Chapter 1: The Mist in the Dream

I ran through the dense fog, uncertain if it ever had an end or what it was I so desperately sought; I simply kept running forward, endlessly.

“Lingyin, get up! You’re going to be late for school!”

Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I mumbled, “Alright, Mom.”

Sigh. That dream again—the one with endless mist, where I’m always running. I have no idea why I keep dreaming it.

Well, if I can’t figure it out, I shouldn’t dwell on it. I hurried to get dressed, washed up, wolfed down a few mouthfuls of breakfast, grabbed my schoolbag, and headed out.

It takes about twenty minutes by bicycle from home to school. I walked and paused along the way, finally arriving at No. 1 High School—the only key high school in Y City.

That’s right. There are only three high schools in the entire city.

As for me, I live in a small city in the northeast, where the population is sparse and most of the year is winter. The temperature drops to more than thirty degrees below zero, so cold your eyelashes frost over.

Apart from the biting cold, this northern town boasts vast stretches of primordial forest, enormous in area but with a tiny population. More and more children go off to university, and after graduation, most choose to leave their hometown, making those who stay even fewer.

For ordinary families, getting into a university is almost the only path forward. Leaving isn’t a sign of not loving one’s home; after all, who would willingly abandon their roots and face disdain elsewhere? Despite this city’s fresh air and natural forest oxygen bar, job opportunities are pitifully few.

There are hardly any companies here. The only large furniture manufacturing firm, Yinlang Furnishings, enjoyed a few years of glory, but its outdated styles gradually lost favor in the market, and the business has since declined.

I sighed softly. Unconsciously, I had arrived at the classroom for Grade Twelve, Class One.

Yes, I am now a senior in high school, just one month away from the college entrance exam...

The first period was Chinese, taught by Ms. Tu, our homeroom teacher. She had permed, wavy hair and wore dark glasses, behind which were her large eyes. Like most Chinese teachers, her voice was gentle and soft, pitched quite high. Honestly, every time she spoke, I felt a little uneasy; something about her big eyes always made me inexplicably nervous. Could it be because mine are small?

Grumbling to myself, I took out my Chinese textbook. Today we were reviewing classical literature—a subject I rather enjoyed. I listened as the teacher explained the points likely to appear on the exam, half-awake, without alarm. The bell rang to end the lesson.

Many classmates went outside to breathe the fresh air. I remained in my seat, gazing at the countdown to the college entrance exam written on the blackboard by the class monitor with blue chalk. He claimed blue stood for melancholy, hence his choice. The atmosphere was indeed a bit oppressive...

The second period was mathematics—my least favorite subject, bar none. With my math textbook and exercise book in hand, I went to Grade Twelve, Class Three.

Just thinking about it made me frustrated. Back in the first year of high school, my math scores were pretty good, but I happened to end up with a math teacher who liked to be unconventional.

Years later, I often wonder: if I hadn’t gotten into No. 1 High School but had gone to an ordinary one instead, would my fate have been different...