Volume One.
The First Chapter of the Night: Sonata
...
Autumn, 2022.
A light drizzle fell from the gray sky, gently soaking the city streets.
It was a cold autumn day, and occasionally, one could still see pedestrians without umbrellas, hurriedly passing by, holding their hands over their heads for cover.
In a narrow alley called Junmin, a teenager of about seventeen or eighteen sat across from an elderly man under the rain canopy of a small supermarket.
Outside the canopy, the world was cloaked in a somber gray, the rain-soaked ground darkened to near black. Yet beneath the canopy, a small patch of earth remained dry, as if it were the last sanctuary in an otherwise drenched world.
Before them lay a weathered wooden chessboard, and above, the crimson sign of Fulai Supermarket glowed faintly.
"Checkmate," declared the boy, Qing Chen, as he rose to his feet, leaving the balding old man seated in stunned silence.
"I could still..." the old man muttered, his voice tinged with reluctance. "We've only made thirteen moves..."
Qing Chen glanced at him, his face calm. "There's no need to struggle any further."
The chessboard was a battlefield, and the pieces had already revealed their deadly intent. The final blow was inevitable.
With a resigned sigh, the old man tossed the piece in his hand onto the board, conceding defeat.
Qing Chen, as if oblivious, walked to the counter of the supermarket nearby and took 20 yuan from the small coin basket under the counter, slipping it into his pocket.
The old man cursed under his breath as he watched Qing Chen. "Every day, I lose 20 yuan to you!" the old man grumbled, his voice a mix of frustration and disbelief. "Just this morning, I won 20 from Old Li and Old Zhang, and now it's all gone to you! The fortune teller said I'd live to seventy-eight, and I'm only fifty now. If I keep losing 20 yuan to you every day, how much will I end up losing?"
"But I'm still teaching you chess so you can win back your face," Qing Chen, having tucked the money into his pocket, sat back beside the chessboard and replied calmly. "If you count it that way, you're not losing."
The old man frowned, muttering under his breath, "But what you've been teaching me these past few days is useless."
Qing Chen looked at him, his gaze steady. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
The old man: "???"
With a disgruntled sigh, the old man rearranged the chess pieces, then eagerly said, "Alright, alright, let's review the game."
At that moment, Qing Chen suddenly lowered his head.
The moments that had just passed began to replay in his mind with crystal clarity.
The cannon's aggressive advance, the pawns crossing the Chu River and Han border—each move echoed in his thoughts, vivid and precise.
But it wasn't just the game.
He remembered the man who had walked past them during the match, carrying four freshly baked sesame cakes, the steam from the hot pastries diffusing in the plastic bag, turning it hazy.
A little girl in a white dress walked by with an umbrella. Her small leather shoes had delicate butterflies on them.
Above, the rain swayed and fell into the alley, sparkling and clear.
At the end of the alley, the bus No. 103 had flashed by, and a woman in a beige trench coat had hurried toward the bus stop, her umbrella bobbing with each step.
The sound of footsteps, the gentle rush of rainwater flowing into the gutters—these noises, rather than breaking the silence, seemed to deepen it.
Qing Chen remembered it all.
This peculiar memory was his gift, an innate ability to pluck moments from the river of time and replay them as though they were etched into a film reel.
He resisted the faint dizziness that accompanied the recollection and picked up a chess piece.
The old man, now fully focused, stared at the board. The post-game review was part of their unspoken agreement: Qing Chen would teach, and the old man would learn after each loss.
The scene was almost surreal. The boy lacked the usual humility and bashfulness that should be shown to an elder. Instead, he looked more like a teacher.
"Red's cannon moves to the center, Black's cannon mirrors it. Red's knight advances, Black's knight follows..." Qing Chen narrated the moves as he reset the pieces, his voice calm and measured.
The old man didn't even blink. The opening moves were normal, but he couldn't figure out why, by the sixth move, after he had captured his opponent's knight, he suddenly found himself in a losing position.
"The essence of the 'Thirteen-Move Sacrifice' lies in the sixth move," Qing Chen explained, his tone even. "You advance the chariot and sacrifice the knight. It's the key to breaking through the defense. I saw your game with Old Li at Wang City Park the other day. He favors the 'Smooth Cannon' opening. Use this strategy against him, and you'll win."
The old man pondered this, then asked softly, "Are you sure?"
"If you learn the 'Thirteen-Move Sacrifice' I'm teaching you within a week, you'll get your face back," Qing Chen said. "After all... he's not that great at chess."
A flicker of hope crossed the old man's face.
But then he hesitated, his voice tentative. "If it takes a week to beat him, how long will it take for me to beat you?"
Under the rain canopy, Qing Chen thought seriously, "The fortune-teller say you'd live to 78, didn't he? Well, you won't have enough time."
The old man's face instantly fell. "If you'd just stop talking, maybe I'd make it to seventy-nine... Hey, shouldn't you be in evening self-study right now? Why are you out of school so early?"
Qing Chen paused, then replied simply, "I'm waiting for someone."
"Waiting for someone?" The old man's brow furrowed in confusion.
Qing Chen stood up and looked toward the small alley outside the rain canopy, his eyes tracing the rain-soaked path. He offered no further explanation.
The old man sighed, then ventured, "You're so good at chess. Why don't you compete? Didn't you say you needed money? Winning a championship could earn you some prize money."
Qing Chen shook his head. "I've merely memorized many chess manuals. I can play casually, but against true masters, I'd be exposed. Chess isn't my path, it's only temporary."
"Memorized all of it..." The old man murmured, a note of awe in his voice. "I always thought a photographic memory was just a myth."
The rain slowly stopped.
At that moment, the old man noticed Qing Chen stiffen slightly. Following the boy's gaze, he saw a couple walking into the alley, holding the hand of a young boy.
The woman, dressed in an elegant trench coat, carried a cake box tied with a purple, beautiful satin ribbon.
Even the gray world seemed unable to hide the the joy radiating from the trio. Qing Chen suddenly turned and walked away, leaving the old man sitting under the rain canopy at Fulai Supermarket, quietly sighing.
The middle-aged woman saw Qing Chen. She called out his name, but Qing Chen didn't look back as he disappeared at the end of the alley.
The walls on both sides of the alley were very old. After the white paint peeled off, patches of red brick remained.
The person Qing Chen had been waiting for had arrived, but now, he no longer wanted to wait.