Prologue

It is difficult to imagine that someone like Bai Wei would have fallen into marriage at the age of twenty-four.

He stood at the reception desk of the psychological counseling center, slender fingers holding a pen. His fine yet neatly trimmed bangs, the lace-edged shirt, the amber eyes shaded by long, curled lashes, and the pallor of skin untouched by sunlight all made him appear like a refined and privileged student, freshly graduated from a noble academy.

This model student was now writing his name on the form in upright, proper script. The nurse, captivated by his face, stole glances at him.

Bai Wei.

Marital status.

Married.

Education.

Graduate of Beidu University.

Occupation.

Writer, working from home.

Spouse’s occupation (if any):

Here, the ink bled into a small blot before continuing:

Repairman.

Purpose of consultation.

He wrote this without a moment’s hesitation: Marriage counseling.

It was equally hard to imagine that a top graduate from Beidu University would appear in this little town—a place where, apart from honest and simple folk, all the local institutions lacked any trace of professionalism, and life was monotonous to the extreme.

It was now 3:30 in the afternoon.

“Due to the previous client’s session running over, you’ll need to wait another ten minutes,” the nurse said, making an effort to keep the client in good spirits. “Are you a writer? This is the first time I’ve met a writer.”

“Yes,” he replied.

“I thought such interesting jobs only existed in big cities. What brought you to live in Snow Mountain Town? Are you here for inspiration, as writers often are?”

“Snow Mountain Town is adjacent to the mountains, the air is fresh. It’s very good for my respiratory system. My husband likes it here as well.” Bai Wei placed his hands neatly on his knees.

The way he pronounced the word “husband” was so stiff, it felt no different from a chemist clinically reciting “methylphenyl dimethoxysilane.” It was as if his “husband” was not his beloved, but some obscure chemical compound, a substance with a complex makeup, placed somewhere in the world for reasons unknown.

“Husband… Oh, I mean, you have a husband,” the nurse said.

What kind of person uses such formal language to refer to their own spouse? Even more absurd, the nurse found herself unconsciously adopting his phrasing, as if the stiffness were contagious.

Bai Wei fell silent. The conversation faltered, and the nurse pitied him, thinking he must be in a terrible mental state, surely suffering in his marriage.

Every move Bai Wei made embodied ancient decorum. Every crease-free fiber of his clothing proclaimed: I am a model student of noble birth—not the nouveau riche from coal mines, but someone who dines at long tables, with legacy and refinement. Writer, polite, an exemplary scion, who did not remain in the city but eloped with a man to a godforsaken little town—

And that man was a repairman.

Anyone would assume that such a flawless young man would not rush into marriage, and would have the power to shape a life as idyllic as a picture in a magazine. Clearly, this young man had stumbled into two traps of fate: marrying too early and losing control over his life, to the point that he now sought help at the only counseling office in town.

In the blink of an eye, the nurse had filled in the entire story in her mind.

What a pitiable soul… she thought, deciding to forgive Bai Wei’s lack of communication.

“Dr. Han Mo has finished with his previous patient, I’ll take you to his office now.” Hearing sounds inside, she brightened with a sunny smile.

A tearful woman with heavy makeup pushed open the glass door, clutching a red purse, and left this place that had brought her so much sorrow.

The nurse held the door. She saw Bai Wei rise from the waiting room sofa, smoothing out a crease in his trousers—everything so impeccable that the nurse’s eyelid twitched, for she realized she hadn’t noticed that crease until now. Not until she escorted her evenly-paced client to Dr. Han Mo’s office and left the two alone did a primal sense of unease wash over her, like an animal’s instinct for danger:

She couldn’t say why, but everything about this client set off a strange, life-threatening alarm.

A clock hung on the wall of the consultation room. When Dr. Han returned from the inner room with a glass of water, he found the young man staring intently at the hands of the clock with eyes like glass beads.

Bai Wei, despite his tall, slender frame, retained more of a boyish look than that of a young man. His chin was sharply pointed, the jawline soft, his eyes large and feline, the irises unusually wide. All these features made him seem obedient and earnest when he focused on something.

Now, those eyes shifted to Han Mo.

Dr. Han suddenly felt guilty. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, hoping Bai Wei hadn’t noticed the lipstick mark left by the previous patient.

“Dr. Han, shall we begin the session now?” Bai Wei asked.

“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Han replied, omitting the fact that he had just sneaked into the other room to review Bai Wei’s file again.

“All right.” Bai Wei seemed a bit tense. “It’s now 3:42 PM, which is twelve minutes later than our scheduled time…”

“Oh, I’m very sorry about that. I spent too long with the previous lady. But your one-hour session is still valid—shall we go until 4:50? You’re my last client today,” Han said, attempting a humorous wink.

“It’s 4:42. Dr. Han, I’m a little concerned I won’t make it back before my husband finishes work,” Bai Wei replied.

Nitpicking, controlling—at that moment, Dr. Han, based on his experience, made a condescending judgment about the loss of control in this young man’s marriage.

“All right, 4:42. Did you drive here? If not, I can give you a ride home,” Han offered.

Bai Wei gripped his water glass and said nothing.

Just before the session began, Bai Wei posed a new question: “Dr. Han, I would like to know—are you truly qualified?”

A classic question from a novice client, revealing Bai Wei’s inner weakness and lack of confidence, Han judged again.

“You can look at the certificates and medals on my shelf—they’re proof of my credentials.” Han spoke confidently; he had spent fifty thousand yuan on those certificates. He could guarantee these were the finest forgeries on the market.

People might not trust the knowledge gained from four years at university—students always slacked off, cheated for hollow grades, and forgot every page after finals—but every yuan spent on a fake certificate was real, more sincere than any class attended for someone else. In this regard, Dr. Han considered himself on the next level.

Bai Wei’s gaze drifted to the certificates. He stared for a long time. For some reason, when their eyes met again, Han Mo felt a chill down his spine. Bai Wei’s amber, glass-like eyes gave him the uncanny sense of being seen through.

“I’m reassured now, Dr. Han,” Bai Wei said.

As if Bai Wei could possibly see through the fabrication with a single glance! Han laughed at his own paranoia. To cover up his thoughts, he produced a navy blue fountain pen and opened his notebook. “Bai Wei—is it all right if I call you that? Or do you prefer another name?”

“Bai Wei. I don’t like nicknames.”

“All right, Bai Wei. You’re here to discuss your marriage, yes? Have you encountered any specific issues?”

Silence.

Dr. Han was not surprised. Many clients struggled to articulate their problems, or to open up and lower their guard. He tried a more indirect approach to build rapport: “You’re a writer, is that right?”

“Yes,” Bai Wei replied.

“Do you enjoy your work? You mentioned you moved to this town a year and a half ago. Has that had a positive effect on your writing?”

Writers, in his experience, were often sentimental, hormonal, moody—prone to problems in marriage. Another judgment noted.

“I have no particular opinion about moving here. I’ve always worked from home. Every Friday, I fax the week’s output to my editor—that’s my routine. Otherwise, I stay at home,” Bai Wei said. “My husband leaves the house at nine every morning and returns at five.”

—A househusband with too much time on his hands, Han thought. He asked with concern, “Sounds like you have a flexible schedule. Does your husband expect you to do more housework?”

Bai Wei shook his head. “No. He does more than I do.”

—Definitely too much free time. People who work from home tend to overthink. Han pressed on, “Do you two talk much?”

“He greets me when he gets back, then sweeps, mops, cooks, all the while chattering about his day, asks me to go grocery shopping with him. He also wants to read the scripts I write. In the evenings, we watch TV together—soap operas, talk shows, or movies. Besides his work at the repair shop, he’s considering converting part of our house into a guesthouse. He’s someone who can’t sit still,” Bai Wei murmured, staring at his own fingers, distractedly playing with the glass.

Introverted, withdrawn, quiet, insecure, Han wrote in his notes.

“Does your husband’s endless energy make you feel pressured?” Han guessed. “Do you feel stressed in your married life?”

“No… it’s nauseating. It wasn’t like this before we were married—back then, everything seemed full of hope. But after marriage, everything changed…”

“Can you be more specific?” Han encouraged him. “I know describing emotions can be difficult, but as a writer, you must be able to express yourself through events. For example, in the past week, what happened that made you feel this way?”

Probably just the husband chatting too much with a female coworker at the repair shop, or maybe some financial dispute, Han thought. In his experience, same-sex marriages were always so fragile.

“Everything about my married life makes me sick. Whether it’s the sticky feeling of the poison I put in my husband’s milk in the morning, the gun jamming on the stairs, the revolver I hid under my pillow that happened to click on an empty chamber when I shot at him, or the gas igniter in the house malfunctioning when he was still asleep and I went out to buy groceries…” Bai Wei sat quietly across from the counselor, picking at his fingers.

Han’s pen snapped.

“Excuse me… what did you just say?” He tried to recover his composure. “You’re sure you’re describing your married life?”

“In fact, my marriage was perfectly normal. Things only started going wrong after my husband crawled out of his grave. He died perfectly normally, like everyone does once in their life,” Bai Wei said, his eyes blank.

Han Mo’s hair stood on end, as if an army of Amazon warriors had all raised their spears, bristling in terror at the foe before them.

The storyteller with his head bowed…

And so, a question that breached all professional boundaries slipped out: “May I ask—which of your husband’s deaths were your doing?”

Han regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Every cell in his brain convulsed, wishing he could strangle the part of himself that had asked.

“That’s not important. I still want to continue this marriage, otherwise I can’t collect his death benefit as a spouse,” Bai Wei replied, shifting the topic. “That’s why I’m here for counseling.”

Han Mo: …

The first time Bai Wei felt the urge to kill his husband was half a year ago.

Bai Wei was walking down the street when his shoe stuck to a piece of chewing gum. He was reminded of his husband’s habit of not cleaning the car, and thought that one day his husband might casually toss gum on the ground, and it would end up stuck to another woman’s shoe. A husband of six months was like non-recyclable trash. In that moment—just as one, seeing a beautiful sun, might suddenly be moved to sing—he decided once again that he wanted to murder his husband.

Moreover, the person who tossed the gum only had two hands, but his husband had more than just two.

And his husband had already died once. Bai Wei had every reason to send him back to the grave.