Although it was just after Qingming, she was already slightly sweating after moving some luggage by herself, unaccustomed as she was to physical labor. She saw that the water heater had already been carefully adjusted by her attentive secretary. So, on a whim, she locked the front door, and in no time, steam began to billow from the shower.

……

Chapter Six

A Sleazy Man

……

The closer one gets to home, the more apprehensive one feels.

Although this wasn’t Henry Walker’s true hometown, he had moved to Huahai City with his mother starting from middle school and had lived here for a full six years. You could say this was his second hometown, and also his home.

It had been five years—five whole years since he last returned home. But the moment he stepped into the stairwell, his otherwise unyielding heart gave a fierce “thump.”

A sour feeling surged straight to his nose and eyes. So what if he was home? Was this still home? Was this still the place where he and his mother had depended on each other, where life was hard but simple and happy?

Henry Walker—that was the name his mother had given him. She had told him more than once that her greatest wish in life was for her son to grow up safe and sound, to live a happy, simple life. She didn’t wish for him to be rich or famous. Only by being ordinary could one truly enjoy peace.

But he had never understood. All he knew was that as a man, even if he couldn’t stand tall and proud, he should at least make his mark on the world. Only a life full of ups and downs, excitement and drama, would be worthy of his time on earth. How could a man settle for mediocrity? How could he live a plain, uneventful life?

Now he understood his mother’s wish, but it seemed a little too late—five years too late.

A child wanting to show filial piety when the parent is no longer there—truly one of life’s most helpless regrets. He had been back for half a month already, but had always stayed in a hotel, not daring to live at home. Although he had personally buried his mother five years ago, all these years he had been deliberately deceiving himself, telling himself that his mother was still alive, still living well at home. He was afraid—afraid that if he opened the door, he would find a dusty, empty house. Even though he knew that was inevitable.

It wasn’t until he visited his mother’s grave for Qingming yesterday, seeing her forever at rest, that he finally let go of all his thoughts. He was ready to follow his mother’s lifelong wish for him: to live quietly, to be an ordinary and unremarkable person.

However, there was still that matter—one thing he had to confirm. That matter was like a fishbone stuck in his throat; unless he pulled it out, he would never be at ease.

Dragging his suitcase, his steps felt heavy, as if two hundred-pound lead weights were tied to his ankles. Yet he walked with unusual determination, step by step, as if nothing could stop him from returning home. Even if that so-called home was now just him alone.

The property was fairly well maintained, and the stairwell was clean. The narrow stairwell’s motion-sensor lights lit up one by one as he walked, as if illuminating the road ahead for his dim life, pointing out the direction for his future.

Almost unconsciously, his hand gripped the doorknob, and his heart began to race. Even though he knew his mother had been dead for five years, he still couldn’t accept reality, and deep down he held onto a sliver of hope against all odds. He hoped that everything over these years had just been a nightmare, and that when he opened the door to his home, he would wake up from the dream. Then he would realize it was all just a fleeting dream. Back then, after graduating high school, during an argument with his mother, he hadn’t stubbornly joined the army but had followed her wishes and gone to college. Now, he had already graduated for many years, with a stable, respectable, and healthy job. He had let his mother live a life free from financial worries.

His somewhat rough hand trembled slightly. He took the key from around his neck—a key strung on a red cord. The red cord was very clean, but it had many knots. Although the knots were tied carefully, it was still clear that this cord was quite old and had broken many times.

The key was an old-fashioned brass one. Years of being kept close had made it smooth and shiny from friction and sweat.

Back then, when his mother had gone through all kinds of hardships to buy this company-subsidized apartment, she had personally hung the key around his neck when he was still a middle schooler. Holding his hand, she told him, “From now on, this is our home.”

In a flash, more than ten years had passed. But he still remembered clearly that his mother, only thirty-five at the time, already had faint wrinkles and a few strands of white hair from working too hard and refusing to spend money on herself.

He remembered even more clearly how his mother had struggled to support the family, how she had saved up bit by bit to buy this apartment. Even after buying the place, she continued to scrimp and save, saying there would be many expenses in the future—how much for college, how much for getting married.

But when it came to his food, his mother was always generous. There was milk all year round, meat at every meal, and every so often she would stew a chicken. But she never touched the chicken herself, insisting that he eat it all for the nutrition.