Summer in Beijing was relentless. The sun hung heavy in the smog-filled sky, baking the narrow hutongs into dusty labyrinths of cracked bricks and faded paint. The streets bustled with bicycles, carts carrying vegetables, and workers clad in identical Mao suits moving in purposeful strides. The faint crackle of a public loudspeaker played speeches from Chairman Mao, blending with the clamor of a city trying desperately to reinvent itself.
In the shadow of this grand upheaval, in a modest one-room home nestled at the end of a crooked alley, Li Chengxian sat cross-legged on the floor, a battered history book open in his lap. The yellowed pages smelled faintly of mildew, but the ink—carefully brushed calligraphy—remained sharp and clear. The chapter was about the Qing Dynasty, and though the words were familiar, they felt more like forgotten lyrics to an old song rather than mere academic knowledge.
His father, Li Haoran, sat nearby, marking papers from his classroom. His glasses hung low on his nose, and his brow was furrowed in concentration. Occasionally, he would glance at his son, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Chengxian," Haoran said, adjusting his glasses. "Why are you always reading these old books? Aren't there stories about brave soldiers and heroic peasants you'd rather read about?"
Chengxian looked up, his eyes sharper than those of most children his age. "But Baba, aren't emperors and princes also brave? They had to make choices… heavy choices."
Haoran froze for a moment, pen hovering above the paper. His eyes darted to the book in Chengxian's lap before he spoke, his voice low and careful.
"Chengxian, you must be careful about how you talk about these things. The past… especially that past… it is not something people look kindly upon anymore."
The boy nodded solemnly. He understood, even if he couldn't fully grasp the politics of his time. There were things one could say and things one must never speak aloud. His father's warnings etched themselves deep into his mind, becoming unspoken rules he dared not cross.
Chengxian was an observant child—too observant for someone his age. He would notice things others ignored: the hesitation in his father's voice when talking about the past, the way his mother would hurriedly turn off the radio if certain broadcasts came on, and the hush that would fall over their tiny home whenever rumors of purges or political campaigns filtered in from the street.
Yet, despite these precautions, Chengxian couldn't shake a sense of familiarity with the stories of the Qing Dynasty. The names—Cixi, Guangxu, Zaifeng—felt warm on his tongue, like meeting old friends in passing. He couldn't explain it, nor did he try to. It was as if fragments of someone else's memories had been tucked away in the corners of his mind.
Sometimes, in the quiet moments before sleep, he would see flashes—vivid, haunting, incomprehensible.
A gilded hall, its ceiling so high it felt like the sky itself.
A child emperor crying behind a golden curtain.
An older man—his face familiar, pained, tired—writing something under the flickering light of an oil lantern.
But every time he tried to hold onto these images, they would slip away like water through his fingers.
When he asked his mother, Li Meiyun, about the Qing Dynasty, she would smile gently and pat his head. "That's a story from long ago, Chengxian. The world is different now. Focus on today, my son."
And so he did. But the echoes never fully faded.
School was Chengxian's sanctuary—a place filled with books, paper, and the faint scent of chalk dust. His teachers quickly noticed his sharp mind and quiet determination. He excelled in his studies, especially in history, though he learned to be cautious about what he said.
One day, during a lesson on the fall of the Qing Dynasty, his teacher—a stern man with a thin mustache named Mr. Zhao—wrote a date on the board: 1912.
"This is the year the last emperor abdicated. The Qing Dynasty ended because it was corrupt, outdated, and weak. It was an inevitable collapse."
The words clawed at something deep within Chengxian—a faint irritation he couldn't place.
He raised his hand. "Teacher Zhao… but weren't there attempts to save it? Couldn't things have been different if the right choices were made?"
Mr. Zhao turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. "What are you suggesting, Li Chengxian? Are you saying the revolution was wrong?"
The classroom fell silent. Every eye turned toward Chengxian.
"No, Teacher," he said quickly, lowering his gaze. "I was just… wondering."
Mr. Zhao stared at him for a long moment before turning back to the board. "Good. Curiosity is fine, but some questions are better left unanswered."
Chengxian exhaled shakily. That night, he lay awake in his small bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, replaying the exchange in his mind.
"Why did I feel so angry? Why did it feel so… personal?"
In the dusty alleys of Beijing, Chengxian found a friend—Zhang Yue, a bright-eyed girl with a sharp tongue and an infectious laugh. Unlike him, she was bold, unafraid to speak her mind, and had a knack for dragging Chengxian out of his books and into the real world.
One summer afternoon, they sat by the edge of a narrow river, skipping stones across the murky water.
"Chengxian," Yue said, tossing a pebble. "You're so serious all the time. You act like you're carrying the world on your shoulders."
Chengxian hesitated, his fingers curling around a smooth stone.
"Sometimes… it feels that way. Like there's something I need to do. Something I need to fix."
Yue squinted at him, her smile fading. "Fix what?"
He didn't answer. He couldn't. How could he explain the flashes of golden halls, the weight of a throne, the sound of treaties being signed in trembling hands? How could he tell her about the shadows of another life haunting his dreams?
Instead, he smiled faintly. "It's nothing, Yue. Just silly thoughts."
She didn't press him, but her gaze lingered on him longer than usual.
One day, Chengxian came across an old photograph in one of his father's books. It was faded and yellowed, but the image was clear—a regal man in embroidered robes, his expression solemn, his eyes sharp yet tired.
The caption below read: "Prince Chun, Zaifeng, Father of the Last Emperor."
His breath hitched, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar ache.
"Zaifeng. Prince Chun."
The name echoed in his mind, sharp and insistent. His head swam with fragmented images—pen strokes on a treaty, a boy-emperor's trembling hand, a moonlit courtyard heavy with regret.
But before the memories could take hold, his mother called him for dinner, pulling him back to the present.
He placed the book back carefully, his hands trembling.
Chengxian grew quieter after that day, his focus sharpening, his studies becoming more intense. He didn't have all the answers, but one thing was becoming clear:
"This life isn't ordinary. There's something I'm meant to do. Something I must fix."
He buried himself in history, studying the rise and fall of empires, the patterns of power, the consequences of fear and hesitation.
His father noticed the change, but he said nothing, merely watching his son with a mixture of pride and quiet concern.
And somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, the faint echo of a gilded hall and a boy-emperor's tear-streaked face lingered—waiting.