HNYWEF -Chapter 100 Origin Point

September 2013. Chengdu.

Autumn of his second year at medical school still felt like summer—stifling and heavy. Outside the window, osmanthus flowers were in bloom, their fragrance drifting in, sweet to the point of cloying. The old ceiling fan in the classroom spun noisily, stirring the heat and drowsiness into a slow whirl.

Zhou Xiong sat by the window in the third row, chin resting on his hand, eyes fighting sleep.

On the podium, the professor was lecturing on pathology, his voice flat, almost like chanting scriptures.

Zhou Xiong stared blankly out the window.

Beyond the osmanthus trees was the playground—some people running, some playing football, faint shouts drifting over in waves.

Sunlight slipped through gaps in the leaves, scattering onto the ground in broken patches, flickering so much it made his eyes ache.

Suddenly, he thought of his childhood.

A small county in Sichuan. His home was at the eastern edge of town, where stepping outside meant open farmland.

In spring, the fields were filled with water, reflecting human silhouettes like mirrors.

His mother was a nurse at the township clinic. His father was a fitter.

Every day, his mother rode a bicycle to work, taking him to kindergarten on the back seat. He would wrap his arms around her waist. The road was bumpy, the ride jarring, but he liked it.

He often squatted in the corridor of the clinic, breathing in the smell of disinfectant, waiting for his mother to get off work.

He never found that smell unpleasant.

To him, it was the smell of his mother.

Later, his mother was gone.

When he was five, she had stomach pain and went to the town hospital. They said it was cholecystitis, gave her injections for two days, and her symptoms improved.

But two months later, she suddenly collapsed.

She was transferred to the city hospital, where they found it was liver cancer—already in its final stage.

There was no saving her.

He stood at the doorway of the ward, watching as his mother was covered with a white sheet.

His father squatted in the corridor, holding his head in silence. People came and went, no one stopped.

He just stood there, staring at that white sheet.

He didn’t know how long he stood.

Eventually, someone pulled him away and told him to leave.

So he left.

His father stayed squatting there.

Later, he told his father that when he grew up, he wanted to become a doctor.

But the expression on a child’s face that should never have been there—something his father had never expected—shocked him deeply.

It was a kind of overwhelming anger.

Zhou Xiong was admitted to medical school.

On the day he enrolled, he still remembered the car driving far away. He turned back and could still see his father standing at the station, motionless.

Zhou Xiong snapped back to reality and blinked.

In the classroom, the professor was still speaking. The slides had changed again.

Someone raised a hand to ask a question; the professor paused to answer. The ceiling fan kept spinning, creaking softly.

Then, suddenly, something felt off.

He couldn’t say what it was.

Just a sudden unease in his chest.

No reason for it.

Almost instinctively, he turned his head toward the west.

That was the direction of home.

Outside the window, there was nothing unusual—osmanthus trees, the playground, distant buildings. Sunlight reflected off glass windows, glaringly bright.

He looked for a while.

The unease slowly faded.

He turned back and continued listening to the lecture.

Everything was normal.

On the afternoon of the third day, there were no classes.

Zhou Xiong was lying in his dormitory, scrolling on his phone.

The phone rang.

He glanced at it—an unfamiliar number.

He usually didn’t answer unknown calls.

But this time, he picked up almost without hesitation.

There was a brief silence on the other end.

Then a voice said, “Xiaoxiong… your dad is gone…”

Zhou Xiong froze.

It was the voice of an elderly neighbor.

“What?”

The voice continued, “The day before yesterday afternoon. Sudden cerebral hemorrhage. He didn’t make it after being sent to the hospital.”

Zhou Xiong lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The afternoon before yesterday.

The afternoon before yesterday, he was sitting in the classroom when he suddenly glanced toward the west.

That was the moment his father left.

The voice on the other end continued: “The village has helped handle the funeral arrangements. Just come back when you have time…”

Zhou Xiong didn’t speak.

The caller waited for a moment.

“Xiao Xiong?”

Zhou Xiong said, “Mm.”

The voice said, “My condolences.”

The call ended.

The phone screen went dark.

Zhou Xiong lay on the bed, motionless.

On the ceiling was a water stain, yellowish, shaped like a dog.

It had been there since the day they moved in. They even joked back then that the dog looked really ugly.

He stared at it for a long time.

His roommate was playing games beside him, the keyboard clattering nonstop.

He lay there, thinking about the afternoon before yesterday.

That afternoon, he had been sitting in class when he suddenly looked toward the west.

He didn’t know whether it was his father looking at him, or him looking at his father.

Outside the window, the sunlight was good.

The osmanthus flowers were fragrant.

He knew nothing.

He lay there, thinking about the day his mother left.

His father had been squatting in the corridor, holding his head.

Now he understood what that posture meant.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to make a sound.

It was that he couldn’t.

He lay there.

The dog on the ceiling was still there.

Later, his roommate noticed something was wrong and came over to push him.

“Zhou Xiong? What’s wrong with you?”

Without warning, Zhou Xiong suddenly erupted, full of anger.

He sat up, got out of bed, and put on his shoes.

The roommate froze, but still asked, “What’s going on with you?”

Zhou Xiong didn’t answer. He slammed the door and left.

He walked out of the dormitory building and went to the playground.

It was around four in the afternoon. The sun was still strong. People were running, playing football, sitting in the stands eating ice cream.

Osmanthus trees by the field were in bloom, their scent drifting over—sweet to the point of cloying.

He walked to the stands and sat down.

The sun baked his back until it burned.

He sat there, watching people run back and forth on the field.

Someone scored a goal, and cheers rose up.

Someone fell, and was helped up.

Someone was drinking water. Someone was laughing.

As he watched them, he suddenly thought of the year his father had sent him to the train station.

His father had stood there, watching him board.

He got on the train and looked out the window.

His father was still standing there.

The train went far, and when he turned back, he could still see him.

What was his father thinking at that moment?

Was he thinking whether they would ever meet again?

He didn’t know.

And he would never have the chance to know.

He sat in the stands for a long time.

Until suddenly dark clouds gathered, the sky dimmed, and rain began pouring down on him.

Later, a rumor spread through the Medical University:

There was such a top student who was almost obsessive about medical knowledge.

If a teacher made even the slightest mistake in class, he would immediately refute it.

His words were blunt, but always correct.

The teachers didn’t blame him; instead, they praised his rigor in scholarship.

“The disciple need not be inferior to the teacher, nor the teacher necessarily superior to the disciple”—that line described him perfectly.

Yet just when all the teachers believed he would become a future pillar of medicine, he actually chose to join the army with nearly perfect postgraduate exam scores.

No one knew the reason behind his decision.

After all, if they did, it would no longer be a “rumor.”