“If one day we meet again, don’t call me kid anymore, junior.” I let go of her hand, gently kissed her on the forehead, then turned and walked back into the lingering smoke. The next person to hold her was Duang. When he helped Lan out of the teaching building, all the students in the school cheered and embraced them, while Lan kept searching everywhere for my figure…

“If one day…”

Well and Basil are still the same as ever. Who knows what they’ll be like in the future? Actually, that’s not right—I don’t know what they’ll be like in the future either.

The next year, both Lan and Duang graduated. They were admitted to Chulalongkorn University in Bangkok. To be honest, I was still quite envious of them.

That same year, my mother received a phone call—the police had dredged up a skeleton from the river, and DNA testing confirmed it was me. From that day on, I had a memorial tablet and incense offerings.

As for my ashes, my mother donated them to the venerable monk Luang Pho Yam in Nakhon Pathom, who made them into a Kuman Thong (a golden child in Thai Buddhism). That year was Buddhist calendar 2547. A few years later, I was brought to China by someone in the music business, and I entrusted him to write down my story.

This is me, the child of the river.

Chapter 9 Eye (1)

I tilted my head back as someone pried open my eyelids with their fingers. A drop of clear liquid fell from above, and the instant it landed on my eyeball, my body tensed up instinctively.

“You need to use these drops at least three times a day.” The doctor unceremoniously pried open my other eye. “There’s too much debris in your eyes.”

The eye drops slid over the surface of my eyeball, the cool sensation lasting only a moment before being replaced by a sharp, foreign pain.

The pain made me suck in a breath, but the doctor was unmoved, continuing to hold my eyelids open, leaning in to observe, and asked, “Do you know what the consequences of this could be?”

As he spoke, he let go of my eyelids, opened his hand to me, and said, “We’ll have to wash it.”

In his hand was a bloody eyeball!

I jerked awake, gasping for air.

Thank goodness, it was just a dream.

“Peter Brooks, had a nightmare?” Big Lee gripped the steering wheel, glanced at me, and asked, “The car’s bumping around so much and you can still sleep.”

I forced a smile and didn’t reply. The car was jostling annoyingly along the mountain road, but at this moment, the sense of reality and safety quickly calmed the fear left by the nightmare.

It was kind of funny—I'm not even that familiar with this doctor, so why did I dream about him?

Lately, my eyes have been feeling uncomfortable—always sore and aching. The doctor treating me said it was a side effect of staring at the computer every day. He prescribed me two bottles of special eye drops, and they seemed to work pretty well.

Thinking of this, my eyes felt even more sore and uncomfortable. I took out the eye drops from my pocket and put in two drops. Maybe it was just psychological, but I felt a bit better.

“How much longer till we get there?” I stopped thinking about the dream and turned to ask Big Lee.

“Who knows? Looks like we won’t make it back today.” David Thompson looked at the darkening sky outside the window and sighed, “I promised my son I’d get home early to spend time with him.”

My watch showed it was past 7 p.m. We’d been driving in these mountains for over five hours, and outside the car window were endless layers of mountains as far as the eye could see. It was already late autumn, the days shorter than ever, and the afterglow of the setting sun on the withered tree trunks looked especially bleak.

The ground was overgrown with weeds, and a layer of dust had settled on the car windows. The car jolted so violently that a few times I had to shield my head to avoid hitting the roof.

Falling asleep in this situation—even I found it unbelievable.

“No trains, no buses, this place is so remote, it’s practically cut off from the world. By the way…” Big Lee turned to ask me, “What’s the name of this village again?”

I pulled out the printed materials from my bag, flipped through them, and answered, “Mugen Village.”

“What a hard name to remember,” Big Lee said impatiently. “Why aren’t we there yet? I’m starting to wonder if this place even exists. Maybe we’ve been scammed?”

“Just focus on driving.” I replied absentmindedly, looking out the window. The sun had already moved behind the mountains, the orange glow blocked by the massive peaks, fading away as if its vitality had been drained.

Chapter 10 Eye (2)

Choosing to be a journalist might have been the biggest mistake of my life. News is all about speed, reports need depth, and stories have to be little-known, which means I’m always on edge, racking my brains to dig up news worth reporting. My phone rings nonstop every day, and as soon as I get a tip, I have to rush out immediately.

Tipsters often exaggerate. Something like a dog biting someone can be described as a mutant beast attack. Or a neighborhood gets flooded, and when I rush over, it turns out a pipe burst upstairs and just soaked the ceiling below.

But there’s no choice. To avoid missing any valuable leads and to get interesting material first, I don’t have the energy to filter much—I’m just constantly running around.

Just a few days ago, I had no idea this village even existed. A strange number called my phone, tipping me off about this remote village.