In Liang City, very few people knew that Su Yunluo took her mother’s surname.
She was born in late 1989. At that time, her parents were only allowed to have one child.
Her father, Zhu Junqing, worked at the Cultural Center, and her mother, Su Man, was a pharmacist at the city hospital. But ever since she could remember, she had been living in a small town dozens of miles away from Liang City, staying with her maternal grandparents. She even spent the first few years of elementary school there.
Her name was given by her grandfather, who worked as a local schoolteacher. Whenever someone asked what it meant, she would lift her little face and say brightly, “It means a cloud falling down from the sky!”
In that small town, this “cloud from the city” was treated very well. She had proper city parents who came to see her every month, bringing snacks and toys from the city. She would generously share them with the other children and proudly say, “My house in the city is really beautiful. When my parents take me back, I’ll invite you all to come play!”
Because of that, the other children naturally gathered around her. Her grandparents also spoiled her, so back then Su Yunluo felt like a little princess surrounded by everyone’s attention.
But even then, her friends would sometimes ask her, “Princess Luo, do you really have a home in the city?”
“Why don’t you live in the city?”
“Why do you always stay here in the town with us?”
Every time she heard those questions, Su Yunluo didn’t know how to answer.
Children actually understand more than people think. She knew from books, from TV, and from adults that the people closest to her in this world were her parents—especially since they really did live not far away in the city.
So she looked forward to holidays the most. Only then would her parents occasionally take her back to Liang City. Only then could she lift her head proudly and say to her friends, “See, I really do have a home in the city!”
She loved the amusement park in the city. She loved her parents’ big, beautiful house, the lively streets, and the city schools. Of course, more than anything, she loved being held in her parents’ arms.
What girl wouldn’t long for her parents’ embrace?
But she never understood why she always had to wait a whole month just to see them once.
Every time she saw her mother, she would rush into her arms and say in a soft, spoiled voice, “I missed you so much… when can we live together every day? When I can’t see you, I feel really sad.”
Su Man would always gently pat her back and say, “Be good, listen to your grandparents.”
When she saw her father, she would also ask, “Dad, when are you going to bring me home?”
Even a child knows that where their parents are is home.
Zhu Junqing was a reserved and serious man, but when it came to this question, his answer was always vague. “Wait a little longer. When the time comes.”
Su Yunluo thought she was already very obedient. Her grandmother told her to study hard, so she always ranked first. Her grandfather loved reading, so she followed along and slowly read book after book. While other kids were still reading fairy tales with pinyin, she had already struggled through simplified versions of the Four Great Classical Novels.
Her grandfather also had a hobby—listening to Yue opera. The soft, gentle tunes from the Jiangnan water towns slowly became familiar to her too. Even though she didn’t fully understand the lyrics, she had a natural talent for singing and imitation. In her third year of elementary school, during a Children’s Day performance, she stunned everyone with a piece called “I Have a Little Ninth Sister.”
She was extremely proud of it and secretly practiced even harder for months, hoping to sing it for her father on his birthday.
In those years, her parents’ careers were going smoothly. Su Man was promoted from junior pharmacist to senior pharmacist, and Zhu Junqing became a department director at the Cultural Center. She thought that the “right time” her father always talked about might finally be coming soon.
But before that time arrived, she received another piece of news first.
Her mother was pregnant.
And it was said to be a boy.
When her younger brother turned one year old, her grandmother passed away. Her retired grandfather moved back to live in the village, and Su Yunluo was finally brought back to Liang City.
She was “adopted” into her parents’ household registry under the identity of a disabled orphan from a distant relative’s hometown.
Life after returning home wasn’t anything like she had imagined.
That big house she had once longed for was now filled with a child’s belongings—nothing of her own.
Inside this place, she met a father who felt almost like a stranger. The same serious man could now smile so gently. He would crouch on the floor to tell stories to his son, playing along with childish games without any impatience. She also met a mother who felt unfamiliar. The same warm embrace she only received once a month in childhood was now given freely and without hesitation to another child. Even her grandmother, who she used to see only during holidays, had come from the countryside and now spent every day holding her eldest grandson, calling him her precious treasure.
The whole family—just like the name her father gave her younger brother, Mu Huan—was completely filled with happiness and joy.
Only Su Yunluo became quiet, almost without realizing it.
She often sat silently in a corner of the room, watching the adults gather around her younger brother, making him laugh, busy and lively like a complete, warm painting.
And she was just a drop of ink that didn’t belong on the canvas.
Sometimes, her younger brother would wobble over, tug her sleeve, and call her “sister” in a soft voice. When she looked into those clear, innocent eyes, a sudden wave of panic would rise inside her.
Was this really the home she had waited for her entire childhood?
Was this supposed to be the warmest place in the world—the starting point and final destination of a person’s life?
Then why did she feel so lost standing here?
She felt like she was standing alone on a sheet of ice, with invisible cracks spreading beneath her feet. No one saw it. No one knew. Only she could feel it—inside that seemingly perfect happiness, something in her heart felt frozen open, leaving a small cold hole.
When her younger brother was a year and a half old, the family returned to her father’s hometown in the countryside to hold a belated celebration for him.
When Zhu Mu Huan was born, it had been considered a second child under restrictions, so they hadn’t dared to announce it. Only when things calmed down later did they return to the hometown to properly hold the celebration.
That day, her father, mother, grandmother, and relatives filled the house with laughter and conversation, forming an almost airtight net around the toddler who was just learning to walk.
From noon until sunset, Su Yunluo never managed to say a single word to her family, and no one noticed that the ten-something-year-old girl had been sitting alone in the corner of the main hall the entire time.
She stayed silent, watching the noise and joy fill the house.
Later, she stood up, walked through the crowded room, past the courtyard scattered with candy wrappers and sunflower seed shells, and walked out of the gate alone.
No one stopped her. No one even asked where she was going.
She stood outside the courtyard, looking at the fields in the distance and the village nearby.
A single thought, heavy with grievance and anger, suddenly rose in her mind.
Maybe she should just disappear like this.
Let them regret it.
She walked toward the western edge of the village.
Outside the village was an abandoned threshing ground. Behind a thick old locust tree, she sat down and hugged her knees. She watched daylight slowly fade from pale blue into warm orange, and then into dull gray.
She imagined the panic when they realized she was gone, searching everywhere for her. In the rising evening wind, she slowly drifted into sleep.
Until the cold finally woke her.
When she opened her eyes, everything around her had already been swallowed by darkness.