces.

Now, plagued by the question of his own identity, he grew increasingly restless. Worse, he couldn’t even manage the simple act of getting out of bed to look at himself in a mirror. He could only wander aimlessly through his memories, as if rewatching a film that had left an indelible mark on his soul. He had reached the highest level in piano, but only the lowest rank in martial arts. Because the education systems differed, after coming to China and studying for half a year, he hadn’t passed a single subject. Of course, “education systems” was just an excuse—in truth, his grades in America had been poor as well.

Lost in these idle thoughts, he heard the door creak open, followed by the rhythmic tapping of footsteps. He strained to look sideways, glimpsing a petite figure in a white coat and nurse’s cap.

The nurse carried a clipboard, and upon noticing he was awake, looked slightly startled. Without the slightest hint of courtesy, she asked, “You’re awake?”

He struggled to make a sound, but could only emit a hoarse gurgle from his throat. The pretty-faced young nurse frowned, pulled a walkie-talkie from her pocket, and said matter-of-factly, “Notify Director Li—the patient in Special Ward Nine is awake.”

He paid her chilly demeanor no mind, focusing all his energy on trying to speak. He was desperate to know where he was and what had happened. Yet before he succeeded, the nurse jotted something down on a pad at his bedside and left the room without another word.

Some time later, a bespectacled doctor entered. Glancing at the name badge on his white coat, he read: Li Guodong.

A gentle voice asked, “Do you know where you are?”

His throat raw, he managed to rasp, “Yes, the hospital.”

The doctor continued, “Do you know your name?”

After a brief hesitation, he replied, “Cheng Xiaoyu.”

“How does your body feel? Can you move all your limbs?”

He quickly flexed his hands and feet, then exhaled in relief. “I can.”

The doctor glanced at the chart clipped to the bed, smiled, and said, “Then you’re in good shape. A little over a week’s rest, and you should be ready for discharge. I’ve already called your father—he’s in a meeting but will come later today. For now, just rest. If you need anything, press the call button by your bed and a nurse will come.”

At that moment, Cheng Xiaoyu understood completely: he was now the seventeen-year-old Cheng Xiaoyu. In the other world, his father had been retired for years and no longer worked—there would be no meetings to attend. Moreover, the characters on the doctor’s badge were in traditional script, not simplified. A strange, complicated feeling rose in his heart, and he murmured, “Oh,” not wishing to speak further.

Memories from his previous life surged like a flood and drowned his heart in an instant. He didn’t even notice the doctor closing the door behind him, so overwhelmed was he by the solitude that filled the white hospital room.

Tears he hadn’t shed in more than a decade now streamed unchecked down his face. He would never again see those friends who had laughed, played games, and gone clubbing with him. Never again would he encounter the scheming, insincere colleagues, or the fellow music lovers with whom he’d performed together. He would never again see his aging parents, hair now silver, urging him to marry. Only now did he realize how terrifying memories could be—after more than thirty years, he had accomplished almost nothing. As a student, his grades were poor, and parent-teacher conferences always ended in criticism. His college entrance exam scores were abysmal, leaving him to attend a third-rate private university. In college, he devoted himself to music, grew out his hair in rebellion, stayed out all night, smoked, drank, and chased after girls—but deep down, he knew he was not a bad person.

After graduation, his useless degree could not secure him a job, so he sang in bars in the provincial capital, sometimes three gigs a night, yet still couldn’t make rent. Only then did he realize that dreams could not fill an empty stomach—he lacked both talent and diligence, destined to be a failure.

For more than two years, he drifted aimlessly until his father, after calling in countless favors and spending who knows how much, secured him a job at a provincial TV station. To be honest, back then he looked down on the station, which ranked near the bottom in ratings. He used to believe his lack of success was due only to bad luck and an unfair society. Only much later did he finally understand: he was just an ordinary man—talented, yes, but not exceptionally so; with personality, but not enough to be truly unique; with perseverance, but not the kind of mad persistence needed for success. Looking back, apart from the little red flowers he won in kindergarten, he had never received any awards. He’d auditioned for talent shows, but never made it past the first round. More than a decade of mediocrity, of fruitless striving, and even in death, he had become a burden to his parents.

He covered his eyes with his left hand, replaying in his mind the image of his father drinking with the station director to secure him a job. On that day, his father—who had never begged anyone for anything—drank so much he had to be sent to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. That day, Cheng Xiaoyu’s eyes reddened and he put away his rebelliousness, determined to make his parents proud. Yet when he tried to prove himself, he discovered, to his sorrow, that the little TV station didn’t even have a music program. The best he could do was compose background music for other shows. His proudest moment was writing the ending song for the station’s most popular family mediation program. His parents became loyal viewers, watching every episode to the very end just to hear his music.

The tree wishes to be still, yet the wind will not cease; the child wishes to care for his parents, but they are gone. Cheng Xiaoyu never had the chance to make his parents proud of raising him, never made his friends proud to know him, nor his teachers proud of educating him. In the end, he had to take his leave so hastily.

In his previous life, Cheng Xiaoyu had always been an optimist, with a kind of easygoing nature that treated even the sky falling down as nothing more than a blanket. But the seventeen-year-old Cheng Xiaoyu was a chubby recluse, who had lived in America with his mother for sixteen and a half years. His mother, Cheng Qiuci, had once been a famed actress, but at the height of her career, she became pregnant with Cheng Xiaoyu, retired to America, and last year, after years of depression and migraines, ended her suffering by charcoal suicide, leaving a note asking him to return to his birth father.

After his mother’s death, Cheng Xiaoyu had not planned to return to China, not until his biological father, Su Changhe, came to America, forcibly ended his studies, canceled the lease on the apartment he’d shared with his mother, packed up all his belongings, and—yes—threatened to take away Cheng Qiuci’s urn if he refused. That was the only way Su Changhe got Cheng Xiaoyu to return to China with him. In truth, Cheng Xiaoyu had always wanted to ask Su Changhe why he hadn’t married his mother, and had always hoped for an explanation, but in half a year, Su Changhe had barely spoken to him, never tried to thaw the icy father-son relationship. Other than giving him money and arranging his daily life, he remained cold and detached, never showing any sign of wanting to make up for years of regret. When he brought him back to China, he only said, “Your mother entrusted you to my care, so I must fulfill that promise. I don’t care how you see me, or how you resist me. You don’t have to listen to me, but you must obey your mother’s final wish.” Such emotionless words left the father and son virtually strangers.

Oddly enough, his stepmother, Zhou Peipei, was warm and attentive, handling all his school and daily needs. The Ferrari 430 he’d been driving during the accident belonged to her. He also had a proud, aloof half-sister, Su Yuxi, who hadn’t spoken a word to him in six months—not even a greeting. Apart from seeing her at the family table on weekends, the number of times they’d crossed paths could be counted on one hand.

Thinking of his bizarre family, Cheng Xiaoyu felt another pang of headache. Now that he’d woken up, he had no idea how to face his parents in this life. After all, having lived two lives, he was now nearly forty—older even than his stepmother. By now, he had wiped away his tears; after all, he was not so young anymore, and there was no point in wallowing in self-pity. No matter how much he regretted what had happened, life would go on. Besides, he couldn’t even tell which identity was his true self, though the more mature Cheng Xiaoyu seemed to control his thoughts. That didn’t mean the reclusive, overweight teenager had vanished. At the very least, when he thought of his father Su Changhe, his heart was far from calm. He knew that was a man he could never truly forgive. Though his mother Cheng Qiuci had never once complained about Su Changhe, even writing in her final letter that he should listen to his father, Cheng Xiaoyu would always believe that her death was Su Changhe’s fault.

Sixteen years of relying on his mother had made him quiet, awkward, and poor at communication. At 178 centimeters tall and weighing over 180 pounds, he was chubby and pale, an easy target for bullies in America. Aside from playing the piano, he had no friends. Now, looking back, his happiest moments were those when the fading rays of the San Francisco sunset lit up the shabby apartment windows, and in that last bit of warmth, he played his mother’s favorite Chopin while she listened from behind, preparing dinner. At mealtimes, she would smile when he ate heartily, so he always tried to eat as much as he could.

Back then, he believed that his mother’s smile and music were all he would ever need. Now, music was all he had left.