Chapter 64: Only Upon Waking from the Dream Do I Realize I Am but a Guest

Deal concluded.

Boss Yao took out a wad of money from the drawer and began counting. Shortly, he handed over a bundle of crumpled bills. “I was supposed to give you seven hundred sixty, but I’m taking a little advantage here and rounding it up to eight hundred. Count it if you like.”

This was the remaining amount after deducting the five hundred deposit—there was no need to spell it out.

Wang Qiang, a man of principle, refused. “Whatever the right amount is, that’s enough.”

Boss Yao laughed. “I told you, I’m getting the better end of this. Take it.” He exchanged a glance with Boss Zhu. There was a reason for the extra forty yuan; Boss Yao hoped that next time he was short on stock, Wang Qiang might bring him more affordable, good-quality clothes, and who would refuse a chance to make more money?

But Boss Zhu didn’t respond to the cue, perhaps pretending not to notice, his eyes wandering.

Boss Yao was irritated. They’d been childhood friends, and now Zhu wasn’t backing him up. If only he knew that Wang Qiang was currently Zhu’s cash cow, perhaps his annoyance would have vanished.

“There’s really no need.” Wang Qiang gripped the eight hundred yuan, then took out forty from his pocket and placed it on the table.

Boss Yao was left with no choice—he couldn’t even manage a gesture of goodwill. Suddenly, he noticed a patch sewn onto Wang Qiang’s short-sleeved shirt and had an idea. “If you don’t take it, I’ll feel bad. But since you’re so insistent, I won’t keep the forty yuan. Instead, pick two pieces of clothing from my shop, any you like. A young man shouldn’t be without decent clothes.”

Wang Qiang glanced down at the patched corner of his shirt and indeed needed two proper shirts. He smiled and didn’t refuse. “Alright, thank you, Brother Yao.”

“Don’t call me Boss Yao, call me Brother Yao.” He pointed at Old Zhu. “I’ve been friends with Old Zhu since we were kids. You’re his cousin, so you’re my cousin too. Calling me brother won’t put you at a disadvantage.”

“Sure, Brother Yao,” Wang Qiang responded.

Only then did Old Yao burst into hearty laughter and stood up to help Wang Qiang pick clothes.

They wandered around the shop. Wang Qiang selected a white T-shirt and a pale pink short-sleeved shirt, subtly checking the price tags.

Because it was raining outside, there was no rush to leave.

The three sat and chatted. Wang Qiang, however, discreetly took thirty yuan from his bag and held it in his hand. He wasn’t one to owe personal favors; this was his principle.

After about half an hour, the rain stopped.

Wang Qiang and Boss Zhu rose to take their leave.

Boss Yao insisted on seeing them out, walking ahead and chatting with Old Zhu.

Wang Qiang placed the thirty yuan on the counter, then followed them out.

After seeing them off, Boss Yao returned to the counter, caught sight of the thirty yuan, and couldn’t help but laugh. He murmured to himself, “This young man has principles—he’s destined for great things.”

…

After leaving Baihui Clothing, Wang Qiang first accompanied Boss Zhu to the market to buy some ready-made dishes, then went to the train station to purchase advance tickets to Shen Town. He chose the express again—time was too tight, every minute saved mattered.

Back at the inn, while Old Yao was cooking, Wang Qiang slipped into his room, took a shower to wash away the sticky sweat, changed into the T-shirt and jeans, then ran downstairs to help.

No sooner had he reached the bottom, the proprietress, sitting at the counter, called out, “Wang, you look much more spirited in your new clothes.”

Old Zhu, wearing an apron, poked his head out and laughed. “That’s right! If only I had a daughter, I’d marry her off to you. Dinner’s ready, come have a drink with your old brother.”

“Coming,” Wang Qiang replied, heading inside.

The proprietress locked the cash drawer and followed them in.

Inside, three ready-to-eat dishes sat on the small round table. Wang Qiang had wanted to buy more—after all, eating at someone else’s place, it would be awkward to bring too little—but Boss Zhu firmly talked him down.

Besides the ready dishes—pork liver, pig’s head, and roast duck—there were four other plates: braised chicken, steamed bream, stir-fried pork with fruit peppers, and red amaranth greens.

Boss Zhu opened two bottles of beer and poured Wang Qiang a glass himself. “Come, drink.”

Some people truly click at first meeting. Wang Qiang felt little for the proprietress, but with Boss Zhu, he immediately felt at ease. He raised his glass and smiled. “Brother Zhu, I toast you. Thank you for all your help today.”

The proprietress interjected, “We should be thanking you, for giving us a way to make money.”

Boss Zhu waved it off with a laugh, “No need for thanks—let’s drink!”

The three of them enjoyed a warm and lively meal.

To be honest, apart from meals at restaurants and at Lu Dahai’s home, this was the most sumptuous dinner Wang Qiang had eaten since returning to this era. Most important of all, he’d paid for three of the dishes himself. He couldn’t help but sigh—having money really was good. Not that one had to be wealthy, but at least with some money, you needn’t worry about food, clothing, or shelter. Life was pleasant.

The drinking lasted nearly an hour.

Boss Zhu glanced at the clock on the wall, wiped his mouth, and said, “Wang, it’s seven o’clock now. When you’re done, I’ll take you to the train station so you don’t miss the bus.”

Wang Qiang was already full to bursting. “Thanks, Brother Zhu.”

The proprietress stared in surprise. “Leaving tonight? Not staying the night?”

“It’s a bit urgent,” Wang Qiang replied.

She tried to persuade him. “No matter how urgent, one night won’t make a difference…” But halfway through, seeing her husband signaling her with his eyes, she changed tack. “Alright, next time you’re back in Shanghai, remember to visit your sister and Old Zhu.”

“Absolutely,” Wang Qiang promised sincerely—many friends meant many opportunities. He truly saw Old Zhu as a friend.

Boss Zhu was a bit hot-tempered, but genuinely loyal. He braced himself on his knees, stood up, and said, “Wait a moment.” He pulled out a reddish-brown suitcase from under the bed. “Wang, I noticed you were carrying a woven bag. That can’t be convenient. I’ve had this suitcase here for two or three years and never used it. Take it.”

The usually stingy proprietress said nothing, clearly approving her husband’s gesture.

Had it been Boss Yao offering goodwill, Wang Qiang would have refused without hesitation, sensing ulterior motives and not wanting to owe favors.

But when Boss Zhu gave him the suitcase, Wang Qiang was unexpectedly touched. He nodded and accepted it, inwardly resolving to bring something back for the Zhu couple on his next trip to Shen Town. Regardless of the proprietress’s intentions, Wang Qiang could tell Old Zhu was genuine. This was a friend worth having.

…

At 7:50 that evening, Wang Qiang said goodbye to Old Zhu and boarded the train once more to Shen Town. Exhausted from the day and tipsy from the drink, he fell asleep against the window as soon as he settled into his seat.

Perhaps it was longing, or perhaps the alcohol, but he began to dream.

In his dream, Wang Qiang was back home—before his rebirth.

His wife, Mei Li, was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, and his son sat at the table, diligently doing his homework.

Looking around, the dream world felt so real. He convinced himself that this rebirth had been nothing but a bittersweet dream.

Wang Qiang was overwhelmed with emotion. He tried to memorize his son’s earnest face and listened for the rhythmic “thud, thud, thud” from the kitchen. Unable to help himself, he stood up.

He walked slowly to the kitchen.

There, his wife still wore the bob haircut she had when they met. She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, faint traces of time’s passage etched on her face.

His eyes stung with inexplicable sadness. He stepped forward and hugged her tightly from behind, whispering, “Mei Li.”

The dream was so vivid. His wife patted his hand and whispered, “Stop it, the boy is right outside.”

Wang Qiang clung to her, unwilling to let go. “I miss you.”

She turned her head and smiled gently. The years had left their marks between her brows, fine lines gathering at the corners of her eyes. “What’s this? Did you do something wrong while you were away? Why so sentimental today?”

Her tone was as playful as when they were courting.

But her beauty was no longer what it had been.

Wang Qiang wanted to cry, to tell her about the nightmare of being parted by life and death, but for some reason, no sound would come out.

Then, the dreamscape began to shift.

His wife, once in his arms, now stood before him. Their son was at her side. Darkness surrounded them.

Wang Qiang was seized by a premonition—he was about to lose them again. Panic-stricken, he rushed forward, desperate to embrace his wife and son once more, but the scene receded as if they were being drawn away.

Farther and farther, their faces grew indistinct.

He dashed forward, reaching out for his wife’s extended hand, but could never quite grasp it. Like the curtain falling at the end of a play, darkness descended, closing over his eyes, eclipsing his vision.

Gone.

His wife was gone.

His son was gone.

Wang Qiang longed to weep aloud, his heart twisting with pain, but in that moment, it was as if even the ability to cry had been taken from him. No sound would come.

Suddenly.

The blast of a train whistle tore him back to reality.

Wang Qiang slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the platform outside the window. How he wished that dream could last forever, but reality had returned. He was still on the 1994 train to Shen Town. He murmured, “It was just a dream. I thought you were still here. But waking up, I realize—we’ve been apart for so long, so very long…” Scalding tears spilled from the corner of his left eye, sliding down into his mouth, bitter and salty.

A man seldom sheds tears, but only because the time for heartbreak has not yet come.

He instinctively recalled a poem, Li Yu’s “Sand-washed by Waves”: Outside the curtain, the rain murmurs, spring’s end draws near. Silk blankets cannot bear the chill of dawn. In dreams, I forget I’m only a guest, snatching a moment’s joy. Let no one lean on the rail alone; the endless rivers and mountains—so easy to part, so hard to meet again. Flowers fall and waters flow; spring has gone, on earth as in heaven.

His gaze grew distant. When, he wondered, might he ever know even a moment’s true happiness?

Only upon waking does one realize one is but a guest.

Time is a mischievous thief, stealing away what matters most, but it cannot take his resolve.

Slowly, Wang Qiang’s eyes filled with determination. I will find you again, whether in this life or the last, even if I must search to the ends of the earth.