Chapter 3 — The day I disappeared, they realized their mistake

Five ten in the morning. It's not quite dawn yet. The rain had stopped, and in the air there was a faint smell of wet earth being turned over. I folded the blanket neatly, straightened the bed sheet—after all, this wasn't my bed, so when I left, I should return it as it was. When I opened the door, the hallway was dark. Everyone is still sleeping. I walked lightly through the living room. On the shoe shelf are still the sneakers I brought home yesterday. I sat down and tied the rope. The kitchen light turns on.

“What are you doing up this early in the morning?”

It's Vuong Le. She held a glass of water, her belly slightly protruding—four months pregnant with her second child. I just learned about this yesterday. I didn't answer, continuing to tie my shoelaces. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe and yawned, as if she suddenly remembered something.

“Ah yes, To Niem, I'll discuss this with you.”

This word, through her mouth, was never a real discussion.

"Trang Trang is entering elementary school next year. Tuition in that school district is not cheap. Your brother is now burdened with paying the house's debt, and I am pregnant and can't manage. You're alone and don't have much to spend—from now on, send three thousand home every month to help your nephew pay tuition, okay?"

She spoke lightly, as if she was just saying “get me the salt shaker”—so obvious that the question mark at the end of the sentence was just a formality. After that. Per month. Three thousand. I tied the last knot in the rope and stood up.

"No need."

“What did you say?”

"I mean—no need anymore. Don't tell me about the future."

Vuong Le still didn't understand. I held my backpack at the door and pulled it open.

"To Niem! What's with your attitude?"

The door closes. That was the last thing I said in that house. At five thirty in the morning, there were only a few breakfast restaurants open in the town. The quiche rolled in the oil pan, making a sizzling sound. Heat rose, blurring the hostess's face. I stood on the side of the road for a while, taking a deep breath of cold air mixed with the smell of grease. Then took out the phone. First, send an email requesting your resignation to the company. The reason is written: "private matter". I know my boss will scold me, but it doesn't matter anymore. Then open WeChat, turn off the family group notification—“The To family is one heart and soul”—and then exit the group. Next, delete each person. To Hao. Erase. Vuong Le. Blocked it a long time ago, now deleted it. The finger stops on the avatar for three seconds. Her representative photo is Trang Trang. Not me. It hasn't been me since then. Finally, I walked into the China Mobile store in town.

“Hello, I want to cancel my phone number.”

The employee looked up at me: "Are you sure you want to cancel? If you cancel, the old number won't be able to be used anymore, and acquaintances won't be able to contact you either."

"Sure."

Perhaps she has met many people like me—not angry, not impulsive, but a kind of calm… of someone who has thought it all through. She didn't ask further. Procedure completed. Old SIM card cut in half. I stood in front of the door and inserted the new SIM I just bought into my phone. New number, Hangzhou number. From this moment on, To Niem—disappeared from this town. I left, bringing little with me. A backpack. Two changes of clothes. A self-study registration guide—bought three months ago, still haven't dared to open it. An old photo. Do not bring suitcases. Vali is still in the motel room in the city—wait until you get back there to pack a few things and then check out. The station is very small, with only a dozen people in the waiting room. There were workers falling asleep, there was a young mother holding her baby, there was an old man playing a short video on the speaker outside. I sat in the most hidden corner, clutching my backpack to my chest. The electronic screen above the ticket gate reads: K1728, destination: Hangzhou. I've never been there. Only seen in photos—West Lake, Qiantang River, office buildings close together. Very far. So far away that my mother couldn't find it. It was so far that To Hao couldn't find a way to drag me back. So far away that even the past twenty-seven years could not reach it. The loudspeaker rang out: "Start checking tickets." I stood up and walked towards the gate. Phone vibrates. Tran Vy texted back: "Nhiem Nhiem, have you thought carefully? Are you really not coming back?" I typed a few words: "Think carefully. I'm leaving." Then turn off the chat frame. The train departs at six forty in the morning. The train carriage shook, the town outside the window drifted backwards. Rice fields, water towers, roadside breakfast shops, six-story buildings—my mother's house on the fourth floor, the balcony hung with To Hao's shirts and Trang Trang's socks. None of mine. I watched the building shrink, turn into a gray mass, and then be swallowed by the woods. No—no need to say goodbye. I closed my eyes. The ship goes south. The events that followed were told to me by Tran Vy a long time later. First day. After seven o'clock in the morning, my mother got up to cook rice. Push open my door—it's empty. Blanket folded neatly. She thought I was out for a walk. At noon, call me. Number does not exist. She started to panic a bit and called To Hao: "Is your brother coming back to the city? He left without saying a word." To Hao: "Probably so. Isn't it still the same?" Vuong Le sat next to her and bit a melon seed: "It's better to go, to avoid causing trouble." My mother hesitated for a moment, then sent a message: "Nhiem Nhiem, please let me know when you get there." No response. Because that number no longer exists. Day three. My mother started to sit still. She found my old company and called.

“Excuse me, is To Niem there?”

"To Niem has quit his job. Submitted three days ago."

My mother was stunned for a long time. Then she called my motel owner.

"To Niem checked out yesterday and packed all his things. Didn't say where he was going."

That night, for the first time, my mother did not finish her bowl of rice. To Hao said: "Forget it, mom, don't think too much. He'll be angry for a few days and then go home. Where can he go? His monthly salary is several thousand, so will he just fly away?" My mother nodded. Yes, I'll be back in a few days. My mother's text message sank to the bottom of the ocean—sent successfully, but never read. Because that account has been deleted. She called all my colleagues and former classmates.

"Do you have any news from Nhiem Nhiem? He changed his number..."

"No, auntie, his friend circle has been deleted."

“Auntie, we can't contact you either.”