Chapter 104: Sheep Prison

The public transportation system in Yun Capital has been around for years; since the subway network was built over the past decade, annual ridership on intercity buses and city buses has steadily declined. Most commuters now take the subway; those still riding city buses today are only students with transit cards and elderly people who rise early each morning to ride free buses far into the countryside to buy cheap vegetables.

Oh, and tourists too—but tourists usually charter vehicles.

Sitting in the West Suburb Station from dusk until nightfall, the benches gradually emptied; Ji Taimei sat restlessly, repeatedly trying to contact his mother—sending texts, calling, chatting on WeChat… He wanted to know what her letter meant, but received no reply at all.

Not only was his mother unreachable; his father was gone too, and even his sister recovering in the countryside and his maternal grandparents had mysteriously vanished. A growing unease gathered in Ji Taimei’s chest, making him feel like he was sitting on pins and needles.

“Waiting like this won’t work…” Ji Taimei stared at the digital clock on his phone, gritting his teeth.

The last bus at ten p.m. was still hours away; something must have happened at home—could he really just sit here waiting? At least he should go home first and see how his mother was. The distance wasn’t far; he could confirm she was safe and return to the station afterward.

With this thought, Ji Taimei could no longer sit still. He rose from the bench and walked toward the exit of the waiting hall.

The waiting hall was empty, nearly deserted; beneath the vast steel canopy, only his own sounds echoed—his breathing, his footsteps, the rustle of his clothes, shush, shush—so quiet it felt nothing like a normally bustling public place.

A damp wind blew from the direction of Yunmeng Lake, rustling the evergreens outside the station walls. Tender green branches hung heavy with white blossoms, tiny buds like grains of rice clustered densely on the treetops, resembling clusters of white wheat ears swaying in the wind, releasing a sweet, intoxicating fragrance.

Ji Taimei stepped out the station’s main gate, and two stone statues came into view.

“Huh? Were these here before?” Ji Taimei frowned. Hadn’t he not seen any statues when he entered?

Looking down, the two statues stood one on each side of the West Suburb Station’s entrance—not the usual stone lions for warding off evil, but two goats standing upright on their hind legs, their heads thrown back, their curved horns piercing their own spines, faces twisted in agonized pain. A strange, unsettling feeling arose instantly; just one glance made him deeply uncomfortable.

Who in their right mind would place such a thing at the entrance? It looked utterly inauspicious. Ji Taimei frowned and clicked his tongue, staring at the agonized faces of the goat statues—and suddenly, they felt familiar.

He vaguely remembered, as a child, being led by his mother back to her hometown to visit relatives. Back then, they’d taken a long-distance bus; the station was packed with people. Scared and shy, he’d buried himself in his mother’s arms, wailing uncontrollably…

…Was he really just shy?

The two goat faces on either side of the gate still twisted in silent, piercing agony. A memory that didn’t belong to him floated gently up from Ji Taimei’s mind—like the faint scent of a water lily drifting through an abandoned old house. Back then… there were also two such statues.

“I… I… I think… I cried because of these goats.” Ji Taimei clutched his head, breathing rapidly. He remembered now—he’d been brought by his mother to visit his maternal grandparents and his sister, who was ill in the village… So his sister had already been sick back then?

A sudden, unexplained heart palpitation filled his chest. Ji Taimei turned pale as he recalled something:

—The West Suburb Station had ceased operations ten years ago. All city buses in Yun Capital’s old district had been consolidated into tourist shuttles for the Yunmeng Lake scenic area, now managed by the Urban Tourism Administration.

“But if that’s true, then what were those buses I just saw leaving the station?” Ji Taimei slowly unclenched his hands from his head, his gaze slowly losing focus. “Where were those buses going?”

For the first time in over a decade, the boy felt his own birthplace and hometown was utterly alien. Unease, hesitation, fear—emotions poured in, overwhelming him. He wanted, as he had as a child, to grip his mother’s hand tightly, curl up in her arms, and cry freely—but the woman who loved him most was gone.

The child of then had grown up. No one remained to walk this path with him now.

Ji Taimei took stiff steps, disoriented, back into the station. The sound of a child crying echoed from the empty waiting hall; voices swelled like water overfilling a vessel. Ji Taimei looked up—the digital screen above the waiting hall displayed the time:

July 1, 2008, 9:58 p.m.

Two minutes until the last bus.

Ji Taimei reached into his chest, where his mother had left him something tucked in his pocket. Whether by its power or not, the paper inside felt slightly warm—a gentle heat dispelling his unease and fear. He took a deep breath of the damp, musty air, passed through the waiting hall, and boarded the only bus parked at the far left bay.

The bus’s front windshield bore its route:

【Yun Capital — Yanglao】

Yanglao Village was his mother’s birthplace, about fifteen kilometers west of Yun Capital, a beautiful place nestled against mountains and water. In 2015, it had profited handsomely from the rural tourism boom.

But this wasn’t 2015…

Ji Taimei boarded the bus. The bald driver sat in his seat, legs crossed, smoking. The ticket seller, a woman with a crossbody bag, sat near the door and said softly, “Where to, young man?”

“Yanglao,” Ji Taimei replied honestly. “I’m going to Yanglao.”

“One way or round trip?”

=9+Book_bar

“Round trip.”

“Eighteen yuan.” The ticket seller took a 20-yuan bill from Ji Taimei, returned him a 2-yuan note, and handed him, along with the change, a handwritten white receipt.

Ji Taimei walked down the aisle between the two rows of seats and sat in the last row by the window.

Outside the window at ten p.m., the sky was pitch black. The gloomy night held no stars, no moon. A faint scent drifted in from outside. The long cabin held only three people: Ji Taimei, the driver, and the ticket seller.

Two minutes passed quickly. At exactly 10:00 p.m. on July 1, 2008, the last bus of Yun Capital’s West Suburb Station departed on schedule.

(End of Chapter)