Chapter 8: The Summer of the Puzzle Rings

There was a sign as early as when I was five.

When I was five, on a hot summer afternoon, my father sat under the porch teaching me to solve a set of metal brainteaser rings.

It’s an old puzzle, much more cost-effective than fireworks.

He showed me step by step, explaining as he went. But I had no knack for it, nor much interest; I just watched listlessly, not understanding at all by the end.

The porch creaked beneath us, cicadas buzzing in the thick air. My father’s hands worked patiently at the puzzle while I fidgeted, already half-asleep.

The summer wind was stifling, the cicadas deafening. I wanted to sleep, but my father kept talking.

He told me the rings are interlocked, but not in a simple, straight way. The rings are threaded through rods, and all nine are set on a hollow handle, forming a complex structure of interlocking links.

His words drifted over me, as much philosophy as instruction. The puzzle was his way of teaching about life without saying so directly.

You don’t start solving it from the first ring, but from the ninth, working backwards, step by step.

He went on, sometimes life is like those rings: you can’t help but get entangled in things, one after another, making it hard to move forward. Only by patiently unlocking each link can you see what runs through it all.

It was one of those moments when grown-ups try to pass on wisdom, not realizing how little kids are actually absorbing.

My father was well-read, always telling me about the mysteries of the woods and rivers, the sun, the moon, and the stars. I enjoyed it—except this time, he said something strange and inexplicable.

I didn’t understand, but I saw him suddenly look up, his expression solemn and profound.

He slowly mouthed something, but made no sound.

I instantly sobered up, frightened into crying.

A chill swept over me, as if the world had gone still. It was the first time I’d ever seen my father look... haunted. The moment stuck with me, even as I grew older and tried to rationalize it away.

I didn’t know what he said; I was just terrified by his expression, which didn’t seem like that of a living person.

At that moment, my father seemed so strange—like a lifeless statue.

This is the first bizarre thing I want to mention.

Actually, when you’re young, your mind isn’t fully developed, and you often can’t tell dreams from reality. Maybe this was just a dream, but even if it was, I believe some dreams carry meaning.

Whether because that scene was too strange, or for some other reason, from the age of five until now, I’ve never forgotten it.

Father soon returned to normal, and I quickly put it out of my mind.

Looking back now, it was definitely a sign.