Waiting for Your Hundred Thousandth Sunset

Shen Yu’s thirty-four years of life have been sparse.

He lives alone, eats breakfast alone, and waits alone for the sun to rise.

He never imagined that on a rainy night at a subway entrance, a tiny, icy hand would tug at his coat.

The child is four years old. She doesn’t cry or make a fuss, just quietly waits for someone who will never come.

Shen Yu doesn’t know why he crouches down.

He only suddenly remembers that many years ago, he waited just like this.

Later, he takes the child home.

She calls him Uncle, then calls him Dad. She draws him in every family portrait and spends four months’ worth of pocket money on a 19.9-yuan keychain printed with the word “Dad.”

The child says, “Tuantuan’s afraid you won’t want me anymore.”

Shen Yu is silent for a long time.

He thinks of how, in all his life, he has never told anyone, “I’ll come.”

He crouches down and looks into those sparkling eyes, filled with him.

“...Daddy isn’t going anywhere.”

[At its heart]

This is a story about waiting, and about being waited for.

The child who tugs at your coat on a rainy night is the spring that arrived twelve years late.