Children’s Song (1/2)
Once the game room fell silent, the tide of slumbering memories nearly swallowed Su Zesui whole.
——He remembered.
It was a winter’s day in his original world, heavy snow breaking branches under its weight. Alone and friendless on a foreign street, he walked numbly forward, his trembling heart colder than his coatless body.
He had gone there to find Gu Yilan.
The international ticket wasn’t cheap. But he never touched the money Gu Yilan had transferred to his account. Instead, he scrimped and saved through part-time work, and with those hard-earned savings, bought a ticket—flying without hesitation to a distant land.
And the reason he went…
Because his big brother had passed away from cancer. Because Gu Yilan had stopped replying to his letters. Because he felt like a child the world had forgotten, unbearably lonely. In his pain and desperation, with nowhere else to turn, he went searching—wanting to see the face of the person who had always written to him, wanting to know why he had suddenly fallen silent.
He thought that if they met, their bond would reconnect.
But in that other parallel world, he never saw Gu Yilan. Not even once. All he found was an empty study.
The long-abandoned recorder, the butler’s evasive answers, and the hollow villa… all told him the same truth—Gu Yilan was deliberately avoiding him. He didn’t want to see him.
The cause and effect were clear. No matter how much Su Zesui didn’t want to believe it, the truth was laid bare.
In that parallel world, his relationship with Mr. Gu had been terrible. Gu Yilan didn’t care—or even disliked him.
And though reason told him it might not be Gu Yilan’s fault, the thought of Gu Yilan smiling at someone else, teaching someone else, playing games with someone else—still tore him apart.
Clenching his fists, Su Zesui struck his head in despair, hating that he hadn’t been good enough, not likable enough.
——Please don’t ignore me. Tell me what I have to do, so you’ll love me the way you used to.
But before his fist could land again, his wrist was firmly caught—stopped just an inch from his temple, unable to move any further.
Gu Yilan had just entered the game room. Seeing the boy sink into self-destructive urges, his dark eyes flickered, and his lips pressed into a tight line.
Su Zesui’s condition was far worse than he had imagined.
He had thought it was like before—that fragments of memory only made the boy a little uneasy and confused, something best endured alone.
But Su Zesui’s reaction now made it clear: too many fragments had connected, and he was reliving something terrible.
“…Sorry. I came back too late.” Gu Yilan smoothed the boy’s messy black hair, intending to carry him to the master bedroom. But Su Zesui suddenly shoved him away.
Years of training had given Gu Yilan solid control over his core, so even caught off guard, he only staggered back slightly. Still, a fleeting, unfamiliar emotion flashed in his eyes.
And yet, after pushing him, Su Zesui immediately curled in on himself, trembling in fear. “D-don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Gu Yilan wiped the tears from his cheek. Then, leaning forward tentatively, confirming there was no more resistance, he gathered the boy into his arms.
For someone lost in amnesia and collapse, familiar surroundings offered comfort and safety—enough to calm the storm inside. That was why Gu Yilan insisted on carrying him upstairs.
When the boy touched the bed, he immediately burrowed under the blankets to hide. Gu Yilan stood there in silence for a long moment. He didn’t ask what Su Zesui had remembered—he only asked softly, “Do you still feel up to eating dinner?”
The boy shook his head weakly under the covers, trembling so badly it was painful to watch.
“Then rest for a while.” Remembering what had just happened in the game room, Gu Yilan hesitated—swallowing back the words “I’ll stay right here with you.”
From the rhythm of the quilt’s trembling, it seemed the boy had fallen asleep about two minutes after Gu Yilan’s words. But sleep only dragged him into a cycle of shivers: half an hour of uneasy slumber, a sudden jolt awake, then drifting off again, repeating endlessly.
Gu Yilan gently pulled down the quilt covering the boy’s face and touched his forehead. No fever. His gaze lingered on Su Zesui’s pale lips before he poured a glass of warm water.
But the boy had just calmed from another round of tremors, and Gu Yilan couldn’t bring himself to disturb him. So he simply sat at the bedside, water in hand, keeping quiet watch.
At last, seeing the boy’s brows still tightly furrowed even in sleep, he set the glass on the nightstand and began softly patting his back.
However long Su Zesui slept, Gu Yilan sat there just as long.
And yet the boy never truly slept soundly.
It was as if he were trapped in a nightmare: each time he shuddered awake, he would return to the beginning—to that endless snowbound street, shadows flickering, no end in sight. Wrapped in loneliness and confusion, he would start walking again, only to wake, then repeat.
That street was like a road of fate, one he could never escape with his fragile mortal body.
When he finally woke fully, it was already deep into the night.
Through a gap in the curtains, the moon hung high in the dark sky, casting its pale light, cold and despairing as falling snow.
“Thirsty? I’ll get you another glass of warm water.” The man’s voice drew Su Zesui back into reality.
The boy flinched. His groggy mind sharpened in an instant, and though he dared not speak, he gave a small, evasive nod, praying Gu Yilan wouldn’t try to talk to him any further.
Only after the man’s silhouette disappeared completely through the doorway did Su Zesui release the breath he had been holding.
Lowering his head, he pinched his own fingers until his pale skin flushed red.
Seeing Mr. Gu’s concern only made him feel worse—his stomach even twisting in a kind of physical pain.
Because he couldn’t help but think of something terrifying—
Gu Yilan had said they shared a deep bond. If he recovered all of his memories, perhaps Gu Yilan would remember too.
But then… if Gu Yilan regained half the memories from the other parallel world, would he still be the same person? If the man who disliked him merged with the one who cared for him, would he still show him this kindness?
Clutching his head in anguish, sparks of white light burst before his eyes. Before Gu Yilan could return, he had already slipped back into unconsciousness.
More accurately, in the days that followed, Su Zesui drifted endlessly between blurred reality and helpless dreams. Other than eating and using the bathroom, he was always asleep, always wandering that endless snowy street.
Most of the time, he hated himself—convinced that his own worthlessness was the reason no one ever liked him.
Steeped in pain too long, his mind twisting under the strain, he even began to resent the Gu Yilan of the other parallel world.
——Why? Why would he do that to him? Why would he lead him on if he didn’t even like him?
Caught in a whirlpool of emotions, he couldn’t break free. Even the “reward” he had once obsessed over no longer crossed his mind.
Gu Yilan took leave from work to stay at home with him.
But the boy’s condition only grew worse. No matter how much he slept, his spirit remained dim, his waking hours shorter and shorter. And when he was awake, he seemed hollowed out, unable to utter a single word.
Realizing that the boy’s turmoil might be connected to him, Gu Yilan could do nothing but invite a psychologist to the house.
“His condition has been bad since the day before yesterday. He must have seen something in the game that triggered old memories. It’s related to me—negatively.”
His voice was low and steady, recounting every detail like a calm observer. But the weariness buried in his eyes betrayed how far from calm he really was.
The psychologist took notes and offered reassurance: “Don’t worry. This is common for amnesia patients and their complications. I’ll assess his condition more closely and prescribe some medication. He’ll be fine.”
Gu Yilan gave a small nod.
Psychological assessments couldn’t be done with others present, so he waited in the living room. Though he hadn’t slept properly in days, when he closed his eyes, his mind only grew clearer—reliving everything that had happened.
Nearly an hour later, the psychologist finally descended the stairs.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. He didn’t want to tell me exactly what he remembered, so it took longer.”
Gu Yilan exhaled softly and looked up, his voice hoarse. “Did he say anything at all in the end?”
The psychologist shook his head. “No. But I did gain something else. From my analysis, it seems he recalled something very painful and misattributed it—leading to emotions far beyond what he can handle. For example, he blames himself for everything bad that’s happened. That’s why his self-esteem and sense of self-efficacy are so low.”
Gu Yilan nodded, taking note.
The psychologist continued: “In addition, he shows extreme social anxiety, to the point of physical symptoms. The reason behind this lies in his memories, but for now, it’s impossible to analyze further.”
“Is there a way to treat it?” Gu Yilan asked.
The psychologist studied the complicated notes for a long while, then suddenly asked: “This boy… is he the one who’s been going viral online in City A recently?”
“What?” Gu Yilan frowned. He hadn’t even had time to sleep properly these days, let alone go online.
Seeing his confusion, the psychologist pulled out his phone, opened a website, and showed him a video.
The title blazed across the screen—
“The Genius Beauty of City A’s No.1 High School—From Liberal Arts to Science Olympiad Champion.”
The clip was a carefully edited compilation, drawn mostly from the physics competition documentary at City A No.1 High School, featuring every moment of Su Zesui.
Under the high-definition camera, the boy’s skin was still fair and delicate, and you could even see the tiny fuzz on his cheeks. His soft lips parted and closed as he spoke encouraging words in a clear voice, making people instinctively want to pinch his cheeks.
It was a stark contrast to his current drowsy, downcast state.
The video had an astonishing number of plays and likes, with the screen overflowing with approving comments.
“I think it might help if he tried interacting online—posting, maybe even streaming. He doesn’t have to show his face; the point is to use the internet as a tool to boost his social confidence,” the psychologist suggested. “Right now, most of the feedback about him online is praise, which counts as positive reinforcement. What he really needs now is exactly this kind of psychological encouragement.”
Listening to the psychologist’s advice, Gu Yilan gave a slight nod, unconsciously grinding his molars as he sank into thought.