June of 2003 was a rare, scorching summer.
The streets were silent.
Occasionally, the roar of an engine would slice through, then vanish like suppressed flames.
Shen Yao remembered Mr.
Ma, the politics teacher, saying that those were motorcycles modified by punks.
They didn’t dare ride in the day, so at night they’d race wildly in the darkness.
Even these chaotic sounds eventually faded, until not even the hum of the neighbor’s air conditioner could be heard, as if someone had pressed hands over his ears, leaving only the prickling ring of needles before utter silence.
Shen Yao looked out into the night.
He couldn’t see the moon or stars, nor even the streetlights.
It was as if the whole world had shrunk to this one lonely little room, drifting like an island in a sea of darkness.
Just then, the phone on the desk rang.
Donglonglong.
Donglonglong.
He couldn’t remember ever having a landline in his room, nor who would call so late at night.
The pink phone was spotless, polished clean, with an English brand engraved in the corner—so expensive it was the kind of thing his family couldn’t possibly afford.
He picked it up.
A man’s voice came through, the kind you’d hear from a news anchor on TV.
“Are you at home?”
Shen Yao didn’t recognize the voice.
He swallowed, unsure how to answer.
The man asked again, “Are you at home right now?”
Sweat began to bead on Shen Yao’s forehead, maybe from the heat.
“Mm…”
The sound dragged out.
The reply was swift.
“I’m at your front door. Are you upstairs?”
Shen Yao wanted to deny it.
But when he spoke, the words became, “I’m upstairs.”
Suddenly, footsteps echoed outside the room.
The voice on the phone grew urgent.
“I’m upstairs now. Are you in your room?”
At the same time, Shen Yao thought he heard someone grip the doorknob of his room.
It felt as if, with a nod, the stranger on the other end would burst through the door.
The voice grew sharper, the calm baritone twisting into a thin, piercing screech, as if trying to crawl through the phone itself.
“Are you in the room?”
“Are you in the room?”
He repeated, even sharper.
Shen Yao was terrified.
He didn’t know who this was or why they’d entered his home.
He was just an ordinary middle school student, parents deceased, living with his Aunt, awkward and dull but filled with wild fantasies.
No matter what, receiving a bizarre call like this in the dead of night was not one of them.
“Are you in the room?!”
The voice on the other end screamed, high and sharp, as the doorknob rattled.
“I’m…”
This wasn’t his answer.
But it was his voice.
As if another soul had spoken for him from within.
That answer seemed to flip a switch.
Outside, the manic, impulsive stranger finally twisted open the doorknob, about to appear in Shen Yao’s sight.
***
Dinglingling.
Dinglingling.
He’d never thought an alarm clock could be so loud.
When Shen Yao sat up in bed, drenched in sweat, and realized everything had just been a dream, the alarm suddenly sounded pleasant.
Another dream.
He got up to wash, still shaken, the nightmare replaying in his mind.
But even as he went about his morning routine, the details of the dream slipped away like tides, leaving only the image of a phone.
He’d had many nightmares this month.
He suspected it was due to stress.
Downstairs, the TV was on, playing an imported variety show, the host’s voice grated on Shen Yao’s nerves.
He approached, grabbed the remote, and saw his Aunt asleep on the sofa.
He turned off the TV, then cleaned up the empty beer cans from the Glass Tea Table.
Between the glass layers was a photo: his family long ago.
Father, mother, and a round-faced little Shen Yao.
After his parents died, she appeared.
She called herself his Aunt, but Shen Yao rarely heard his father mention her.
Still, thanks to her, Shen Yao could continue living in the house his family once shared.
His eyes didn’t linger on the old photo.
He instinctively avoided memories of the past—simply not to make himself sadder.
He placed the ashtray over the photo so he wouldn’t see it.
Once he’d checked everything in the house, he slung on his backpack and left for school.
His home was just three blocks from the middle school—four streets to cross, three across, one down. Fifteen minutes’ walk.
Though it was the city now, a few years back this was only a small town, later merged into Yaoguang City to become the New District.
The original Town Middle School had become District Middle School, and more shops lined the streets each year.
From a clothing shop beside the road blared .
Shen Yao used to like that song, but the “Badao Menswear” store played it twenty-four hours a day at max volume, making him grow to hate —though, to be fair, he didn’t even know the song’s real name, just that a certain lyric stuck in his mind.
May of 2003 was already unbearably hot.
By seven in the morning, the sun was high.
This year, a mung bean popsicle cost just fifty cents.
He was still an ordinary student at a New District high school.
The news’ most frequent word was “Internet Addiction Generation,” and his only wish was to make it to university.
Aunt said all university students were assigned jobs and top students—she only lost out due to her lack of a degree.
On the street, many classmates in blue-and-white uniforms talked about a newly opened Black Internet Café, where online access cost only fifty cents and came with a fake ID.
Internet.
This year, the word suddenly burst into his life.
He didn’t know when ads for “desktop home computers” started appearing on TV.
Every month, Leixin staff would come by to sell their Dial-Up Internet Service.
But he believed the warnings from teachers and Aunt—Internet was a flood beast, only hindering him from getting into college and making something of himself.
He heard that some families already had desktop computers, letting them play games like , , , and so on.
After class, these people would gather to discuss game walkthroughs.
Shen Yao had always looked down on them, feeling they disappointed their parents—definitely not because of that one time they asked for his QQ number and he couldn’t answer, leading to an awkward silence.
On one side, the Internet surged like a tide; on the other, elders resisted with all their might.
He felt like a tiny boat, tossed between them.
As Shen Yao drifted in thought, a sharp, blaring horn startled him.
He swore he’d never heard anything so loud.
He turned to see a massive, jet-black car racing toward him.
He scrambled aside, barely avoiding the speeding vehicle, which roared past without an ounce of regret.
This used to be a country lane, barely one and a half meters wide, and even after expansion, it was just over three meters—usually for tricycles and compacts, not such luxury beasts.
He didn’t know the brand, but judged by the emblem on the hood.
He staggered back, glancing up.
He didn’t see the driver.
But the back window lowered, and a stunning girl brushed past him.
Her red hair shone like winter fire, drifting in the wind.
She sat inside the black car, eyes filled with disdain for the world.
She was breathtaking, yet kept others at bay.
Her gaze didn’t linger on anyone, just swept over Shen Yao before the car turned the next corner.
Before Shen Yao could regain his balance, someone caught him from behind.
“Shen Yao, are you okay?”
A familiar voice called.
“Some people have no manners. Driving a Maybach doesn’t make them special. Doing seventy on this narrow road is just wrong.”
He snapped back to reality and looked at the short-haired girl holding him up.
Cheng Cheng—nickname Chengcheng—childhood friend, if you went by popular terms.
She looked him up and down.
“Are you okay?”
They’d been classmates since elementary school.
When his parents died, it was Chengcheng’s family who cared for him.
She was a girl, but her personality was entirely boyish—playful, lively, androgynous in style, and her good looks made her popular among girls.
Unlike bookish Shen Yao, Chengcheng was a social butterfly, always at ease and never bullied.
“I’m fine…”
His gaze drifted.
“That car… Did our city ever have one like that?”
“No idea. Maybe a rich outsider.”
Chengcheng shrugged.
“Only heartless people make money these days.”
Shen Yao pondered further.
“Why would a rich outsider come to our New District? We don’t have any factories, do we?”
Cheng Cheng nudged his arm.
“Stop overthinking. It has nothing to do with us. You always brood over pointless things… I get it, you’re secretly shy.”
Shen Yao blushed.
He disliked the term “shy,” always feeling awkward admitting it.
“Not true. Just curious.”
Thanks to Cheng Cheng’s interruption, he dropped his curiosity about the Maybach’s destination.
She was right—those in that car and people like him lived in different worlds.
They would never cross paths.
From the street speakers, advertisements blared:
“Clearance sale, clearance sale, everything just 19 yuan, just 19 yuan!”
He was just an ordinary person in an ordinary world—a passerby to both himself and that soaring girl.
That’s how it should be.