Zheng Ran

Ran was a good child. Ran would sit with Grannie Liu and keep her company, gently patting the old woman's leg. Grannie Liu told her the injury came from when the Khitan soldiers stormed the city, and Ran would frown, muttering curses about the Khitans before carefully tucking her own little quilt over Grannie Liu's knees. Ran greeted everyone she met, her voice always bright and clear. People loved listening to her chatter. She'd spin tales she'd picked up from her father, like a tiny storyteller wandering the streets. "With Ran around, who needs to waste coin at Jiang's Teahouse for stories?" the folks at the noodle stall often said. Ran adored lotus pastries, but she never finished the ones her father brought her. She always saved some. She set aside pieces for her beloved father, for Grannie Liu who rarely went out, for Uncle Liu at the butcher's stall who chatted with her, for Uncle Sun who let her taste new dishes, for her story-sharing playmates, for Ren Xiaoping's mother who always took her side, and who else? Oh, Ren Xiaoping! But she'd never give him any, not after he always argued with her. There were too many people she wanted to share with, so her pastries were never enough. So Ran always kept the smallest portion for herself: first three pieces, then two, then just one. She'd grown up on storybooks, and she lived like a character straight out of one.The world loved storybooks and the stories within them. Everyone deserved to live the life they adored, and that life ought to be just like the tales.

In this world, there are those without eyes, and those without conscience. Tell me, which matters more, the heart or the eyes? Most would say the heart. But those without conscience thrive, while those without eyes suffer. This isn't fair. Storybooks don't write it this way. They tell of heroes punishing villains, emperors loving their people, bad men getting their due, good souls reuniting. So Ran couldn't understand. She couldn't understand why Uncle Sun moved away, why shop signs were smashed one after another, why Grannie Liu's face was wet with tears, why the streets roared with chaos, why Ren Xiaoping sobbed into his mother's arms louder than ever, why her father had gone to buy lotus pastries and never returned... She doesn't like this ending. Nobody likes this ending. Why should an ending nobody likes exist? She couldn't understand why when she says these truths, people who used to laugh now stay silent. When she angrily asks, they always say: "Ran isn't wrong." But now they just stayed silent. Can right things be mocked? Or must they go unanswered? She couldn't understand why people once laughed at her Gold Leaf Swordsman stories, but after her father vanished, they'd listen in silence. Did her father's disappearance make them stop loving this story? These are things the storybooks never wrote about. This wasn't how it should be. Uncle Sun shouldn't have left. The shop should always teem with hot meals. The kitchen fire should never die. Grannie Liu's cheeks shouldn't glisten with tears. Ren Xiaoping, for all his mischief, shouldn't wail like his heart was breaking. The river by her door should flow forever, and her father should have never walked away.

Ren Xiaoping would never understand Zheng Ran. Many children were fools, but Zheng Ran wasn't a fool. She was something stranger than a fool. That day, another fool asked a stupid question: "We can see trees and rivers, but blind people only see darkness, so what do they actually see?" Ren Xiaoping glanced at the child who asked, then at Zheng Ran. What an idiotic question. "You mean blind kids? They see nothing, obviously." "I can see!" "Blind kid lies! What could you possibly see?" "I... I can see... I can see—" "Dreams!" "When everyone sleeps, they close their eyes and dream. I asked before, and when that happens, people see darkness too, but they're just... dreaming." Ren Xiaoping froze, unable to make sense of this logic, but that didn't stop him from bursting into laughter. "Blind kid says she sees dreams! Blind kid..." Before he could finish, his mother's palm smacked his back, lifting him like a chick by the scruff. Zheng Ran heard his "Help!" from a much higher position than before. Ren Xiaoping's mother carried her son in one hand and held Zheng Ran's hand in the other, leading them home. The woman briskly asked what they'd been arguing about. Ren Xiaoping babbled an explanation—who knew if she understood? But as always, she delivered her verdict: "Ran is right. When she closes her eyes, she sees dreams." "Dreams!" "Yes, yes, Ran can see dreams." And so, Ran would live in dreams her whole life. So what? As long as she could live in beautiful dreams forever, as long as someone was willing to let her live in beautiful dreams forever, then this world ought to have people who dwell in beautiful dreams. And Ran was a good child. Ran deserved to live in beautiful dreams. But Ran had one dream of her own. She didn't want to watch the people on this street disappear one by one. When she grew up, she wanted to stand in front of everyone she loved. Only... the fortune telling Daoists said dreams were always the opposite of reality. But it didn't matter, Ran. If the world is a story that cycles endlessly, then perhaps dreams and reality share the same ending.