Home and the Distance

On the way home, the evening wind carried the slight chill of March across his cheeks, but Chen Mo's heartbeat was even more rapid than the spring drumbeats. It wasn't the exhaustion from days of exam preparation, but two conflicting emotions churning in his chest—the sense of achievement from the string of numbers on his mock exam score sheet, burning like the rising sun; and the Nostalgic Apprehension of facing his family's scrutiny, clinging to his heart like cool morning mist, adding a heaviness to his steps.

692 points, 245th in the school. This number circled endlessly in his mind, like a bluebird that had broken free from its shackles and was eager to take flight. He clearly remembered himself a few months ago, barely scraping by in Cultural Class with passing grades, and lingering at the bottom of the class in Martial Arts, secretly called "a double failure in both arts and martial arts" by his classmates. Now, with 368 in Cultural Class and 324 in Martial Arts, his total score had leaped to the upper-middle ranks of the school. This wasn't just a leap in scores; it was a path to a bright future unfolding beneath his feet. He could clearly see the direction ahead: strengthen the weak points in math and English for Cultural Class, break through the current bottleneck in Martial Arts. But at this moment, these plans all took a backseat. What he cared about most was the expression on his parents' faces when they saw the score sheet.

The voice-activated lights in the stairwell lit up one by one with his footsteps, and the familiar security door was just ahead. Before he could raise his hand to knock, a rich aroma of food rushed out to meet him, several times thicker than usual—the sweet, sticky fragrance of Braised Pork Ribs intertwined with the savory, salty seafood scent of Oil-Braised Prawns, the taste of home. He turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. From the kitchen came the crisp clatter of a spatula; his mother, Chen Yaqin, was busy at the stove, a few glistening oil spots on her blue cotton apron, strands of hair at her forehead damp with sweat and plastered to her smooth skin. And his father, Chen Guoqiang, who usually spent this time slumped on the sofa scrolling through his phone, was now sitting upright at the dining table, holding an outdated newspaper, but his gaze kept darting toward the door, the edges of the paper unconsciously crumpled by his fingers.

"Dad, Mom, I'm back." Chen Mo put down his heavy schoolbag, the marks from the straps still fresh on his shoulders. His voice was a little louder than usual, carrying an undeniable tension.

"Ah, Mo Mo's back!" His mother immediately poked her head out of the kitchen, the smile lines at the corners of her eyes blooming like flowers, a sauce-stained spatula still in her hand. "Go wash your hands quickly! I specially made your favorite Braised Pork Ribs and Oil-Braised Prawns today, stewed for two hours, the bones are falling apart!"

"How did you do?" His father put down the newspaper and adjusted his reading glasses, his tone deliberately calm, but his slightly leaning body, clenched fists, and eyes fixed intently on him all betrayed his inner eagerness.

Chen Mo took a deep breath, the heartbeat in his chest gradually steadying. He unzipped his schoolbag and took out a neatly folded copy of the score sheet from the inner pocket—he had specially gone to a print shop to make a copy; the original had to be handed over to the homeroom teacher for filing. He handed the paper over, his voice clear and firm: "The mock exam results are out. Total score 692, 245th in the school. Cultural Class 368, Martial Arts 324."

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His father reached out with his rough palm to take the score sheet, his fingertips gently brushing over the cool paper, as if feeling its weight. He slowly unfolded it, his gaze sweeping from the school name and student name, word by word, reading extremely slowly and carefully, silently mouthing each subject's score. His mother hurriedly wiped her hands and walked quickly to his father's side. The two stood shoulder to shoulder by the dining table, heads together, eyes locked on that thin sheet of paper.

The living room fell into an instant silence, broken only by the "hissing" sound of the pressure cooker in the kitchen, like an accompaniment to the tense atmosphere. Chen Mo stood still, clearly hearing his own heartbeat. One second, two seconds, three seconds... His father looked at it for a full three minutes, so long that Chen Mo's palms began to sweat, and he started to wonder if his explanation hadn't been clear enough, or if his parents weren't satisfied with the score.

Then, his father finally looked up. He took off his reading glasses and gently rubbed his brow with his fingertip. Chen Mo keenly noticed that the fine lines at the corners of his father's eyes were trembling slightly, as if stirred by some emotion.

"Good." One word squeezed out from his father's throat, his voice carrying a barely perceptible hoarseness. He raised the score sheet again, examining it closely under the ceiling light, as if to confirm through the paper that those numbers weren't an illusion. "Good!" This time, his voice was much louder. The taut muscles in his face suddenly relaxed, revealing an almost radiant smile, deep crow's feet gathering at the corners of his eyes—lines woven from relief and pride. "I knew it. My son is no coward!"

His mother was already beaming, but the rims of her eyes were faintly red. She quickly walked over to Chen Mo, first giving his arm a firm pat, the force making him start slightly. Then, feeling that wasn't enough to express her excitement, she pulled him into a tight hug. His mother's embrace was warm and solid, carrying the scent of food and the clean smell of soap. Her voice was choked with joyful tears: "Good child! Such a good child! Mom knew you could do it! These past few months, watching you get up before dawn to practice your stances, studying until eleven or twelve at night, the desk lamp on so late—Mom's heart ached and she couldn't sleep... But now it seems, all the hard work was worth it! All worth it!"

The bedroom door creaked open a crack, and his younger sister, Chen Qing's, little head poked out, her ponytail neat, her eyes curious. When she heard that her brother had ranked over two hundred in the school, she deliberately pursed her lips and muttered, "Not bad, a bit of an improvement from last time," but the flash of surprise and that faint trace of envy in her eyes were caught by Chen Mo. She quickly pulled back, but not long after, she tiptoed out again, holding a bottle of iced cola, which she shoved into Chen Mo's hand, her voice as soft as a mosquito's hum: "A reward for you. Don't get too cocky, you have to improve next time." The water droplets on the cola bottle wet Chen Mo's palm, bringing a wave of coolness.

The atmosphere at dinner was the most relaxed and joyful Chen Mo had felt since merging with the original owner's memories. The table was laden with dishes: the Braised Pork Ribs were a glossy red, the Oil-Braised Prawns a tempting Golden Yellow, along with Stir-fried Seasonal Vegetables and a warm bowl of Mushroom Soup. His father, a rare sight, took out a bottle of liquor from the cabinet—an affordable brand from a local distillery, the label on the bottle somewhat faded. He poured himself a small glass, then picked up Chen Mo's glass and symbolically poured a shallow layer, the clear liquid emitting a faint grain aroma.

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