Chapter 8: What Do You Have to Say?

As the weather heated up, the principal gave the order and issued a notice to us.

Bright Kindergarten’s preschool class was preparing for graduation again this year. With kindergarten rising to elementary school, the parents were all very concerned. The lead teachers were suddenly cramming, teaching the little kids to sing “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” in English. The second floor where the preschool class was located echoed with recordings all day long. The kids had a bit of the Gaokao grind mentality, humming and practicing diligently.

I hadn’t led a preschool class in a long time, but when there weren’t enough hands, I was calmly pulled in to help anyway. The principal had me arrange the kids’ entry and exit and the parents’ seating, watch over the rehearsals for her, and handle some other miscellaneous tasks.

Zhu Erting’s class wasn’t preschool either. She’d just spent half the day gloating at me, calling me Xiao Huixiang, but the moment she turned around and got the notice, her class—the next year’s graduates—had to prepare a farewell performance too.

The matter was written into a letter for the kids to take home to their parents. The preschool kids started staying half an hour late every day for rehearsals. I made the cardstock and watched the printer spit out sheets like crazy. The finance staff lit a cigarette by the window, facing the breeze, and sighed meaningfully, “Teacher Xiao Huixiang, these kids are so young—how could they understand this? Even if they make it big later in life, will they still see the kindergarten as their alma mater?”

A teacher happened to walk in and joked casually, “With the education level around Neng County, if they drop out after elementary school, then yeah, kindergarten would be their only alma mater. They even give out diplomas.”

I suddenly thought of Zheng Ningning. She’d enrolled in elementary school but never went, and her “alma mater” at Plum Kindergarten was gone too.

For a moment, I didn’t respond. That teacher grabbed something and left. The finance staff puffed away in the wind. I lowered my head, watching the cardstock sheets come out one by one. I nudged the paper bag at my feet, gathered them up, bundled them with rubber bands, tossed them in, and divided them into six stacks by class. I counted the numbers, then closed the document on the computer.

After the rehearsal ended, the lead teachers distributed the cardstock. One thing more proper about Bright Kindergarten than Plum Kindergarten was that it had its own little auditorium—no need to practice outside in the wind and sun. Small but fully equipped, with a long passageway in front of the stage leading to the changing rooms. Boys and girls separated, marked with blue and pink cardstock, right next to the restrooms. The boys’ restroom had an elephant painted on the door, the girls’ a giraffe.

The other end was the storage room for props and costumes. The costumes hadn’t been ordered yet; each lead teacher had their own plans. I cleared out the old junk from previous years—boxes stuffed with all sorts of random props.

I’d done logistics like this in past years too. Every time, I’d swear that after the show, I’d tidy up properly to make next year easier. But once Children’s Day and graduation rolled around together, I was exhausted body and soul. I’d just dump all the leftover junk that couldn’t quite be called garbage into the storage room.

On the first day of work, I hauled out all the old stuff and piled it outside.

This kept me busy until eight. The cleaning auntie came by, tossed me the keys, and told me to remember to lock up. I asked her to charge my e-bike while she was at it.

At nine-thirty, I came out of the little auditorium, locked the door, and saw that she’d charged it for me.

But the tire was flat, deflated like an egg pancake with a hole.

Fixing an e-bike tire was different from a regular bike. I was good with bikes—I could pry out the inner tube, soak it in a basin, find the leak, and patch it. But e-bike tires were a whole different beast; I had no clue. Standing there, staring at the green light on the charger, I felt a surge of frustration.

But that frustration vanished the moment I turned my head. I packed up the charger, grabbed the e-bike like I was dragging a tantruming kid from a mall. The friction was immense; it kept tilting every which way. The rear wheel spun blindly, the front one squeaked flatly.

Nine-thirty, the sky was still somewhat dark, but it was summer after all. I passed a small park with some foot traffic, streetlights shining on me as I stepped on my shadow, a bit slower than walking. I adjusted my mindset, pulled out my earbuds, plugged them in, wore one, and let the other dangle to listen to music.

But then I sensed something off, so I turned the volume way down. Walking along, all I heard was my own footsteps and the tire crunching on the road.

My breathing passed through the streetlight, stirring up puffs of dust—like soft yellow gummy candy gone gray and dusty after sitting too long. Standing under the light, I suddenly spotted Gan Ling.

As she’d said, Gan Ling was following me, but not exactly—it was more like she kept cutting off my path wherever I went.

Just four or five steps between two streetlights, she stepped out of the darkness into the one ahead of me. On the empty, silent road, sounds stopped. Crickets chirped in the roadside grass, fading into quiet background noise. The e-bike trembled in my hands, unable to stay balanced, constantly leaning into me.

That day, Gan Ling hadn’t changed clothes—still that thick hoodie that didn’t seem hot, her board shoes even dirtier, like she’d walked through a dump.

But today, this woman had rolled up her sleeves, revealing the muscular lines on her arms. For a split second, I thought she was about to beat me. Gripping the bike, I was ready to twist the key and speed off, tire be damned.

But she didn’t. Her graying hair danced loosely in the light, like cold tentacles probing for warmth.

I said nothing, just turned the handlebars to keep going. Sure enough, Gan Ling grabbed the basket. The bike jerked; I twisted the key. With a buzz, the rear wheel angrily spun in place, but the front was pinned under Gan Ling’s foot. The back seat bounced up hard; I nearly lost control.

“Who killed Zheng Ningning?” Gan Ling spoke up.

Her voice was hoarse, nothing like the calm I’d heard through the door that first time—like she’d been wailing at a funeral, overexerted, leaving only this low rumble.

I didn’t speak, just gripped hard with both hands, yanked the handlebars, and wrestled my e-bike free from her grasp.

Gan Ling grabbed the back seat again and hopped on, legs bracing it steady. I let go, facing off with her.

“Seven years have passed. If you want justice, why not come sooner? I’ve never seen you before. Are you really Zheng Ningning’s mother?”

I wanted to hit her where it hurt. She just stared blankly, her face like bulletproof armor—impenetrable, coldly watching me. As a mother asking here about her daughter’s killer, shouldn’t there be some grief, some self-blame, some deep-seated remorse from years past? But none of that showed on Gan Ling’s face. She was indifferent and gloomy, eyes frosty, arms crossed, deeply guarded.

She didn’t speak. I said there was nothing for me to say. Debts have debtors, cases have culprits. If you’re unhappy with the verdict, appeal it. Don’t hassle a kindergarten teacher like me.

I hurled down reason and law like two treasures, hoping they’d swell into towering pagodas to crush her. But she was cold and hard, impervious to salt or oil, like she was made of stone—untouched by worldly fires, defiant of law, ignoring human norms.

“Last week, I just found out Ningning was dead,” Gan Ling said, arms still crossed, voice calm.

I recalled last week—business as usual at the kindergarten, with a “Little Inventors” activity in the halls, story cards of Edison and such.

Then it hit me what Gan Ling had said.

“W-What? How is that possible? She’s been buried for seven years—you—”

I stammered. Gan Ling’s situation was beyond my expectations; the thought resurfaced: Is this really Zheng Ningning’s birth mother? What mom doesn’t know her kid died seven years ago?!

Gan Ling didn’t explain much under my stuttering. She sat steadily on my back seat.

Suddenly, the street felt adrift, like waves surging from underground, swallowing the streetlights, lifting me and my e-bike onto the water’s surface. Breaths came hard as waves lapped my chest.

Seven years—many things happen in seven years. A king had a dream foretelling seven bountiful years and seven lean ones, fat cows and plump sheaves alongside gaunt ones. In my seven years: Zheng Ningning vanished, kids shot up, I’d been called Teacher Xiao Jiang for seven years, repeatedly seeing Zheng Ningning’s soul gazing sorrowfully at Hongzhi Elementary then at me—seven years!

And Zheng Ningning’s birth mother had skipped right over those seven, now sitting on my back seat.

Seven years of memories spread evenly over me like cotton, swelling fluffy and full. Seven years compressed into a needle piercing straight into Gan Ling’s skull—that’s why this crazy woman tailed me, deaf to reason.

The madwoman finally stood from my back seat, but latched onto one question: “Tell me, who killed Zheng Ningning? Say something—name, looks, address, what they were wearing… You must have something to say, right?”

This person was fixated on finding the killer.

I strained to hold the handlebars, using my waist to bear the heavy frame, terrified it’d slip when my hands gave out. Gan Ling kept repeating her question. When I didn’t answer, she suddenly yanked my collar from behind, choking my neck.

But I wouldn’t say a thing. I was a witness. That was my secret.

Choked by the collar around my neck, I couldn’t catch my breath. Gan Ling was crazy and obsessive, but she wasn’t a murderer. She let go when my face turned pale. The electric scooter crashed down with a bang, cracking a chunk out of the plastic windshield. I heard its crisp snapping sound. Gan Ling released her grip and stood in front of me, formally grabbing my clothes.

“You say.” Gan Ling’s eyes met mine, her gaze cold and sharp, like two knives stabbing toward me.

“I can’t say.” I stared at Gan Ling too. I’m not good at confronting people head-on; I could only cling tightly to my bottom line.

A passing car sped by abruptly. In that instant, its flashing headlights turned the two of us pale, reducing us to mere outlines.

“You don’t even know how the child died. Seven years—what makes you think you know what the murderer looks like? The kid is dead! What’s the point of finding the murderer?”

I spat out an extremely vicious remark.

But Gan Ling remained unmoved, without even a ripple in her eyes.

This confirmed my guess.

She didn’t care at all whether she was a qualified mother. Right now, she was a hunter—she had to find that murderer.

Gan Ling had no vulnerabilities to strike. My words didn’t faze her in the slightest. She pressed on relentlessly, so I could only struggle forcefully to break free from her grasp and drag my electric scooter away, like hauling a massive boulder.

Yet this woman was even colder and tougher than I’d imagined. She lightly stepped onto the curb and suddenly said, “Then what right do you have to question me? You’re not even the child’s mother.”

It felt like a punch to the back—my chest tightened. I staggered to my feet, not bothering to lift my electric scooter. Gan Ling pulled down her hoodie sleeves and added, “I’ll keep following you. You’ll say it.”

“I have no obligation to explain to an irresponsible mother like you!”

“You’ll say it.” Gan Ling looked at me.

She didn’t need to glare; she just calmly cast her gaze over me, like scattering a handful of nails that pierced the heart and gouged the bones. Her lips were pressed tight, her messy hair swaying wildly.

“Do as you like.” I opened my mouth but couldn’t muster any resounding curse.

“You’ll say it.”

My battered electric scooter and I fled in panic. The next day at the repair shop, they said the front tire had clearly been deliberately sabotaged.

I won’t say a single word to Gan Ling about everything that happened at the scene. She doesn’t deserve to know.

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