Chapter Text
Ah, Hong He thinks as he tips back in his chair, chin tilted up, face bared to the heavens. Here’s a guy with nowhere to go.
Stubborn. That’s what his father used to call him. Stupidly stubborn. Heart in hand, head in the clouds, shameful and selfish. Always chasing these damn dreams, always chasing impossibility. It’s funny, ‘cause he was once his father’s pride. As a child, he shone brighter than the sun and stars; all smiles, beaming and brilliant. Everything he did was pristine, perfect—a prized ceramic among refined porcelain. They celebrated his wit and touted his charm. How lucky, the neighbors chortled, to have a son worthy of carrying the family name.
At age five, his destiny was clear. He’s to follow in his father’s footsteps and walk along the same path that his grandfather had carved out for them decades prior. Therein lies a legacy you must fulfill, they told him.
At age ten, fate reared its ugly head. They found his mother slumped over a Go board, her eyes brimming with regret in her last moments, her fingers curled tight around two black stones. A heart attack, the doctor said. Uncommon for someone as young, but not unheard of. He buried his mother in mourning white, while his father burned all traces of her love for the game. (He knew that was what broke her heart in the end.)
Go became a forbidden topic.
They did not speak a word of it, did not hear a sound of it, and they certainly did not acknowledge the titles tied to his late mother’s name.
But Hong He had a curious soul. He wanted to understand his mother’s passion—the one that was kept hush hush behind closed doors, sealed by her husband’s family as a disgrace to a wedded woman’s duty. And so, he learned how to play.
It was easy to balance at first. He opted out of self-study to polish his skills at the school’s Go club, then hurried home quickly thereafter to help his father with the failing business. He taught himself how to play fast, so he did not need to compromise any time. They wrote him off as impatient, imprudent; he silenced his strife and let them believe. (There were just some things that were better left unsaid.)
At age eleven, he began veering off the predestined path. His love for the game grew. It grew, and it grew, and it grew. He poured over his mother’s hidden notes, studied her kifu ‘til the sun simmered—he played for her and won back every match she’d lost.
At age twelve, there was a fork in the road. He chose to follow his dreams.
At age thirteen, his father recognized the calluses along his fingertips.
Stubborn, stupidly stubborn.
(Selfish.)
Now that he’s older, he’s inclined to agree. After his mother had passed, his father bore the woes of the family business; he worked without sleep, slept without rest. Day in and day out, Hong He would ease the tension in his father’s shoulders without realizing that it was him who had caused it.
At age fourteen, they reached a compromise. He could continue playing as long as it didn’t interfere with what mattered most. He promised, he swore that he would not do anything to burden his father—that he would be a good and subservient son, worthy of praise, and that his father need not worry.
He was fifteen when he broke that promise.
I want to take go seriously, he confessed. I can make it. I know I can. They said I have the talent for it, that I can go far and win titles and lead this generation of players—
That was the first time his father had raised a hand against him. Ungrateful.
(You think it’s that easy to chase your dreams? I gave up mine to raise you. One day, you’ll understand what it means to sacrifice.)
Several years later, that day comes.
He rocks back on the chair’s rear legs. His arms are drawn across his chest, his gaze steady on the flickering fluorescent lights.
Chasing dreams, chasing impossibility—he can’t help but scoff at the thought. He’s not chasing this dream anymore. No, he’s already living it. He made it possible. Six years of restless nights spent studying to pursue Go professionally, six years of fostered guilt for putting his heart first. He made it, he made it, he made it.
But when he looks at his bedridden father, he realizes that not all of him has made it. He had left his father behind on a separate path, and for that, he bears the shame of a thousand sins. Had he stayed, had he been a better son, they would be eating dinner together at this very moment. They would be sharing stories of their long day, laughing over trivial matters, and planning for a brighter future.
The decision comes easily.
He will quit Go.
Dreams can live on forever, but family cannot.
He doesn’t know where to go from here, doesn’t know if it’s even worth going anywhere, but he’s been far too selfish, for far too long. It’s time to pack it up and go home. He’ll bury his board along the way and burn his books to atone. He’ll say goodbye, and he’ll do it as many times as he needs to, just to ensure that his father survives.
(Play.)
Sacrifice implies equal value. His father’s life is incomparable.
(Play.)
He understands now. When his father gave up on his dreams in order to raise him, he also did not hesitate. It’s a sentiment they both share—no matter what happens, family will always come first.
(Play.)
“Don’t worry, Ba. I’ve quit. I won’t play anymore. Once you’re better, we can go home.”
His father’s arm lashes out and knocks over a picture frame sitting on the nightstand. Hong He scrambles to pick it up, pausing only briefly to brush his thumb over his parents’ smiling faces. Winter of 1997, their last photo together.
“I’ll take care of the business,” he says, setting the frame back. “It’s my duty as your son to ease your burdens. So focus all your energy into recovering, and leave everything else to me.”
“No,” his father rasps, barely audible. “Play Go.”
“Yes, yes. I understand. I won’t play.”
Though his father cannot move his face much, his eyes gleam with intent. Like father, like son, he’s stubborn. Persistent. But Hong He is not naïve; he knows what his father is trying to communicate to him, yet he chooses not to listen. It isn’t out of obedience or obligation, he tells himself, it’s just devotion. Simple and pure dedication. He owes his father his life.
(He was his parents’ lucky charm, see. For nearly ten years, they had tried for a child, praying for a beautiful baby boy to carry the family legacy. His sisters and brothers came and went—but then, on one fateful night, the universe gave them him. He was a miracle gift, a blessing dressed as a shooting star.)
But like all shooting stars, he’s destined to fall.
Luck runs thin.
His father grows gradually worse.
We can’t be certain that he’ll make it, the doctor tells him. We’re doing what we can, but your father’s condition is rapidly deteriorating.
Hong He snaps. Well, do better. Ba is the only family I have left. And when the doctor shakes her head in subtle defeat, he reaches out and grabs a hold of her arm. What does he need? I’ll give him any part—blood, heart, liver, anything—please. Just please, don’t give up on him.
“Son.”
(The last time his father called him that with a twinge of affection was back when he was a child.)
“I’m here, Ba.”
Time is slipping away. He sees it in his father’s hardened eyes. Even in this state, he’s still trying to be strong.
A day passes.
Then another.
His father’s boastful cheeks have sunken to the bone, his breathing now labored. Hong He does not sleep, and he does not leave his side.
A week later, the hour arrives.
He places a hand over his father’s tightened fist and lowers his forehead to the cold touch. Distantly, he hears his father speak. It’s a single word, a soft command:
“Play.”
“No, not anymore. I need to take care of you—”
“Play.”
(I worked hard to give you a better life.)
“Ba, please—”
(As long as you are happy, I am happy.)
His father turns his fist over slowly and loosens his grip under Hong He’s fingers. There, in the center of his palm, are two black stones—the very ones his mother had held onto when she took her last breath.
It destroys him.
Tears into heart.
He grabs his father’s hand holding those stones, clenches it so firmly that his knuckles fade white.
“I—” He chokes back a sob. “Ba, I—”
His fist shakes from how tightly he’s holding on.
He won’t let go, he can’t.
(Xiao He, look at me.)
(I have to go now.)
“No, Ba. Don’t, please—I’m sorry. I could’ve—I should’ve been a better—”
(You did well. You were good.)
“I was once your pride,” he whispers.
His father smiles at him for the first time in years. “You still are.”
Four minutes later, he passes on.
.
.
.
At age seventeen, Hong He loses his way.
He buries his father next to his mother, and bids them a final farewell with a promise to preserve their legacy.
He moves back home and sets the family photo on his nightstand, right beneath the moon’s light. Then, with knees drawn to a heavy chest, two stones clenched tight in hand, he allows the tears to fall.