O Segredo do Sarcófago Celestial

In 1988, my father went to Long City in Fujian Province to mine coal. There was a gas explosion. His body was never found, and the boss disappeared. At the time, my brother was in his final year of high school, and I was in fifth grade. Our mother had remarried years ago. Life plunged into utter hardship.

We banged our heads until they bled, enduring the scorn and humiliation of relatives and neighbors, yet we couldn’t borrow enough for a coffin or a grave marker. My brother resolutely dropped out of school and went to Guangdong to work.

Before he left, he gripped my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot. "Meng Xun, study hard. I’ll support you all the way to a doctorate!"

Rumor had it he joined a tomb-raiding gang and became their chief cook. A few years later, our house had not only been renovated but also boasted the first Santana car in the whole area. And for the first time in years, the house once again had a woman’s touch—my brother brought home his wife.

I will never forget the moment she stepped out of the car at the village entrance. Her hair was in soft waves, she wore a pale pink blouse and flared jeans. The sunset shone gently across a face reminiscent of a Hong Kong movie star, Zhang Min. All the men, young and old, were spellbound by her charming dimples.

She gently tousled my hair, her laughter as clear as an oriole’s song. "My name is Liao Xiaoqin. I’ll look after you from now on."

Like wind over blue duckweed, life on the fringes is full of ups and downs.

When I was in my third year of middle school,