Jiang Shi had no interest in treating someone like a dog.

He let go of his hand.
“Anyway, I’ve already given you the money. Think of it as a loan, or as me supporting you—it’s all the same. Take the money, pay off your debts, quit that mining job, and come back to study properly.”

Cheng Ye asked him,
“What if I can’t pay you back? Or what if I fail to get into college, and end up the same as now—going into a factory to work? Wouldn’t your money be wasted then?”

Jiang Shi couldn’t help but kick him again.
“Then I’ll just consider it as feeding a dog.”

Two dusty footprints were left on Cheng Ye’s pants.
He tilted his head, looked at Jiang Shi, and in Jiang Shi’s eyes he saw the flickering shadows of interwoven branches.

“I won’t let your money go to waste.”

“But…” He turned his head toward the vast sky above.
“Before I come back to school, there’s one more thing I have to do.”

---

Wang Gang was hospitalized.

The mine was just a small private operation, with very poor safety measures.
Wang Gang had been working for many years; he usually went in first whenever they descended, so his pay was a little higher than others—but the risks were greater too.

Last time, Cheng Ye had managed to save him.
This time, luck wasn’t on his side.

He broke a leg.

Cheng Ye bought some fruit and went to visit him at the hospital.

Wang Gang was lying on the bed with his leg in a cast, his wife—herself lame—sitting by him. In just a few days, they both looked years older. One lying down, one sitting; neither said a word.

When they saw Cheng Ye, the middle-aged woman gave up her seat.
Wang Gang’s ashen face forced a smile.
“You came.”

Cheng Ye placed the bag of oranges on the bedside table, glanced at his leg in plaster.
“How is it?”

The man wiped his face with a hand.
“Not dead yet. Maybe heaven just wants to take this worthless life of mine. What’s meant to come will come.”

Cheng Ye sat beside him. Apart from when he was with Jiang Shi, his face was always expressionless.
“What did the bosses say?”

“What else could they say? Same as with you—just a little bit of medical compensation. The rest, all on our own.”

The life of the poor is the cheapest thing of all.

Cheng Ye asked him,
“And you’re fine with that?”

Wang Gang froze.
The boy beside him lifted his gaze—those dark eyes seemed like they could swallow everything.

Because Cheng Ye was tall, he usually lowered his eyes, making him look silent and dull, unreadable.

But now, with that wolf-like stare fixed on him, Wang Gang suddenly realized—the fire in this boy’s eyes burned fiercer than anyone’s.

Under that gaze, Wang Gang couldn’t meet his eyes. He looked away, his throat dry.
“Wh… what do you mean?”

Cheng Ye stretched out his hand.
“Give me your phone.”

Confused, Wang Gang still handed it over.

The boy lowered his head, swiftly unlocked it, and started searching through the files.

Cheng Ye soon found a hidden folder of recordings. He set the phone on the bed, leaned over, and picked up an orange.

“The foreman came to me once—I used your phone then.”

The next second, static filled the ward. Then, a distorted male voice:

“Cheng, I know your family’s in trouble. But I don’t need to spell it out, right?

You’re not even eighteen. Hiring you is already considered child labor—we’re taking a huge risk. If it weren’t for us, who would hire you? You should be grateful, don’t you think?”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Cheng Ye’s lowered voice:

“I know… But I’m the only one left in my family. My dad died leaving tens of thousands in debt. Brother Li, I don’t want to cause trouble for you guys either, but I really have no choice.”

“Tsk, Cheng Ye, let me put it this way. The day you came to me begging to work, I begged the boss on your behalf. He finally agreed. Sure, your wages are lower than the others’, but we took a big risk for you.

But now you’ve gotten hurt on the job—you expect compensation?

Where’s the logic in that? The company giving you 500 yuan for medical expenses is already generous. If you hadn’t played the hero, none of this would’ve happened.

And let me warn you: don’t even think about suing. Ask around—who doesn’t know Boss Zhang? If you try that, you’ll never work in another mine in Lincheng again.

I’m not threatening you, but you’re still young, you don’t understand how the world works. Just focus on recovering. You’re young, you’ll heal in no time. Work hard, and we’ll give you a raise later. After all, you still owe so much debt. Think about your future.”

The recording stopped.

Cheng Ye handed Wang Gang the peeled orange.
“With this recording, and your testimony, we can sue them.”

Wang Gang just stared blankly at the orange, speechless.

Cheng Ye added,
“Your leg will have aftereffects. They won’t take you back.”

“…”

Wang Gang opened his mouth, but no words came.

After a long while, trembling, he finally took the orange.

---

It rained in Lincheng that midnight.

Spring rain comes suddenly, carrying with it the lingering cold of winter. Even the soaked earth smelled of chill.

A tall, handsome boy stepped through the muddy water into a small convenience shop. His hair was damp, his thin jacket clung to his shoulders. The yellow glow of the streetlamp lit his lean figure.

Half leaning against the counter, Cheng Ye pulled out a crisp hundred-yuan note and placed it down.
“A pack of cigarettes.”

The shopkeeper looked at him, then at the bill. His hand hesitated, then reached inward.
“Which price?”

“The cheapest.”

The shopkeeper pulled back his hand and picked out the cheapest pack, tossing it in front of him.
“Three yuan.”

Cheng Ye picked up the cigarettes, bought a lighter, took the change, and walked back out into the rain toward a cheap inn.

Twenty yuan a night. Inside, nothing but a bed. The blanket was yellowed, no one knew if it had ever been washed.

Cheng Ye sat on the bed. Raindrops clung to his hair. As he lowered his head, an unnoticed drop slipped from his lashes and fell onto his nose.

Outside was endless night. Rain lashed the window glass with sharp rattles.

Cheng Ye tore open the cigarette pack, pulled out the lighter.

— Click.

A small flame lit up his dark eyes.

---

February in Xiliu Village was bitterly cold. Around him stretched nothing but endless darkness. Thick trees loomed. A pair of green eyes glowed in the shadows.

Cheng Ye sat against a tree, cigarette between his lips, glancing at those green eyes.

A low growl sounded, then the glowing eyes vanished into deeper thickets.

Rain dripped from the branches overhead onto his face. He lit another cigarette.

The ember glowed against the wind, flickering red. His eyes, however, grew duller and duller.

Cilantro was three jiao per jin. Twenty jin sold for six yuan.

Cigarettes were three yuan a pack. DDT pesticide was three yuan a bottle.

When he bought it, he felt calm. The little bottle rattled in the empty basket with every step.

Taking the shortcut home, what was normally a ten-minute walk, he climbed to the fork in the road in five.

On the hillside stood a great wild pear tree. Cheng Ye didn’t want to go back to what he called “home.” He had chosen this as his grave.

By the time they found him, the pear blossoms would be in full bloom.

— Click.

He lit a third cigarette.

Darkness devoured him, his eyes flickering faintly red.

At twelve, he had broken one of Cheng Jianbin’s fingers. That same year, his mother carried his three-year-old brother, standing outside the closed door.

The door shut tightly. The young Cheng Ye stood inside, listening to her desperate cries.

“Cheng Ye, I can’t go on with him anymore. I’m leaving. Take care of yourself.”

He wanted to ask her why she wouldn’t take him too. But the door stood between them. The answer, he realized, didn’t matter anymore.

He was left in hell.

For years he had waited. And finally, Cheng Jianbin died.

Life went on as usual. But Cheng Ye could no longer find a reason to keep living.

— Fourth cigarette.

The little match girl lit her matches, wishing in the freezing night.

Cheng Ye wondered, who could possibly come to save him?

The night was still as death.

Finally, the cigarette ember dimmed. Just as the last glow went out, a soft white light appeared.

A boy in a black down jacket, swept along by the wind, stopped beneath the pear tree. He lifted his head, staring at the web of branches overhead.

The night was silent, damp air heavy all around.

The boy exhaled a puff of white mist, blurring his beautiful, delicate features.

“Anyone there?”

He called out toward the tree. Only the wind replied.

Cheng Ye kept his breathing shallow. Darkness wrapped him. The light shone below.

The little match girl had burned all her matches but found no customer. Cheng Ye, however, had lit his fourth cigarette—only to meet a lost lamb.

“Anyone here?” The boy called again.

Still no answer.

He lifted his phone, shining its light around, muttering,
“Damn it, why are there so many paths in this crappy place? Pitch black, no one around. Where the hell did I come from?”

After two minutes, the boy seemed to realize he was truly lost. He whispered a shaky prayer:
“Please… someone come take me out of here. I’ll do anything.”

The night magnified his voice. Spooked, he quickly shut his mouth.

He spun in circles with his phone’s light, as if to say:

Someone, save me.

But no one came.

Hidden in the dark, Cheng Ye lit a fifth cigarette.

The boy chose the path leading up the mountain.

Cheng Ye watched his back, lit the cigarette. Smoke rose before his eyes. He unscrewed the pesticide bottle.

The rain grew heavier. A pheasant cried deep in the mountains.

The acrid smoke burned into his lungs, stinging his chest. He coughed, head turned aside, watching the boy’s light vanish.

The length of a cigarette.

That was all he gave—to himself, and to the other.

At last, the final ember died. And just before it went dark, a white light came rushing down from the mountain.

That light fluttered like a butterfly, soft and glowing, like a star brightening the black night.

Cheng Ye poured the pesticide onto the ground, grabbed his basket, and went down the slope.

He turned on his flashlight, silently counting in his heart:

One.

Two.

Three.

— Thud.

The butterfly fell into his arms.