The engine of the train cuts through the wind, rattling on the extended tracks over a river shining blue under the blinding rays of sunlight. The moment my eyes come in contact with the mesmerizing scenery outside, I feel strangely grateful for being here, forgetting all the pain I have been harboring inside. I feel all my stress drifting away along with the river.
For a moment at least, I was able to let go of the regrets and complaints I have in my mind. But then, as soon as I rest my head against the chair, I am reminded of all that happened, leading me to this train.
I had just graduated to become a family lawyer, but ended up losing my very first case, for the custody of my own child. Stories of my incompetence are already around in this field. I could feel everyone present in the family court trial laughing at me when the judge made his decision.
It's funny because even if I were the judge, I would have passed the same decision. No child deserves a father like me, struggling with debts even at the age of 30, still paying rent, and with pockets empty most of the year. On the other hand, his mother is a top-ranked news anchor who makes enough money to raise him like a prince.
I do not resent her even a little bit; I would be ashamed to do so. She has really been tolerant towards me and has even paid my tuition fees a few times. In fact, she never prevented me from meeting my son, but I would hate to be seen as a loser to him. I would prefer to die before that.
After searching for a long time, I managed to find a job in Xinyuan, a small peaceful town 67 kilometers away from the concrete jungle of Shanghai. I will make less money, but that's all I can achieve with my current credentials and my popular nickname, "Divorced Lawyer."
I am being taken far from the world where I'm not needed, to a town where I may find a purpose for living: Xinyuan. When the train finally comes to a halt, I grab the handle of my only strolling bag, get off the train, and step onto the platform.
The train station has a quaint, old-fashioned charm, reflecting a bygone era. The exterior is constructed of red bricks, with ivy creeping up the walls, giving it a rustic appearance. A large clock tower rises above the entrance, its face showing signs of age but still reliably ticking away the hours.
As I step inside, the atmosphere is warm and inviting, with polished wooden benches lining the walls. The floors are covered with well-worn tiles, their patterns faded from decades of treading. The ticket booth is a small, enclosed space with a single attendant behind a glass window, manually handling ticket sales and inquiries.
After exiting the railway terminal, I come across a massive green landscape spreading before me, and one huge road trailing amidst it. There is a lineup of rickshaw drivers just outside the railway station. I have to take one to reach my new residence.
As I settle into the cushioned seat of the rickshaw and the scenery outside changes from grassland to a busy market, the warm summer breeze brushes against my face, carrying the scents of street food and blooming flowers. The rhythmic creak of the pedals and the steady hum of the town fill the air, a comforting symphony of urban life.
The day has turned into night. Around 7 o'clock in the evening, I find myself standing outside the rooftop house where I will be living. The ground floor is occupied by the landlords. I had heard it is an old couple living by themselves, with their children settled abroad. The neighborhood, at first glance, also gives the vibe of a peaceful place to stay, as it is only seven but everyone is inside their houses.
I push open the front metal gate, which was apparently left open for me. I am instructed not to knock or disturb them, and that I can directly head upstairs via the adjacent staircase that leads to the upper portion of the house.
I was told during a phone call with the realtor that I would find the keys to the apartment beneath an old mat outside the door. And there it is, the key to my new home. I put it in the lock and turn it, opening the door with a clack sound. I push open the door; it takes more strength because it is a bit jammed, but it eventually opens without making a lot of noise.
"Huh," I sigh.
As I step through the front door of my newly rented home, I'm greeted by an unfamiliar yet welcoming warmth. The scent of pine and a hint of vanilla linger in the air. Soft light spills from the lamp in the corner, casting a gentle glow on a leather sofa. A bookshelf stands against the wall, filled with a mix of novels and textbooks that hint at the lives lived here before. The wooden floorboards creak slightly underfoot, offering a sense of history and character.
Overall, despite being small and old, it feels like a comfortable home to live in. I open my luggage to unpack, and the first thing I find in my bag is the only photo of my son that I have left. I have it framed inside a wooden frame, so I can place it on my nightstand and strive to become a better father, finally showing myself to him when he grows up.