Cicada

His world had always been quiet—until love came, like the hum of cicadas on a summer night.

“He Huaisheng, you really are a failure,” someone had once said. “The ones who treat you well only want your money, and the ones who want your money—you hope they’ll treat you well.”

Other women’s husbands were giants like Sicong, but hers was a man who could not hear.

In Chongcheng’s dead of winter, darkness fell by five o’clock, and the night’s chill was sharp enough to cut through bone.

Xia Chan stumbled out of the private room, heels clicking unsteadily until she reached the flower bed by the door. Her ankle twisted without warning, sending her crashing to the ground. White plastic bags and scraps of paper whirled around her in the wind, brushing against her feet like restless ghosts.

She sat there for a moment, dazed. Then her stomach lurched violently. Turning over, she collapsed against the edge of the flower bed and began to retch.

All the wine from the banquet churned inside her, cold as ice, numbing her insides until they curled into a knot. Her stomach felt as though it were turning inside out, each wave of nausea clawing at her from within.