Chapter 16 – Xing Baichuan 0.7

We finally moved house, having a place we could call our own.

On the day my mother was discharged from the hospital, we didn’t return to Xu Zhao’s place. Instead, we took her straight to our new home, where Jiangluo had tidied everything up meticulously, ensuring all necessary daily items were ready and waiting.

Her mood improved, and my father no longer spent his days in silent brooding.

We placed Bolin’s photos in the living room, the bedroom, the study—in every place where we could see him.

Regardless of what he did in life, he was still the family member we loved most dearly.

Jiangluo’s mental state improved slightly, though he still barely ate, leaving him as thin as a skeleton.

The current Li Jiangluo was a far cry from the man in the old photographs. I recalled the first time I met him, thinking that he was nothing like the person Bolin had described. Back then, I felt disappointed; now, I felt heartbroken.

He wasn’t supposed to be this way—all because of Bolin’s passing.

Truthfully, I wasn’t doing much better. But I had to put on a brave face and support our family wholeheartedly. If I also succumbed to despair, our household would truly fall apart.

As the year drew to a close, Christmas was just around the corner.

Bolin had been gone for nearly two months.

We avoided talking about it too much. The last time there was a heavy snowfall, my mother mentioned choosing a better burial plot come spring, so that my little brother could rest in peace.

As she spoke, her eyes gazed into the distance, out at the vast white landscape. I couldn’t tell where her focus lay.

I placed a hand on her shoulder, holding her close, and heard her sigh.

In fact, several evenings when I came home from working late, I could hear sobbing coming from my parents’ room. I didn’t dare push the door open, only leaned against it, listening, and sharing their sorrow.

Recently, I had been planning a trip with my family for New Year’s Eve—to someplace less frequented by tourists, to help them clear their minds.

Staying cooped up at home like this would never allow us to move past our grief.

But before embarking on our journey, there was something crucial I needed to do.

Once again, I made an overseas call to consult with a friend on how to adjust one’s diet. Jiangluo had severe anorexia, which left me deeply uneasy.

After repeated earnest persuasion, he finally agreed to undergo a gastric examination, but adamantly refused to let me accompany him.

Perhaps it was a habit born of constant worry. In the past, I couldn’t bear to let Bolin do anything alone, and now, I treated Jiangluo the same way.

He went for the check-up, and I followed him secretly.

Sneaking around like a clandestine agent, I found myself laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

Just as I’d expected, he didn’t go for the examination at all. He sat in the hospital, staring blankly at the resting area, not even bothering to register.

I didn’t know what to do with him—yet I couldn’t abandon him. So, I revealed myself.

“Jiangluo.” I approached him, and he visibly jumped.

“Brother.” He no longer addressed me politely as “Brother Baichuan,” instead using this simple word. To both of us, it held profound significance.

“You’ve learned to lie to me.” Standing a meter away, my face betrayed no anger, only resignation.

He lowered his head, like a schoolboy caught red-handed after committing a minor offense.

I walked over and sat beside him, asking, “Why are you so opposed to getting checked?”

He hesitated, then said, “I’m fine, so it’s unnecessary.”

“Do you really think you’re alright?” Standing there, I had to look up to meet his gaze. He was too thin, his body swathed in clothes that once fit him well—the same coat from last year, now hanging loosely on him.

He remained silent, and I took hold of his wrist, guiding him to sit down.

“I don’t know what’s going through your mind right now, and you won’t tell me,” I feigned irritation, genuinely at a loss regarding this matter. “But, Jiangluo, you’re my little brother now. With your health in such a state, I can’t concentrate on work. Look at Mom and Dad—they’re gradually recovering. Why can’t you?”

He looked down, clenching his fists on his thighs.

I stroked the hair at the back of his head, forcing a smile. “What are you afraid of? Afraid that if you return to your former self, I might fall in love with you?”

“Eh?” He looked at me in surprise.

Seeing his hollow cheeks and chapped lips, my heart sank. I patted his back. “Just kidding. Let’s go get registered. The queue will probably be long, so if we don’t hurry, we’ll have wasted our trip today.”

Finally, he listened, standing up to follow me.

A compliant Li Jiangluo brought me some relief. If he continued like this, I feared he might collapse one day.

After the examination, we didn’t wait long for the results.

The doctor prescribed some traditional Chinese medicine, instructing us to take it regularly and adjust his diet accordingly.

My friend had already sent me a list of dietary adjustments suitable for Jiangluo. His condition wasn’t considered particularly severe, and should improve over time.

By the time we left the hospital, the sun was setting. The weather was pleasant, a rare sight in winter without the usual smog obscuring the sky’s true color.

With the examination behind us, I felt reassured, carrying the medicine ahead while a silent Li Jiangluo trailed behind.

In the car, he remained lost in thought. Leaning over to fasten his seatbelt, I startled him again.

“What do you daydream about every day?” I asked casually.

He appeared flustered, stammering that there was nothing.

I didn’t press further, preoccupied with the plan to buy a pot for boiling medicine later on.

“Brother.” Li Jiangluo suddenly spoke, his voice barely audible.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve caused you trouble again.”

I hadn’t anticipated such words, and my good mood dissipated.

“What are you talking about?” I glanced at him, snapping my fingers in front of his face. “All I care about is your health. Otherwise, if something really happens, you’ll suffer in the future.”

He softly murmured an “Mm,” reaching into his pocket to pull out a cigarette. “Can I smoke a cigarette?”

Ever since Bolin passed away, both of us had developed a strong craving for cigarettes. Sometimes, we’d each go through a pack a day.

After our parents returned, we tried to restrain ourselves, avoiding smoking in their presence for fear it might harm their health.

When I was busy with work, I sometimes didn’t have the time to smoke, but Li Jiangluo was different. With nothing to occupy his time, his days consisted of looking after our parents and indulging in aimless thoughts.

Once, after work, I arrived home around midnight and saw him sitting on the balcony, smoking. The ashtray beside him was piled high with cigarette butts.

“Jiangluo.” I reached out to take his cigarette. “Let’s quit smoking.”

He froze, watching me toss the cigarette onto the backseat. After a moment, he said, “Okay.”

Two months had passed since Bolin’s departure. Although the time was short, each day felt like an eternity for us.

He took away our longing and Li Jiangluo’s love, yet we lived on, compelled to carry on.

Perhaps our lives could never return to their previous trajectory, as the upheaval had already occurred. Each of us had been forced onto a different path. Now, the only thing we should do is muster our strength at this new starting point. There were countless tomorrows awaiting us, and Bolin was surely watching over us.

Boiling traditional Chinese medicine was a delicate task—at least for me.

I was skilled at preparing Western cuisine. During my school years, to alleviate the financial burden on my family, I worked at a Western restaurant every day to earn a living.

I could whip up an entire table filled with steak, pasta, salad, and desserts, or prepare a simple Chinese fried rice dish, similar to what I had cooked for Li Jiangluo before.

However, brewing Chinese medicine was easier said than done.

I bought a special clay pot for boiling medicine. The first time I tried to do it myself, I ended up burning the herbs, forcing me to discard them.

My mother scolded me for wasting resources, and since then, brewing medicine for Jiangluo became her responsibility.

Jiangluo always felt embarrassed, rushing to the kitchen to try and do it himself. Each time, my mother would shoo him away.

Watching from the side, I felt a sense of comfort. Our days were finally improving.

Christmas was approaching, and if we were abroad, the streets would undoubtedly be brimming with festive cheer by now. However, the atmosphere was much more subdued in China.

Our family tacitly avoided mentioning the holiday, as we had promised Bolin that we would spend Christmas together in Vancouver a few months ago.

With his absence, that promise had become a scar on our hearts.

During these days, my mission was to swiftly shift the focus of my work. My mother’s task was to adjust Jiangluo’s health. As for my father, he had a knack for entertaining himself. He bought many flowers from nearby markets, transforming the balcony into his own small garden.

Although the majority of the time we were still struggling to breathe under the weight of Bolin’s passing, each of us was striving to find a way forward.

I couldn’t help but feel grateful to God, regardless of the circumstances, we hadn’t been defeated.

On Christmas Eve, we stayed in our respective rooms.

At around eleven forty-five, someone knocked on my door.

I assumed it was my mother, missing Bolin and seeking company. But when I opened the door, all I saw was a beautifully wrapped apple placed outside.

Underneath it lay a note. I bent down to pick it up, holding the apple in one hand and the note in the other.

【Brother, Merry Christmas Eve.】

Signed, Li Jiangluo.

A pang of sadness hit me, and I turned to glance at his tightly shut door before retreating to my own room.

I sent a message to Li Jiangluo, typing and deleting repeatedly.

Eventually, I gave up.

I unwrapped the gift, then peeled the apple and sliced it into several pieces, placing them on a plate. Then, I knocked on Li Jiangluo’s door.

It was midnight.

When he opened the door, I heard the clock chime. He glanced at the alarm clock on the table and smiled. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

Holding the plate, I skewered a piece of apple with a toothpick and fed it to him, patting his head afterward. “Merry Christmas Eve.”

That night, we didn’t finish the apple.

We left half of it in front of Bolin’s photograph.

We still missed him, even though he had been a naughty boy.