Chapter 2

"What do you mean, don't?" I asked.

"Don't take the same road I did," he replied.

The next morning, I woke up thinking it had all been a dream.

But there, on my nightstand, was an old notebook I'd never seen before. Its brown paper cover was frayed at the edges, and every page was filled with cramped handwriting.

I flipped to the first page and saw, "For my thirty-six-year-old self."

The handwriting was the old man's. No, it was my handwriting from when I was sixty-two.

I didn't go to work that day. I called in sick and just stayed in my room, going through that notebook.

He had written so much, about how he'd lived through the past thirty years.

I kept delivering packages for twelve years, all the way until I was forty-eight. My legs were ruined, my knees shot, and I just couldn't keep up anymore. They fired me, no severance, because the job was outsourced.

After that, he tried all sorts of work, security guard, cleaner, construction helper, dishwasher, anything he could find. When he couldn't work anymore, he went back to his hometown, but the house had already fallen apart and the land was wild. He went to the town's nursing home to see if he could stay, but they said it'd cost 400 dollars a month, and he just didn't have it.

Later, he found shelter under a bridge in the county town and lived there for three years. Winters were freezing, summers were boiling, and the mosquitoes were everywhere. When he couldn't sleep, he'd just lie there counting stars. After three years, he knew the Big Dipper better than his own mother.

After that, he moved to the provincial capital and started scavenging for scrap. Five years later, he'd saved up 7,000 and rented a tiny room in an urban village, this very room. The landlord was still the same, but the rent had gone up from 150 to 200 a month.

And now, here he was. Sixty-two years old, alone, with just a bed, a gas stove, and a radio. The radio was something he'd picked up off the street, it only got one station, playing Chinese opera. He couldn't get used to it, but it was better than nothing.

At the end, he wrote. "My whole life has been like a stray dog's. But at least dogs get fed. I never did."

I closed the notebook and just sat there for a long time.

Outside my window, a vendor was hawking his goods. His voice drifted in from far away, stretched out and lingering.

I got up and walked to the window, gazing out at the narrow alley. Someone zipped by on an electric scooter, a bundle of scallions strapped to the back. An old lady slowly made her way with a shopping basket. A stray cat perched on the wall, basking in the sunlight.

This is my world, one alley, a few folks, this urban village.

Thirty years on, I'm still here.

That afternoon, I found myself somewhere.

On the east side of town, there was an old neighborhood called Sunny Court. Six stories tall, red brick walls, patches of plaster flaking away and exposing dark gaps beneath.

I stood in front of one of the buildings for a long time, looking up at the third-floor window.

The window was open, with some laundry hanging out to dry, a man's shirt, a woman's T-shirt, and two small pairs of children's pants, fluttering in the wind.

I pulled out the notebook and flipped to a certain page. It read: "September 17, 2024. She moved. I asked the neighbors, and they said she'd gone to the east side of town, her husband found work there. I spent a month searching before I finally found this place. But I didn't go up. I just stood there all afternoon, watching. Then I left."

She was Fiona.

Fiona, the one I dated for two years when I was twenty-three, who later left me for the owner of a repair shop.

Thirty-six years later, I was still looking for her.

I took a couple steps toward the hallway, then stopped. I just stood there, looking up at that window. The wind made the kids' pants puff up, like two tiny balloons.

Then I turned and left.

It was not that I didn't want to see her. I just had no idea how. What would I even say, like, 'Hey, I'm your ex from thirty years ago, just wanted to see how you're doing?'

After walking a little ways, I stopped again.

I glanced back at that window one more time.

Then I went and did the stupidest thing I'd ever done, I headed inside, climbed up to the third floor, and knocked on the door.

The door opened.

A woman in her forties stood there, on the heavier side, hair thrown up in a messy bun, wearing pajamas and clutching a spatula. She stared at me, caught off guard, and asked, "Who are you looking for?"

I stared back. She wasn't Fiona.

"Sorry, wrong place," I said.

The door closed.

I stood in the hallway and let out a laugh.

Laughing at myself for being so foolish.

Thirty-six years old, still trying to find the girl I loved at twenty-three. Even at sixty-two, I was still searching for her. She was long gone, no longer in any place I could ever reach.