Chapter 1: The Abandoned Doll

"Brother Jiang, would it be convenient for you to come up to the fifteenth floor?"

Jiang Zhi stared at his phone screen for a moment, typed a brief "Sure," and slid his half-eaten bread back into the desk drawer.

He was the only one in the elevator. The polished metal walls reflected his face; beneath his eyes lay two dark, grayish bruises—the remnants of a week spent pulling all-nighters to revise project proposals. He stared at those shadows for a long time, thinking that he shouldn't have pushed himself so hard.

Ding! The elevator indicator light chimed, signaling the fifteenth floor.

The HR representative’s words were carefully rehearsed: "Company restructuring, it’s not a reflection of your individual performance. Your severance will follow the N+1 policy. With your capability, I’m sure you’ll find a new position in no time."

Jiang Zhi nodded, signed the papers, took the certificate of resignation, folded it neatly, and tucked it into his breast pocket.

The young HR assistant handed him a cardboard box, explaining that it was company-provided for his personal belongings. He took it and muttered a soft "Thank you."

The girl’s lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she merely offered a faint smile.

Back at his workstation, he began to pack.

There wasn't much in the drawer. A mug he’d used for three years, a chip missing from the rim. A half-dead succulent he’d bought when he first joined. A charging cable with a loose port—it would charge for ten minutes and cut out for five—that he’d never had the heart to throw away. A few packets of instant coffee, bought last month; he checked the expiration date and saw they were already past their prime.

One by one, he placed these items into the box.

Xiao Zhou, from the desk over, leaned in. "Brother Jiang, what are you doing?"

"Packing up."

Xiao Zhou glanced at the box in his hands and didn't ask further.

Jiang Zhi tucked the last packet of coffee into the box, stood up, and carried it toward the exit. Passing the reception desk, he saw the new intern touching up her lipstick. She nodded at him; he nodded back.

The elevator doors slid shut.

The weight of the box pressed against his arms, and it was only then he realized he hadn’t pressed a floor button. The elevator remained stationary at the fifteenth floor; the digital display stayed frozen. He shifted the box to one arm and pressed "1."

The elevator began its descent.

Watching the numbers shift, he remembered the day he joined, taking this same elevator. Personnel had told him, "The tenth floor is the business department; that’s where you’ll be." That day had been sunny, with light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bright enough to make his eyes ache.

It was sunny today, too.

The first floor arrived.

The doors opened, and he stepped out, crossed the lobby, pushed through the revolving doors, and stood at the base of the office building.

He squinted up, catching a reflection in the glass curtain wall: a man holding a cardboard box. The man wore a rumpled shirt, his hair slightly disheveled, with two dark bruises beneath his eyes.

Jiang Zhi looked at him, and he looked back at Jiang Zhi.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Jiang Zhi set the box on the steps and pulled out his phone. It was a message from his landlord.

"Little Jiang, it’s been three months of rent. If you don't pay by tomorrow, I’ll have to change the locks."

He stood on the steps, the sunlight baking the top of his head. He wanted to reply, typing: Sister Wang, I’m in a bit of a tight spot lately, could you give me a few more days? He stared at the words, then deleted them. He tried again: Sister Wang, I’ll definitely find a way by tomorrow. He stared again, then deleted those too.

Finally, he shoved the phone back into his pocket without sending anything.

He looked up at the sky. It was deep blue, devoid of even a single cloud.

He picked up the box and walked on.

He crossed through traffic lights, passed convenience stores and fruit stalls, and walked by groups of children heading home from school. He didn't know where he was going; he simply walked. The box grew heavier, his arms ached more with every step.

Until he saw an arcade.

The doors were open, and cool air spilled out—a chilly, artificial breeze that carried a faint scent of plastic and stuffing. He had intended to walk past, but his peripheral vision caught a row of claw machines lined up at the entrance.

He stopped.

A poster was plastered on the glass. It featured an anime IP he had followed for ten years; it was on his phone case, hanging from his keychain, and his figurines were lined up by his bedside. The poster read: Fifty cents a try, full of surprises, with a chance to win a million-dollar grand prize!

He stood in the doorway, the cold air hitting his face.

Fifty cents a try. He felt his pocket.

His left pocket held his keys and phone. His right held a few coins. He fished them out and laid them in his palm: one one-dollar coin, one fifty-cent coin, two ten-cent coins.

The one-dollar coin was for the subway fare; the ten-cent coins were useless. The fifty-cent coin... fifty cents was exactly enough for one try.

He left the box at the door, walked inside, and stood before the claw machine in the far corner.

The glass was filled with plushies of that anime IP—large ones, small ones, some dressed, some not, some holding carrots, some wearing straw hats. The claw hovered above, gleaming silver.

He dropped in the fifty-cent coin.

Music blared, lights flashed, and the claw moved.

He gripped the joystick, moving it left, forward, then left again. He aimed for a small, dusty-gray doll tucked away in the corner, obscured by its flashy, colorful peers. He could only see one of its eyes, sewn on crookedly, as if it were eyeing him sideways.

He didn't know why he chose this one.

Perhaps it was because it looked just as down-on-its-luck as he felt.

He pressed the claw button.

The claw descended, metallic tips grazing the doll, snagging it, and lifting it upward.

He held his breath.

The doll was hoisted, dangling precariously, weaving through the pile of colorful plushies toward the exit. The claw shook midway, and the doll tilted, nearly falling.

The exit chute opened.

The doll fell with a soft thud into the retrieval bin.

He knelt down, reached his hand into the dark opening, and felt something soft. He pulled it out and examined it in his palm.

It was a black rabbit. No, maybe a bear? No, it could be a dog. Its eyes were indeed sewn crookedly—one high, one low—as if it were looking at him askew. Its mouth was stitched in three simple lines; it wasn't a smile, nor was it a frown, just three lines. One ear stood upright while the other drooped, and it was smudged with a bit of dirt.

Jiang Zhi looked at it.

It looked back at him, eyes tilted.

He held the doll up to the light. He couldn't make out much. He flipped it over, squeezed it—it was soft, the stuffing uneven, lumpy in some places and flat in others.

"Fifty cents."

The doll looked at him askew.

"Fifty cents for a piece of trash."

He set the doll down and looked back at the flashy plushies in the machine. Each one was better looking, seemingly more valuable, and each one looked more like the anime character he had chased for ten years.

But he had caught this one.

He clenched the doll in his hand and stood there for a moment.

The lights in the machine remained bright, the music continued to play, and the spot where the gray doll had been was already filled by other plushies. It was as if it had never existed.

He turned and walked out.

He reached the entrance, picked up his box, and shoved the doll into his pocket.

He glanced down; his pocket was too small, the doll too big. Half of it stuck out, its dusty gray head resting against the edge of his pocket,歪着 eyes staring at the world.

He headed left. Going left would save him ten minutes.

The box remained heavy, his arms burning. He walked a few paces, adjusted his grip, then walked a few more and adjusted again.

The dusty doll swayed in his pocket, its crooked eyes staring sideways at the world.

"Daddy, look, that doll is so ugly!" a passing young boy pointed at Jiang Zhi’s pocket.

The boy’s father glanced over, a finger pressed to his lips. "That’s not polite."

Jiang Zhi didn't respond; he just kept walking forward.

He entered his apartment complex, climbed to the fourth floor, and stood before his door. He pulled out his key, inserted it, and unlocked it.

The door swung open.

The room was just as he had left it. His quilt was folded neatly, the curtains were drawn, and a row of potted plants sat on his computer desk. He walked in with his box, stood in the center of the room, unsure where to put it.

He ended up setting it on the floor.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the box. The handle of the mug peeked out, the leaves of the succulent had yellowed, the charging cables were tangled, and the instant coffee packets were crumpled.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the doll.

The doll stared at him askew.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

The doll continued to stare.

He placed the doll by his pillow, lay down, and stared at the ceiling.

He calculated how much money he had left. Eight thousand three hundred in the bank, saved for his trip home for the New Year. After paying the rent, he’d have two thousand three hundred left. Two thousand three hundred—to find a job, buy food, pay utilities. How long would that last? One month? Two months?

What if he couldn't find a job?

He rolled over, facing the wall. There was a water stain on the wall from a leak upstairs; the landlord had promised to fix it in two months, but it had been much longer. He stared at the stain, imagining what it looked like—like an eye, like the doll’s eye.

He rolled over again, facing outward.

The doll was still staring at him askew.

He reached out and picked it up, holding it before his eyes.

"What are you, anyway?" he asked.

It didn't answer.

"I spent fifty cents to catch you," he said. "Fifty cents. Do you know what you can buy with fifty cents? A steamed bun. Half a baozi. Two stalks of scallions. And I used fifty cents to catch you."

The doll stared back.

"You certainly have personality," he said.

The doll didn't move.

"I have seventeen figurines in my drawer," he said. "Each one is more expensive than you, each one better looking, each one more like the character. I’ve followed it for ten years—ten years. Do you know what ten years means?"

The doll still stared askew.

"I started following it the first day of college, and I’m still following it now. I’d been at that company for two and a half years, and today, I was laid off," he said. "Do you know what being laid off means?"

The doll didn't move.

"It means that you don't want them, and they don't want you," he said. "Just like you, huddled in that corner—nobody wanted to catch you."

He stopped suddenly.

The room was silent. A sliver of light from the streetlamp filtered through the curtain gap. He could hear footsteps pacing upstairs. Someone next door was on the phone, their voice a dull murmur.

He looked at the doll.

The doll looked at him.

"You’re the same," he said.

He put the doll back by his pillow.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he woke up.

The room was pitch black; the sliver of light from the curtains had vanished. He lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, unaware of the time.

He rolled over.

His hand brushed against something—it was the doll.

Sometime during his sleep, it had rolled from the pillow to his hand.

He picked it up, watching it in the darkness.

He couldn't see a thing—only a dusty silhouette and those two crooked eyes.

"Why did you roll over here again?" he asked.

The doll didn't answer.

"Are you unable to sleep, too?"

The doll didn't answer.

"Of course you can't sleep," he said. "You’re just a doll."

He put the doll back by his pillow.

He lay back down, staring at the ceiling. After a while, he reached out, grabbed the doll again, and placed it right beside his head, where he could see it if he turned his face.

"Forget it," he said. "If you can't sleep, you can't sleep."

He turned on his side, thinking that, indeed, no one wanted it.

"No one wants me, either," he said.

The room was silent. The footsteps upstairs had stopped; the neighbor’s phone call had ended. A sliver of light appeared in the curtain gap again.

In that small patch of light, the doll looked dusty and tilted its eyes, seemingly watching him.

He reached out and pinched its ear.

"Why is one ear upright and the other drooping?" he asked. "Was there no one watching when they stitched you up?"

The doll didn't move.

"These gray bruises under my eyes are from staying up late," he said. "Three all-nighters to revise those proposals. After I finished, I was laid off."

The doll watched him.

"If I’d known, I wouldn't have stayed up," he said.

He pulled his hand back and tucked it under his head.

"The landlord is changing the locks tomorrow," he said. "Do you know what that means?"

The doll didn't answer.

"It means this door won't open anymore," he said. "Everything I own is inside. That mug, those plants, that charging cable, those seventeen figurines—everything is here."

He paused.

"And you’re inside, too."

He looked at the doll.

The doll looked back.

"You were just caught, and now you’re going to be locked in here," he said. "How does that feel?"

The doll didn't answer.

"I have no feeling," he said. "I can't feel anything anymore."

He closed his eyes.

He opened them again after a moment.

The doll was still there, looking at him askew.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

The doll didn't move.

"Are you trying to ask me what I’m going to do tomorrow?"

The doll didn't move.

"I don't know, either," he said. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here."

He reached out, picked up the doll, and placed it on his chest.

"You’re quite heavy," he said. "So small, yet so heavy."

The doll lay on his chest, looking at him askew.

He looked down at it.

"I’ll put you in my pocket tomorrow," he said. "When they change the locks, you’ll be outside with me."

The doll watched him.

"It’s so hot outside," he said. "Can you handle it?"

The doll didn't answer.

He moved it up, until it was next to his face.

"You’re quite soft," he said. "The cotton isn't stuffed evenly—some parts are hard, some are soft."

He poked its belly with his finger.

"This part is the softest."

The doll swayed from the poke.

"What’s your name?" he asked. "Forget it, you don't have a name."

He set the doll by his pillow, turned on his side, and watched it.

"I’ll give you a name," he said. "What should it be?"

The doll watched him.

"How about 'Little Hope' (Xiao Wang)?" he said. "We’ll always have hope, right?"

The doll didn't move.

"You don't like it?"

The doll still didn't move.

"Too bad if you don't," he said. "That’s what I’m calling you."

He reached out and pinched its ear.

"Little Hope. See you tomorrow," he said.

He closed his eyes. He thought he heard a sound—very faint, like someone sighing in the distance—but when he listened again, there was nothing.

The sliver of light from the curtains remained, illuminating the dusty doll.

It stared at him with its crooked eyes.

He didn't open his eyes again.

His breathing slowed, sinking deeper and deeper.

The doll lay by his pillow—dusty, one ear upright, one drooping—in that sliver of light, looking as if it were watching him, or perhaps, guarding him.

The light from the curtains dimmed, then brightened.

The sound of cars downstairs drifted further away, then drew near.

Jiang Zhi fell asleep.

He did not know how much time had passed.

In the darkness, something moved—very slightly.

Jiang Zhi was in a deep sleep; he heard nothing.

In that small patch of light.

Its eyes...

It was as if something brightened within them, for just a fleeting moment.