"Peng Xing, my son."
Wang Feng almost didn't respond to that name. It has been years since he was called Peng Xing.
Father Peng, old and wisened, was standing on the corridor, staring at Wang Feng.
"Dad, you are here. I'm glad." Wang Feng ran and hugged his father. Father Peng then put his hand on his son's shoulder.
"How have you been, Xing'er?" Wang Feng hung his head. He wanted to be honest with his father.
"It's been hard, dad. I've been trying so hard, yet everything I want to accomplish—the ones that matter—always slips between my fingers." Wang Feng's been down in the dumps for a while. He stared at his young palms. These were the hands of Wang Feng. Peng Xing's hands, which had callouses from using farming tools, were nowhere to be seen.
Wang Fang suddenly turned towards his father. "Do you know why I brought you here, father? Why have I ripped my one and only family away from their lives?"
