Age 3
The first month with the Wangs was strange.
Not bad—strange. Mrs. Wang made him breakfast every morning. Mr. Wang came home at six and asked about his day. They ate at a table together, all three of them, as if this was normal. As if this was what families did.
Gu Chen did not know how to be a child.
He knew how to be quiet. He knew how to watch. He knew how to wait for the moment when things changed, because things always changed.
But here, nothing changed.
Every day, the same. Breakfast. Mrs. Wang's smile. A small apartment with a corner that was "his." Lavender sheets.
Enjoy it while it lasts.
The Beggar's voice was always there now. Not loud—just present. A reminder. A warning.
Shut up, Gu Chen thought back.
The voice laughed, rough and bitter. You'll see.
Age 4
Mrs. Wang taught him to read.
She sat with him at the small table, a children's book open between them. "This is 'cat.' C-A-T. Can you say it?"
"Cat."
"Good! Now this word—"
"Dog," he said.
She blinked. "I haven't taught you that one yet."
"You pointed at it yesterday. When you were teaching yourself."
She stared at him. She had pointed at it yesterday, absentmindedly, while flipping through the book alone. He had been across the room. Playing. Or so she thought.
"You remembered that?" she asked.
He looked at her. "Yes."
She didn't know what to say. So she smiled, a little unsettled, and turned the page.
Age 5
Mr. Wang took him to the park.
It was a Saturday, sunny, other children running everywhere. Gu Chen sat on a bench and watched them.
"Aren't you going to play?" Mr. Wang asked.
"No."
"Why not?"
Gu Chen considered the question. "They're loud."
Mr. Wang laughed. "Kids are supposed to be loud."
Gu Chen said nothing. He was watching a father push his son on a swing. The son was laughing. The father was laughing. They looked at each other like no one else existed.
He'll leave too, the Beggar whispered.
Maybe not, the Orphan answered, so faint Gu Chen almost missed it.
He kept watching.
Every few minutes, he glanced at Mr. Wang. Just to make sure he was still there.
Age 6
School started.
Gu Chen was placed in first grade. The teacher, a young woman named Miss Zhao, noticed him immediately—not because he caused trouble, but because he caused none.
He sat in the back. He did his work. He never raised his hand. When called on, he answered correctly, briefly, then fell silent again.
"He's emotionally distant," Miss Zhao wrote in her notes. "But highly observant. Above-average comprehension. Recommend evaluation."
The evaluation went nowhere. The school psychologist said he was "quiet but normal." The Wangs said he was "just shy."
Gu Chen said nothing.
He had learned something in school: if you were useful, people kept you. If you did your work and caused no trouble, you could stay.
He would be useful.
He would be quiet.
He would stay.
—
The change came in spring.
Mrs. Wang had been tired for weeks. Nauseous in the mornings. Gu Chen noticed her hand resting on her stomach more often, a small, unconscious gesture.
Then one evening, Mr. Wang came home early with flowers. Mrs. Wang was crying—happy crying. They hugged. They laughed. They looked at each other like Gu Chen had never seen.
He sat in his corner, watching.
Dinner that night was different. Mrs. Wang kept glancing at him. Her smile was softer now, but also… something else. Something he didn't have a word for.
After dinner, she knelt beside him.
"Chenchen," she said, "I have news. You're going to be a big brother."
He stared at her.
"A baby," she explained. "We're going to have a baby."
He understood the words. He did not understand the feeling in his chest.
The Beggar understood.
There it is.
—
The baby grew.
Mrs. Wang's stomach swelled. She talked to it sometimes, sang to it, pressed Mr. Wang's hand against it so he could feel it kick.
Gu Chen watched.
He watched the way her eyes softened when she touched her belly. The way Mr. Wang brought her tea without being asked. The way they had become a world of two, with him on the outside looking in.
You're still here, the Orphan whispered. Maybe there's room for both.
Room shrinks, the Beggar answered. Always shrinks.
Age 7
The baby came in winter.
Gu Chen was not allowed in the hospital room. He sat in a waiting area with a social worker who tried to make conversation. He answered in monosyllables until she gave up.
Then Mr. Wang appeared, exhausted but smiling. "It's a boy. Healthy. Perfect."
He knelt beside Gu Chen. "You have a little brother, Chenchen. His name is Xiao Ming."
Gu Chen nodded.
"You'll help take care of him, right?"
"Yes."
—
Xiao Ming came home.
He was small. Red-faced. Loud. He cried at all hours, demanded constant attention, took up space Gu Chen hadn't known could be taken.
Mrs. Wang was always with him. Feeding him. Changing him. Rocking him. Her eyes, once on Gu Chen at meals, now looked past him toward the crib.
Mr. Wang came home and went straight to the baby. "How's my little man?" he'd say, lifting Xiao Ming, making faces, getting smiles.
Gu Chen watched from his corner.
See? the Beggar said.
He's just a baby, the Orphan pleaded. He needs them more.
Needs? The Beggar's laugh was cold. Want and need are the same thing. And they want him. Not you.
—
Months passed.
Gu Chen became invisible.
Not on purpose—no one was cruel. Mrs. Wang still made him breakfast. Mr. Wang still asked about school. But their attention, their real attention, was elsewhere.
Meals were about the baby. "Xiao Ming laughed today." "Xiao Ming rolled over." "Xiao Ming said his first word—well, almost a word."
Conversations stopped when Gu Chen entered a room. Not because they were hiding anything—because they'd forgotten he was there, and his presence reminded them.
He started sleeping with his door open.
Not all the way—just a crack. Enough to hear. Enough to know if they left.
Who would leave? the Orphan asked. They're home.
They left the others, the Beggar said. The foster homes. The orphanage. They'll leave too.
They're different.
They're all the same.
Gu Chen lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of the apartment. Mrs. Wang humming to Xiao Ming. Mr. Wang's deep voice, soft and warm. A family.
He was in it.
He was not part of it.
—
"Chenchen! Wake up!"
Mrs. Wang's voice, bright and excited. Gu Chen opened his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window.
"We're going to the city today! To see the trains!"
He sat up. Trains. He'd seen pictures in books—long metal snakes, faster than cars, carrying people to places far away.
"Get dressed! Hurry!"
He dressed. Fast. He was at the door before Mr. Wang had his shoes on.
"Someone's excited," Mr. Wang said, smiling.
Gu Chen didn't answer. But inside, something small and warm flickered. A train. A trip. A family outing.
Don't, the Beggar warned.
He ignored it.
—
The train station was enormous.
Ceilings high as sky. Voices echoing. People everywhere, rushing, calling, dragging suitcases. Gu Chen pressed close to Mrs. Wang, overwhelmed.
"Here." She stopped at a small shop. "Ice cream. Your favorite."
Strawberry. He took it carefully, the cold seeping through the paper cup. He ate slowly, savoring each bite.
They walked to the platform. A train roared past, so close the wind tugged at his clothes. He gasped.
"Cool, right?" Mr. Wang said.
Gu Chen nodded, eyes wide.
They stood at the edge, watching trains come and go. Gu Chen finished his ice cream. The stick was between his fingers, clean and white. He held onto it.
—
Then Mrs. Wang knelt beside him.
Her face was strange. Soft, but sad. The same soft-sad he'd seen on faces before, on people who were about to say words that changed everything.
"Gu Chen, sweetie…" She paused. Looked at Mr. Wang. He nodded.
"Sweetie, we need to tell you something."
The ice cream stick snapped in his hand.
The platform roared with trains.
Gu Chen heard none of them.
"We have our own child now," Mrs. Wang said. Her voice was gentle. Kind. The kind of voice you used when you had to hurt someone and wanted them to know you didn't enjoy it.
"Xiao Ming needs us. All of us. And we've been thinking—we've been talking—and we realized… we can't give you what you need."
He stared at her.
"It's not that we don't care about you," Mr. Wang added. He had stepped closer, his hand on Mrs. Wang's shoulder. "It's just… financially, emotionally, we can't take care of two. You understand."
The ice cream had melted. It ran down his wrist, pink and sticky.
"Someone else will take you," Mrs. Wang said. "A better family. A family that can give you what you need."
He did not speak.
They waited.
He did not speak.
Finally, Mrs. Wang's face crumpled a little. "Chenchen, please say something."
He opened his mouth. The words came out flat. Even.
"Okay."
—
Relief. He saw it in their faces. Relief that he wasn't crying. That he wasn't making a scene. That he was being good.
Mrs. Wang reached out. Touched his head. Her hand was warm.
"You're such a good boy, Chenchen. Someone will be so lucky to have you."
She stood.
They walked away.
They did not look back.
—
He stood on the platform for hours.
Trains came. Trains left. People rushed past. Some glanced at the boy alone, then looked away.
None stopped.
The ice cream stick was still in his hand, broken in two.
Night fell.
A security guard found him. "Hey, kid. Where are your parents?"
Gu Chen pointed toward the exit.
"They left."
—
The temporary shelter was loud.
Other children—some younger, some older—filled the beds. They cried. They fought. They asked when they could go home.
Gu Chen sat on his assigned cot and stared at the wall.
He did not cry.
He did not fight.
He did not ask anything.
A social worker came. Asked questions. He answered in monosyllables. Name? Gu Chen. Age? Seven. Parents? No.
She wrote things down. Made phone calls. Looked at him with pity he did not want.
"You'll stay here tonight," she said. "Tomorrow, we'll find you a placement."
He nodded.
She left.
He lay down on the cot. The blanket was thin. The pillow was flat. The room was too loud.
He closed his eyes.
—
Cold.
So cold.
He was on a street corner, wrapped in rags that did nothing. Snow fell. People walked past—stepped over him, around him, never on him, but never stopping either.
He was old. Not ancient—just old. Sixty, maybe. Sixty years of nothing. Sixty years of being invisible.
His lips were cracked. His hands were blue. His eyes were half-frozen open, watching the feet that passed.
"Please," he tried to say. No sound came.
A woman stepped over him. Her shoes were nice. Expensive. She didn't look down.
"Please…"
She kept walking.
He watched her go. Watched the snow cover her footprints. Watched the world move on.
And then—
Nothing.
—
Gu Chen's eyes snapped open.
The shelter was dark now. Quiet. Other children breathed softly in their sleep.
His body burned.
Not fever—something else. Energy flooding through him, remaking him from inside. His muscles tightened. His bones ached. His heart pounded like a drum.
He clutched the thin blanket and rode the wave.
When it passed, he was different.
Stronger. Faster. More.
Foundation Establishment.
The Beggar's voice was clear now, fully formed, no longer distant.
That was me. Dying in the cold. Watching them step over me.
Gu Chen lay still.
They'll step over you too. They already have.
He said nothing.
But you—you can make them stop. You can make them see. You can make them pay.
The Beggar fell silent.
—
Outside, on the shelter roof, Su Wan sat cross-legged, staring at the stars.
"Two down," she whispered.
"Seven to go."