I
The wheel of the suitcase got stuck in a crack in the stone pavement.
Lin Xingwan stopped. She lowered her head and stared at the stubborn black swivel wheel. It was jammed tightly, just like her heart at this moment, trapped inside an unfamiliar campus. She released the handle, crouched down, and pulled the wheel free with her hands. Her fingertips brushed against the scorching metal edge. The September sunlight had baked everything until it burned.
Her mother's voice surfaced softly in her memory.
Xingwan, lift the suitcase like this. It will not hurt your wrist.
That was three days ago, in a hospital room. Her mother lay on white sheets, her face paler than the fabric beneath her, yet she insisted on teaching her how to pack. Hands that once drew the most complex mechanical blueprints now trembled even when holding a cup of water.
Mom, I can do it myself, Xingwan had said, folding her sweater into a neat square.
I know you can. Her mother smiled, pride in her eyes, along with an unease Xingwan could not quite read. My Xingwan has always been capable.
The wheel finally came loose with a soft click.
Xingwan stood up again and pulled the suitcase along. A small sticky note was attached to the handle, written in her mother's handwriting.
Mathematics Department Freshman Registration
Arrow pointing right
Her fingers tightened slightly.
People surged around her.
Freshmen, parents, volunteers, rolling suitcases, welcome signs, hugs, laughter, phone calls. Sounds crashed toward her like waves, pounding against her eardrums. She instinctively stepped back half a pace, her back pressing against the rough trunk of a tree.
A plane tree.
Mottled bark.
Lush branches.
Shadows swaying across the ground.
It was the seventeenth tree she had counted today.
Counting was her habit. When nervous. When uneasy. When lost. She counted steps, stairs, windows, anything countable. Numbers were stable and predictable. They were the only order that never betrayed her in a chaotic world.
One, two, three. She counted silently, scanning the teaching buildings ahead.
Red brick walls. Arched windows. Ivy climbing stone. Gothic spires cutting sharply into the blue sky. Beautiful, like a scene from a film. But if this were a movie, she would be the extra who wandered into the wrong set. Someone who did not belong in such brightness and noise.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
She pulled it out. Battery showed three percent.
Three unread messages, all from Su Qing. Her future roommate. A girl she had not met yet but who had already sent eighteen voice messages and forty five texts.
Where are you now
Do you want me to come get you
Our dorm is amazing The view from the window is incredible
Xingwan stared at the exclamation marks for two seconds. Her fingers hovered over the screen.
What should she reply
I am lost
I do not know where I am
There are too many people I cannot breathe
In the end, she typed just two words.
Almost there.
She sent it. The battery dropped to two percent.
She turned off the screen and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Her fingers brushed against a hard rectangular object.
Her father's old calculator.
A Casio fx eighty two MS. The silver casing was worn. The numbers on the keys had faded. One of the few things her father had left behind. Her mother said he had still been using it for his final calculations before he passed away.
He was a mathematician, her mother always said, with a distant tenderness. And a stubborn fool.
Xingwan did not know whether her father had been foolish. But she knew he loved mathematics.
Just like her.
Or perhaps just like she thought she did.
Sometimes she could not tell whether her dependence on math was true passion or merely a safe refuge. A world built of formulas and theorems, free from surprises, crowds, and complicated emotions.
The suitcase wheels rolled again.
She took a deep breath and rejoined the flow of people. The note was clear.
Enter from the main gate. Walk straight for two hundred meters. Turn left. When you see the red clock tower, turn right. The Mathematics Department is on the second floor of Building Three.
She counted her steps.
One hundred ninety seven.
One hundred ninety eight.
One hundred ninety nine.
Two hundred.
She turned left.
She stopped.
There was no red clock tower. Only an open plaza. A fountain scattered rainbows under the sunlight. A flock of pigeons burst into flight. Across the plaza stood a massive glass fronted building with a sign reading School of Art.
Wrong.
She had gone the wrong way.
Her heartbeat accelerated, pounding hard against her chest. She turned, trying to retrace her steps, but the path behind her was already swallowed by incoming crowds. She felt like a small boat fighting the current, shoved and unsteady. Someone bumped her shoulder, muttered an apology, and rushed past. Her suitcase was kicked. The wheel skewed sideways.
Sorry. Excuse me.
Her voice was too soft. It vanished into the noise.
No one heard her.
She retreated to the roadside, leaning against another tree.
The eighteenth.
Her fingers clenched around the calculator in her pocket. The cool plastic pressed into her palm. It was the second time today she felt that familiar suffocating panic. Like water slowly rising past her mouth. Like air being drained away.
Social anxiety disorder.
That was what the doctor's report said. Mild. Manageable.
Her mother had squeezed her hand then and said, Xingwan, college is a new beginning. You can start over.
Start over.
So easy to say.
As if eighteen years of habits, fears, and conditioned responses could simply be wiped clean like a chalkboard.
She closed her eyes and counted her breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
---
II
The sound of a basketball hitting the ground.
Rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Sneakers squeaked. Jerseys rustled. Shouts rang out.
Xingwan opened her eyes.
Through the gaps in the plane tree leaves, she saw basketball courts. Four full courts, all packed. Boys in colorful jerseys ran, jumped, and shot. Sunlight stretched their shadows long. Sweat shimmered in the air.
Lively.
Vivid.
And distant.
Like watching another world through glass.
She was about to look away when a basketball rolled toward her.
Orange, with black grooves. It bounced across the concrete and stopped beside her suitcase.
Hey. Toss it back.
Someone called from the court.
Xingwan looked down at the ball, then up. A boy in a black jersey waved at her. The number ten was printed boldly on his back. He stood beyond the three point line, hands on his knees, breathing hard, sweat streaming down his face.
There was no one else nearby.
The ball lay at her feet.
She bit her lip and bent down to pick it up. Heavier than she expected. Rough, dusty, damp with sweat. She cradled it in both arms, as if holding something fragile, then made an awkward throwing motion.
The ball traced a low arc and landed about three meters short of him.
He jogged over, picked it up, and nodded. Thanks.
It was a fleeting glance. Xingwan was not even sure he had seen her face clearly. His eyes were deep brown, almost amber in the sunlight. Long lashes. A sharp nose bridge. A defined jawline.
Objectively handsome, if she were interested in evaluating such things.
But he had already turned away, dribbling back onto the court.
Two dribbles. A jump. A shot.
The ball spun through the air.
Swish.
Applause and whistles erupted.
Gu Yanshen. Again.
Gu Yanshen.
Xingwan repeated the name silently. It meant nothing special. Just a marker. Something to remember while lost.
She pulled her suitcase forward, hesitated, then walked toward the edge of the court.
Gu Yanshen stepped aside to drink water. He tilted his head back. Sweat slid down his neck.
Xingwan stopped two meters away.
Excuse me.
Her voice was dry.
He turned.
Do you know how to get to the Mathematics Department freshman registration.
She tightened her grip on the suitcase handle.
He wiped his face and pointed across the plaza.
Turn right at the red building. Left at the second intersection.
She nodded. Thank you.
He was already turning away.
Xingwan followed the directions.
Ten minutes later, she stood in front of a building labeled University History Museum.
Wrong again.
She crouched to retie her shoelaces. Slowly. Carefully. Perfectly.
Then she stood up.
She would find her own way.
Even if she had to count a hundred trees.
A thousand steps.
Ten thousand windows.
---
III
By the time Gu Yanshen left the court, the sky had turned orange red.
Later that night, he returned and found a small sticky note wedged into the bench.
Mathematics Department Freshman Registration
Arrow pointing right
On the back, faint pencil writing read.
Mom, I have arrived. Do not worry.
He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket.
Next Monday.
Two in the afternoon.
Room three zero eight.
They would meet again.
And waiting for them was not just a class.
It was the beginning of a story neither of them could yet predict.
End of Chapter One.