People usually only add "hou" as a suffix when addressing elders or peers—it’s not something the younger generation should use.
But Li Juxiang wasn’t angry at all. On the contrary, she was quite pleased. She could just imagine Li Lan talking to her son about her, calling her "Xianghou." It meant she hadn’t been forgotten.
"Your mother was very smart back then, always did well in school. Not like me—books give me a headache," Li Juxiang said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "When’s your mom coming back for a visit?"
"My mom's busy with work. She said once things calm down, she’ll come get me."
Cuicui piped up, "Mom, I’m taking Little Yuanhou upstairs to play."
"Alright, go on. Take good care of Little Yuanhou."
Cuicui grabbed Li Zhuiyuan’s hand. As they reached the stairs, she expertly took off her shoes and slipped into a pair of house slippers. Seeing this, Li Zhuiyuan bent down to take off his own.
"No, Little Yuanhou, you don’t have to. Just come up like that."
But Li Zhuiyuan still removed his shoes, planning to go barefoot. Cuicui had no choice but to hand him her mother’s slippers.
Wearing the oversized slippers, Li Zhuiyuan followed Cuicui up to the second floor and into her room. A black-and-white television sat in one corner.Liu Jinxia had bought the TV a while ago, but she hadn’t made a fuss about it. The villagers didn’t care much for her, and she didn’t bother inviting anyone over to watch.
Cuicui turned on the standing fan, but the blades didn’t move. “Huh? Is the power out?”
Li Zhuiyuan replied, “The plug’s not in.”
“Oh, you’re right!” Cuicui bent down, picked up the plug, and pushed it into the socket.
“Whir… whir… whir-whir… whir-whir-whir—”
The heavy fan blades began to spin slowly, humming a tune that could sweep away the heat of midsummer.
“Little Yuanhou, do you want to watch TV?”
“Sure, anything’s fine.”
Cuicui turned on the TV and twisted the dial. After flipping through the limited channels—most of which were just static—one channel finally came through:
“Brother Jing, are you alright?”
“Rong’er, I’m fine.”
“Hmph, Ouyang Feng, you…”
Every summer and winter break, the TV would inevitably show The Legend of the Condor Heroes.
They sat on the edge of the bed watching for a while. Soon, Li Zhuiyuan started feeling sleepy.
He hadn’t rested at all since the night before. The earlier tension had worn off, and exhaustion crashed over him like a wave.
Cuicui thought he wasn’t interested in watching anymore. She got off the bed and started showing him her dolls, toys, and picture books.
Even though he was clearly tired, Li Zhuiyuan still looked at each thing she showed him, doing his best to respond.
The little girl was delighted with sharing her world. But soon, she noticed something—there was no reply.
Turning her head, she saw that Li Zhuiyuan had leaned to the side and fallen asleep at the edge of the bed.
Cuicui stopped talking right away. Quietly, she moved closer and gently helped him lie flat. She folded the thin summer blanket and covered his belly with it.
Next, she nudged the fan slightly so it pointed more toward him, pressed the oscillation button, and let it sweep side to side.
Once done, she dragged over a chair, sat by the bed, propped her chin in her hand, and watched him sleep.
After a while, she broke into a quiet giggle, her earlobes blushing red. She turned away, only to sneak another glance a moment later.
Time slipped by unnoticed.
"Little Cuicui, Little Cuicui, bring Little Yuanhou down for lunch!" came Li Juxiang’s voice from downstairs.
Cuicui ran down. "Mom, Little Yuanhou’s still sleeping."
"Then you come eat first. We’ll save him some food."
"No, I’m not hungry. I’ll wait for him to wake up and eat with him."
In the village, most halfway-considerate parents would scold their kids for going to friends’ houses near mealtime, lest it look like they were angling for a free meal.
Still, sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
Cuicui had never had that experience before. She wanted to wait and eat with Li Zhuiyuan.
Li Juxiang smiled, nodded, and went to call her mother and mahjong friends to the table.
Cuicui ran back upstairs, returned to her chair, and kept watching Li Zhuiyuan.
"Huh?"
She leaned in, puzzled—Little Yuanhou’s brows were furrowed.
"Is he dreaming?"
…
"Grandma, I brought Little Yuanhou over to play."
"Okay, go on. Pong!"
Li Zhuiyuan looked at Cuicui standing in front of him, then at Liu Jinxia playing mahjong with three friends in the living room. He realized—he was dreaming.
Everything around him was in black and white. It was like someone had sketched the entire scene in charcoal.
Though the figures and objects were recognizable, they looked blurry and warped, their rough outlines filled with a strange, eerie looseness.
Li Zhuiyuan looked down at himself. He still looked normal. But everything else in the dream did not.
It reminded him of the tracing paper sketches in his mother’s study—white sheets with coal-black marks.
The dream replayed his earlier visit to Cuicui’s house, from when they’d first greeted Liu Jinxia. Cuicui pulled him along again.
But her once-soft hand now felt rough, even painful—like sandpaper.
He pulled away, halting his steps. Cuicui kept walking, arm still held out as if she were still holding someone’s hand.
Behind him, the living room fell dead silent. The four mahjong players froze mid-game.
Even the smoke rings from Liu Jinxia’s cigarette hung motionless in the air.
Everything had stopped.
The three friends were shaded lightly with charcoal. Liu Jinxia, however, was drawn in deep, harsh strokes.
Li Zhuiyuan lingered in place. Normally, becoming aware of a dream would wake him up. But not this time.
Eventually, he decided to keep going.
He found Li Juxiang sitting and sorting vegetables. Her charcoal lines were just as dark and jarring.
He walked up and looked at her face, etched in detail—she was smiling, eyes tinged with nostalgia.
"Auntie Juxiang? Auntie Juxiang?"
He called a few times and even waved a hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink or move at all.
Leaving her, he walked to the stairwell and removed his shoes again before heading upstairs barefoot.
In the bedroom, the fan had stopped turning. The TV was frozen on a faint sketch of Guo Jing and Huang Rong.
Cuicui had her mouth open mid-sentence, pointing at a doll. She was completely still.
Her lines were darker and harder than those of her mother or grandmother—almost like she’d been carved in, not drawn.
Li Zhuiyuan looked at the bed. It was empty—he wasn’t there.
The stillness wasn’t just visual. There was no sound. He realized it had been eerily silent for a long time.
He began to panic. How long would this dream last?
He opened the balcony door. The second-floor balcony was tiled in red and white.
Looking out, beyond the scribbled outlines of fields, the rest of the landscape was a desolate white void.
Above, where the sun should’ve been, there was only a glowing blur—like an eraser, waiting to rub out the whole scene.
"Excuse me, is this Granny Liu’s house?"
A voice echoed from below. It sounded harsh, almost painful in the quiet.
Li Zhuiyuan looked down. A man around fifty stood there, carrying an old woman on his back.
She was frail, with bones barely covered in skin, and long, matted hair draped down her back.
"Excuse me, is this Granny Liu’s house?"
The man repeated, anxiously spinning in place with the woman still on his back.
Li Zhuiyuan didn’t know if he should respond.
Then—
The old woman suddenly raised her head, locking eyes with him.
Everything else looked like charcoal drawings, but her eyes were impossibly detailed.
They radiated rage, malice, hatred.
The next moment, everything around him began spinning and twisting, like a vortex had opened, tearing the world apart—dragging him in too.
…
"Little Yuanhou?"
Li Zhuiyuan opened his eyes to see Cuicui’s worried face.
"Little Yuanhou, were you dreaming?"
"Yeah." He sat up. "How long was I out?"
"Not long. Two hours, maybe. Come on, let’s eat."
"No, I’ll head home to eat."
"Oh, don’t be shy, Little Yuanhou!" Cuicui grabbed his hand and led him downstairs. "Mom, Little Yuanhou’s awake!"
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