According to the fortune-teller, my destiny was activated at the age of six, after which began the cycle of my fate changing every ten years. Before activation, my existence had been weightless, meaning I could easily have died. Life truly begins when a person’s fate is activated, like a tree’s roots getting a firm grip on the soil. I’d rather not have put down roots. The idea of my destiny beginning felt like a horse being bridled, as if I were being led on a rope, walking down a path that had been laid out for me long ago. I became nostalgic for the time before fate had caught hold of me.

“Mommy only has Gong, and Gong only has Mommy.” When I was little, my mom would say that all the time, then she’d pull me in for a hug and gently stroke my mop of hair. “That’s how it is, isn’t it?” When I nodded yes, she’d sigh in relief. There was no need to ask, but the question came up again and again.

Mom and I lived in a tiny, cramped space, but I thought it was the size of the world. I hadn’t started kindergarten yet, and never went outside to play. Mom had no friends and didn’t see her family. Even when she bumped into a neighbor, she only exchanged a few words. I could count all the people I knew on the fingers of one hand. We mostly stayed at home, two little rooms—less than thirty square meters, crammed full of stuff. Mom loved buying things, the one pleasure she allowed herself even when money was tight. She got a friend who worked at the export store to help her buy a carousel music box and a doll with a parasol. At the gates of the glass factory, she grabbed discounted chipped vases. From the antique market, she bought an old radio that could no longer produce a sound. Every few days she’d show up with a new object, a swallow building its nest. This useless crap was prominently displayed while regular things—shoes, umbrellas, basins—were found aesthetically lacking and hidden away. There were so many items stuffed under our bed, sometimes one would poke its head out to catch its breath. Our home was sealed tight as a tin can, keeping time out, and the days passed extraordinarily slowly.

Apart from pointless ornaments, Mom also loved clothes, though many of these were also purely decorative, and never worn. Coats with exquisite collars, flowing dresses, wool sweaters so soft I wanted to bury my face in them. Mom gave me a peach sweater she’d never put on, having decided the color was too bright, and I used it as a pillow. I liked its scent, the sweet rot of apples. I had nice clothes too, though not as many as Mom. A little waistcoat that tied at the back, a jacket with red and black checks, a white sweater with an anchor embroidered on the chest. They were all too big for me. Mom said I would grow into them. The few times we went out, Mom insisted I get dressed up. One time, we ran into Auntie Meizhen who lived downstairs. “Look at you,” she said, enviously stroking the collar of Mom’s camel coat. “Another outfit from your overseas relatives?” Mom smiled but didn’t reply. I looked up at her. What overseas relatives?