Chapter 1: I Have a Secret

Neng County’s largest kindergarten is called Bright Kindergarten.

Seven years ago, this kindergarten was still called Plum Kindergarten. It was run by a husband-and-wife duo who hired two teachers. There was a short plum tree in the yard, enclosed by railings at the end of an alley, next to a simple two-story building.

Later, the couple sold the kindergarten. One teacher married and moved to another place, leaving me as the only one at Plum Kindergarten.

I quickly changed my tune, swapping the “plum” in my mouth for “bright,” and became a teacher at Bright Kindergarten.

With my low education level and unremarkable looks and abilities, even now, I have no certification, no professional title, and no drive to strive for more. I just muddle along on a monthly salary of 3,500 yuan based on seniority.

When my colleague Zhu Erting arrived as an intern preschool teacher, she called everyone “big sis.” Now she no longer calls me sis and instead gave me a nickname: Xiao Huixiang. I have no objections—Xiao Huixiang(Little Fennel) was the original intent of my name anyway.

My name is Jiang Xiaohui. Jiang(River) is my surname, Xiao Hui my given name. When my mother gave birth to me, the midwife boiled a bowl of paste with fennel seeds and made her drink it. Amid the strong fennel scent, I was born crying, weighing a hefty seven jin and two liang—like a plumb bob. I was soaked in water and washed several times. When they finally wrapped me in cloth, my mother still hadn’t finished that huge bowl of fennel soup. The midwife stared at her mouth as her sweat dripped into the soup. Outside, the yellow winds howled. She gritted her teeth and swallowed it down. Her empty stomach was instantly filled, her weight unchanged, but her belly swelled with the fennel soup, as if I hadn’t been born yet.

Because the fennel left such a deep impression on my mother, she named me Jiang Xiaohui, with the nickname Xiangxiang. From childhood to now, I’ve been called Spice Packet.

This Spice Packet of mine is used to wrapping myself in cloth bundles, only to be fished out and discarded once the soup is done. At Bright Kindergarten, I’ve always played this role in the pot—coaxing kids, doing odd jobs, no need to teach or nurture them, no pushing them to race from the starting line. I peacefully send off batch after batch of children.

When Zhu Erting calls her boyfriend, I take responsibility for dragging the kids around her off to nap.

Kids’ bodies are filled with the flames of life, crackling now and then. When I force them to sleep, they’re all reluctant. I sit in my fishing chair nearby, reading a book. As they sleep, their bones grow—bamboo shoots pushing up section by section in the bamboo grove, kids’ bones extending the same way. I can hear the swishing sounds. I know which kid is pretending to sleep while peeking around, which one is watching my movements, planning to slither off the bed like an earthworm and flow toward the door.

I’m not a stern person, but being called “teacher” comes with a bit of natural authority. I intimidate the kids into sleeping, listening to those growing, sprouting sounds. Zhu Erting’s voice from downstairs feels so distant. Lying there aren’t twenty kids, but twenty pots of flowers. I’m the gardener who neither waters nor prunes, like a lazy old farmer relying on nature to do the work. The kids’ arms and legs stretch out like lotus root sections—black, white, red, all colors, like large, medium, and small Nezhas. Decisively stripped of flesh and bone by their parents, replaced with lotus-root skin and flesh, standing tall between heaven and earth—

Zhu Erting came back after her call and whispered to me privately that the way I look at these kids is scary, like I want to eat them. I said, you’re the irresponsible teacher handing the kids over to the mouth of a once-in-a-lifetime pervert like me—who’s really to blame?

Zhu Erting just rolled her eyes, then turned to become the kids’ affectionate Teacher Xiao Zhu. I knew my place and retreated to the classroom where I belonged, to do my assistant teacher duties.

Most of the time, new teachers don’t believe I dropped out after junior high to work and am content just coaxing kids instead of educating them. They think my kind doll-like face and my somewhat cloyingly sweet voice mean heaven served me success on a platter, but I flipped the table myself, snapping off my own potential as an advanced preschool teacher. Everyone thinks it’s a pity.

I say there’s nothing to pity. A person’s shoes should fit their feet—it’s what I deserve.

The phrase “what I deserve” is used so poorly that everyone believes my education level is low and doesn’t pursue what exactly I “deserve.”

Including the principal. She believes I’m a piece of rotten wood, Jiang Xiaohui—but with a serious work attitude. She thinks I’d have a brighter future as a nanny or caregiver than a kindergarten teacher. Privately, she asked if I wanted to work at her friend’s company, where they needed young, good-looking nannies. I’m good with kids and could surely adapt to caring for the elderly.

I said no. My reason was that I’d grown attached to the short plum tree in our yard. I’d watched it grow from clothesline-pole thin to rolled-paper thick, just like my own child.

The reason was ridiculously far-fetched, but the principal didn’t bring it up again. Instead, she asked about something else.

“I heard there was a murder at Plum Kindergarten seven years ago.”

The principal asked about the secret in her bright office. Looking out the window, I saw the railings of our Plum Kindergarten enclosing a sandy area, with slides and swings nearby. The plum tree huddled awkwardly in the corner, like a scrawny old man.

“What?” I snapped back to attention.

The principal tapped the desk and rephrased: “I heard someone died at Plum Kindergarten.”

“Yeah, they say school sites are built on graveyards. The kids’ pure yang energy can purify and dilute the resentment. Look at Hongzhi Elementary the other day—they dug up human bones, held a ritual for three days, and nothing happened.”

I smiled and dragged in the recent Hongzhi Elementary incident. The principal swished the curtains shut.

Without the backlight, I could finally see her face clearly. Our principal had tattooed brows, thin and long, lined lips, and a sallow complexion. She looked like an ’80s beauty in photos, but in daily life, somewhat fierce and terrifying. She wore her uniform, jacket off, shirt with sweat stains under the arms—but the AC was on. I didn’t know why she was so hot.

“Listen, Jiang Xiaohui. You have to come clean with me. There’s trouble these past couple days—you need to explain the situation—”

“I don’t know.” I cut in quickly.

“Jiang Xiaohui.” The principal sighed.

“I don’t know anything.”

Our principal’s eyes widened, punched by my blunt response—her HP dropping 80%.

“You’re in big trouble, Jiang Xiaohui. If you don’t tell me, I can’t cover for you—”

She pinched her brow, hesitating, but that was all she said in the end.

I harbor a secret—not huge, but not small either.

That secret is recorded in the files, sealed with a judge’s gavel. It’s hidden in every one of my dreams.

In the hazy dreamscape, there’s always a kid shooting up layer by layer like a bamboo shoot, growing to 1.5 meters, 1.6, 1.7—but still with that childish face.

The face turns: “Teacher Xiao Jiang, save me.”

I remember that old cop pulling me aside privately: “Xiaohui, don’t say anything. No matter who asks, don’t say. It’s all over.”

I rubbed my hands, recalling things. The principal opened her mouth, like picking a weapon from her arsenal to pry my lips open. But I’d already sealed the gates, hunkering down inside.

“I can’t say.”

That was my answer.