Sweeping Mouse Ridge – Prologue : 1

The harmonica only rang once!

In the darkness.

It started suddenly and ended just as abruptly, so swiftly it was completely unexpected and terrifying.

Li Ziyong was startled, his grip on the handlebars faltering. Combined with the slippery road from the drizzling autumn rain, he fell off his bicycle. Fortunately, his calves caught him, preventing him from falling with the bike.

He looked up. It was already ten o’clock at night, but the sky wasn’t as dark as he had imagined; instead, it shimmered with a gloomy, deep gray. Under the streetlights, countless fine raindrops danced aimlessly, each carrying a chilling coldness.

When he got back on the seat, he suddenly realized he simply didn’t have the strength to pedal up the hill ahead. The road wasn’t very steep, but it was long. Normally, he’d rather take a longer route than go this way, but not tonight. At the end of the road, at Wangyue Garden, someone was waiting for him.

He decided to slowly push his bike forward. This black 26-inch Forever bicycle was one he’d bought in college, and he still rode it to and from work every day after starting work. It was sturdy and durable. Many people had advised him that this kind of steel-framed bike was outdated, and any new aluminum alloy bicycle was much lighter, but he couldn’t bear to replace it, cherishing it like an old friend. Only now did he realize that his slightly overweight body, combined with the heavy frame of his “old friend,” made him look like a bear carrying a boulder uphill—utterly clumsy.

Black rubber tires rolled over the wet ground, picking up streaks and sequins—probably discarded by fans after the recent “The Wynners” concerts at Sculpture Park, just two blocks away. The small shops lining the street—Fuhua Beef Hotpot, Jiashitang Pharmacy, Yilaike Clothing Store, and West Suburbs Electronics Market—seemed to be sending him off at his funeral, their lights dimming with each step he took up the street. Li Ziyong, bewildered by this strange way of turning off the lights, stopped and looked back, then left and right. The entire street was deserted; there was not even a dog, let alone a person. He raised his double chin; the white marble crescent moon sculpture on the platform of Wangyue Garden was not far away.

Suddenly!

The harmonica sound rang out again, this time a rapid, repetitive string of syllables, over and over, hoarse and sluggish, like someone yearning to confide, being unable to speak amidst violent sobs. For some reason, the night trembled painfully with the sound of the harmonica, spasming again and again, growing colder with each passing moment, shrinking back step by step, becoming increasingly unpredictable…

It sounded like the intro to a very familiar pop song, but he couldn’t quite place which one it was.

Then, everything fell silent again.

He stood there for a very, very long time. Only when he was certain that the harmonica wouldn’t make a sound again, only when the repetitive syllables echoing in his ears had completely disappeared, only when the pattering rain had washed away every nook and cranny of the streets and alleys, and only when the entire world was devoid of any trace of the lingering sorrowful echo did Li Ziyong feel as if he had been released from a spell. He stretched his numb calves, pushed his bicycle, and slowly arrived at the entrance of Wangyue Garden.

Wangyue Garden was a very small park, no bigger than a football field, but due to its location—precisely at the very top of this uphill road—it had become a “landmark” of the area. The entire park was a hill surrounded by stone walls. The park entrance was a stone archway, opening due north. Inside the archway, a wide staircase lead directly to the top of the hill. At the highest point of the staircase lay a crescent moon made of white marble, carved with the profile of a bearded man, signifying “Grandpa Moon.” However, this Grandpa Moon had a very strange expression. His eyebrows were furrowed high, his thick beard protruded like octopus tentacles, and his upturned lips gave a very eerie smile, making him look like an old gravedigger with freckles in the night.

Li Ziyong propped up his bicycle and started walking up the steps. After reaching the summit, perhaps due to exhaustion, he panted heavily and grabbed “Grandpa Moon” for support. The white marble, damp with late autumn rain, stung his palm with its coldness. He quickly released it, rubbing his hand on his other sleeve, and looked up to find the person he was supposed to meet there.

This was the top of Wangyue Garden, a circular plaza paved with marble. In the center was a semi-submersible fountain, its stainless steel cover gleaming with a faint blue light in the night. On the south side of the plaza arched a granite wall, inlaid with fiberglass bronze-like reliefs. Li Ziyong walked across the plaza, following the relief wall, but couldn’t find anyone. Just as he habitually made the gesture he always made when faced with a problem—gritting his large nose—he suddenly spotted the person he was looking for sitting blankly on a dark green bench outside the plaza, holding a harmonica. The raindrops cast a silvery sheen around him.

“Xiangming!” Li Ziyong called his name as he walked towards him.