Chapter 9: Searching for Roots
The transition away from the corporate world was surprisingly quiet. Without the constant barrage of emails, conference calls, and emergency meetings, the days stretched out before Arthur with an unfamiliar, peaceful width. Over the next two weeks, he focused entirely on his parents. He took them to a reputable clinic in the city, where doctors diagnosed mild malnutrition, joint degeneration, and chronic exhaustion, prescribing a course of nourishing meals, physical therapy, and gentle rest.
Yet, despite the modern medical care and the comfort of the temporary suite, Arthur could see that his parents’ souls still belonged to the earth. Whenever they stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, their eyes drifted past the harbor toward the hazy horizon where the mountains lay hidden behind the city's perpetual smog. They tried to hide it behind polite smiles and quiet gratitude, but the concrete cage of the high-rise was slowly suffocating them just as the mountain isolation had.
One afternoon, while his parents were resting in the guest bedroom, Arthur sat at the kitchen island with a map spread out before him. He wasn't looking at financial districts or real estate developments in the prime districts anymore. Instead, his finger traced the winding river valleys just beyond the outer ring of the metropolitan area—regions where the city began to soften into rolling hills, small farming communities, and quiet country lanes.
His phone, which he had kept on silent for days, suddenly vibrated against the marble countertop. He picked it up and saw a text message from an unfamiliar number. It was an address, accompanied by a brief note: “If you want to understand why your father never asked for help, come to the district archives in West Valley.”
Arthur frowned, staring at the screen. He hadn't told anyone where he was, and his resignation had been quietly processed by human resources without public fanfare. Who would be sending him messages about his father?
Curiosity overrode caution. Early the next morning, leaving his parents sleeping soundly under the care of a private nurse he had hired, Arthur took his car out of the subterranean garage and drove west, away from the glittering towers of the financial district and into the older, quieter suburbs of West Valley.
The district archives building was a modest, weathered brick structure built in the late twentieth century, smelling of old paper, floor wax, and damp stone. An elderly archivist with thick-rimmed glasses and a hunched back looked up as Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden door.
"Can I help you, young man?" the archivist asked, his voice raspy.
Arthur handed over the text message on his phone. The archivist squinted at the screen, then nodded slowly, reaching under his desk to pull out a dusty cardboard box tied with yellowed string.
"Chen Wei-Guo," the archivist muttered, reading a name off the box's faded label. "Your father, yes? He was a clerk here thirty years ago, before he retired to the mountain village."
Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. "My father worked here? He never mentioned it."
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"He wouldn't," the archivist said, untying the string with practiced fingers and sliding open the lid. "Your father was a proud man. But more than that, he was a man who carried a secret that broke his heart."
***
