HNYWEF -Chapter 197 Imprint

June 2004.

A county town in Sichuan.

When Zhou Xiong pushed open the door at home, he was holding two test papers in his hand. The edges had been soaked with sweat, soft and slightly wrinkled.

He didn’t look at them. The light in the living room was on, and his father was sitting on the sofa, his right hand resting on his knee. A bandage wrapped from wrist to fingertips—so white it hurt the eyes.

He stood at the doorway, unmoving.

His schoolbag still hung on his shoulder, heavy, but he didn’t put it down.

He stared at that bandaged hand, a vague sense of panic rising inside him.

His father looked up and saw him, smiling faintly.

The smile was very light, as if afraid of frightening him.

“You’re back?”

Zhou Xiong said nothing.

He walked over and stopped in front of his father, lowering his head to look at that hand.

The bandage was wrapped thickly, hiding everything underneath. But the back of the hand was swollen, pushing out through gaps in the gauze—dark bluish-purple.

His breathing suddenly grew fast. Not from running, but something else—something pushing up from deep in his chest, tightening his throat.

His father noticed.

He hid that injured hand slightly behind his back, then reached out with his left hand and took the test papers from Zhou Xiong, unfolding them.

The paper was already wrinkled, the creases worn white, but the red marks were still clear.

Two hundred points, written in round, full strokes of red ink.

“Full marks?” his father said, a little surprised, then smiled. “Not bad.”

Zhou Xiong didn’t look at the papers.

He stared at the hand hidden behind his father’s back, at the edge of the bandage showing through—white, slightly dirty, the edges fraying.

His father placed the papers on the sofa and patted the seat beside him with his left hand.

“Sit.”

Zhou Xiong sat.

His schoolbag was still on his back, pressing against his waist, but he didn’t notice.

His father looked at him for a while.

Then he brought the injured hand out from behind his back and placed it on his knee, facing Zhou Xiong directly.

The bandage was wrapped roughly, edges not properly tucked in, one corner sticking up.

“It’s nothing,” his father said. “Just a scrape.”

He tapped the bandage with his left hand—twice. The sound was dull.

“The machine had a problem. Your Uncle Chen wasn’t careful. I reached in to adjust it and got caught. A few stitches. I’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

Zhou Xiong looked at his father’s hand, at the bluish swelling under the bandage, and said nothing.

His father paused, then continued.

His voice was lower than before, but steady.

“Life has eight or nine disappointments out of ten. He didn’t do it on purpose either. He’s probably feeling worse than I am—sat at the workshop door smoking half a pack of cigarettes, too afraid to come in. If you lose faith in life just because of someone else’s mistake—”

He stopped briefly.

“Then how are you supposed to live at all?”

Zhou Xiong lowered his head, looking at his own knees.

He was still a primary school student. He only knew that factory injuries could be fatal.

His father said nothing more.

He placed the bandaged hand lightly on Zhou Xiong’s hand, pressing gently once. The rough gauze scraped slightly against his skin, a little painful—but Zhou Xiong didn’t pull away.

He looked up at his father.

His father was still smiling, but it was different from usual. Zhou Xiong couldn’t explain it.

He nodded.

Just once.

His father withdrew his hand and patted his head with the left one. “Go wash your hands. Time to eat.”

Zhou Xiong stood up, took off his schoolbag and placed it on the sofa, then walked toward the kitchen.

After a couple of steps, he stopped and looked back.

His father was lowering his head, slowly moving the injured hand from his knee to his side with his left hand. The movement was slow; his brows tightened briefly, then relaxed again.

Zhou Xiong turned back and continued walking.

In the kitchen, a plate of twice-cooked pork was covered on the stove. Two bowls of rice were already served, placed side by side on the table.

He picked them up and brought them to the dining table, placing them down steadily.

That night, Zhou Xiong couldn’t fall asleep.

A crack ran across the ceiling—from the lamp socket to the corner of the wall—thin, like a dried-up river.

He stared at it while his mind turned over his father’s words.

“Life has eight or nine disappointments out of ten.”

“It was just a mistake, not intentional.”

“Then how are you supposed to live at all?”

He turned over, facing the wall.

Moonlight slipped through a gap in the curtain, falling on the floor as a thin line.

He closed his eyes.

Something in his mind sank downward.

Not forgotten—just sinking to the very bottom, no longer rising to the surface.

But he knew it was still there.

Something had been left inside him forever.