Has anyone around you ever had AIDS?
There's this urban legend—one that's spread worldwide—and I'm sure you've heard it too.
Since late 1998, countless online warnings have urged people to beware of discarded syringes in public places, claiming they've infected innocent victims.
Catching a disease out of nowhere is one of humanity's deepest fears. But today's story is about a strange old man who wanted to get infected. And the truth behind it? Chilling."
"Hey, have you guys heard? There's something seriously creepy going on at the 699 bus stop lately. Every night at 9 o'clock, this old man shows up holding a syringe… and a blood bag. He asks everyone if they have AIDS… and if you answer him, he'll drag you away and turn you into—"
"His blood slave!" The short-haired girl drew out the last words, suddenly grabbing my arm.
Even though I'm not easily scared, I still jumped, nearly dropping the chicken wing in my hand.
September 19, 2013. Thursday. Mid-Autumn Festival.
Our elderly landlady had gone to her son's place for the holiday, so I invited a few of my old college dormmates over to my rented apartment to celebrate together.
We ate fried chicken, drank beer, and munched on the hospital-issued mooncakes while cramming together in front of the TV—just like the old dorm days.
Zhu Fan, always the biggest gossip, lowered her voice and shared this bizarre rumor.
"Is this old man trying to take revenge on society or something?" Tong Siyan, wearing glasses, downed the last of her beer and made a three-point shot with the empty can into the trash bin in the corner.
"A few years back, didn't something similar happen in Shanghai? A passenger got pricked by a syringe hidden in a taxi's seat cover. The police tested it later—it had an AIDS patient's blood in it."
"There was also that dentist in America who had AIDS and deliberately used blood-contaminated tools on patients during extractions, infecting four people."
"Professor Zhao told us about a college student down south who had AIDS and tricked girls into sleeping with him, infecting so many people!" I rubbed my arms as I contributed another case I'd heard about.
"That's terrifying," Tong Siyan adjusted her glasses, her face full of concern. "Why are they so full of resentment? Regular people did nothing to them, yet they get infected out of nowhere and have to take PEP drugs for three months. That's just awful luck."
"Ask Xu Xiao about that!" Zhu Fan elbowed me as I was gnawing on a chicken leg. "Doctor Xu, aren't these people probably antisocial personalities? Have you seen any in psychiatry?"
I shook my head.
Internally, I thought: antisocial personalities don't internalize their struggles - they externalize by hurting others. They'd never voluntarily come to the hospital. The people I see daily are just ordinary folks.
After the gathering, I walked Zhu Fan to the bus stop. Under the streetlight, a hoarse voice suddenly asked: "Do you have AIDS?"
A man about sixty years old emerged from the bushes behind the bus stop, blocking our path with a red plastic bag in hand.
AIDS? My mind immediately jumped to Zhu Fan's earlier story.
Tense, I exchanged glances with her, my brain going into high alert. Thankfully, he wasn't holding the rumored syringe - but could it be in the bag?
He was too close. Afraid of provoking him, I decided to calm the situation. "Sir, are you having some trouble?" I asked gently while assessing him.
The old man's wrinkled face, crookedly buttoned shirt, mismatched slippers, and unzipped pants suggested cognitive difficulties.
"Yes! AIDS! Then come with me quick!" he responded incoherently, suddenly brightening as he grabbed my wrist to drag me toward the bushes.
I struggled in shock, but his iron grip was surprisingly strong. Terrified and in pain, I shouted for him to let go while he kept muttering "AIDS" and "help me."
"Hey, you creep! Let go!" Zhu Fan swung her purse at him frantically, but he seemed impervious. As she prepared to call police, a middle-aged woman came running.
"Cao Jianguo! Stop this nonsense!" Her sharp command made him freeze and release me instantly.
The plump woman with a red armband panted: "Please don't call police! He's not right in the head - no harm meant!" Introducing herself as Ms. Huang from the neighborhood committee, she explained Cao was a lonely widower who'd been checked by police before.
"No diseases at all!" she assured us. I noticed Cao became meek in her presence.
"But he can't keep harassing people," I protested. Ms. Huang sighed, explaining they tried to watch over him but couldn't monitor constantly. After his wife died, he'd grown increasingly odd, collecting cardboard daily.
Recognizing classic signs of cognitive decline, I advised: "Ms. Huang, I work at the psychiatric department nearby. You should bring him for evaluation - this needs professional intervention."
Monday morning began another hectic week—kicking off with the usual brutal traffic jam.
I sprinted all the way to the department, a piece of toast in hand, only to be greeted by an unusually loud shout:
"Dr. Xu!"
I looked up to see Ms. Huang, a bulky non-woven shopping bag slung over her shoulder, gripping Old Man Cao's arm as they sat on the hallway bench.
Cao was dressed neatly today, but he still clutched that red plastic bag, muttering softly under his breath.
I asked Ms. Huang when Cao's abnormal behavior had started and what exactly it entailed.
"His wife passed three years ago. About six months later—I think it was during the Ghost Festival—he started blasting old VCDs at 1 a.m., singing 'Borrow Five Hundred More Years from Heaven' at full volume. Good lord… the whole building couldn't sleep! People went to complain, and he'd turn it off, only to start again the next night…"
Ms. Huang's frown never eased as she recounted Cao's "glorious exploits."
She told me how he'd sing in the dead of night, pick fights with other seniors over cardboard scraps, and gradually alienated his neighbors. The old-timers whispered that he'd "gone mad from losing his entire family."
Then came the street harassment—waving a broken syringe he'd scavenged from a livestock station, asking random people if they had AIDS, spreading panic everywhere.
"You've no idea how much trouble he's caused. At his age, you can't scold him or manhandle him. We just have to coax him along." Ms. Huang gave me a pained smile.
After getting the gist of Cao's situation, I asked Ms. Huang to wait outside and began his first psychotherapy session.
Patient Record
Name: Cao Jianguo
Age: 62
Marital Status: Widowed
Occupation: Unemployed
First Consultation Date: September 23, 2013
Symptoms: Cognitive dissonance, suspected late-onset schizophrenia
Family Background: Widowed three years ago, currently lives alone
Notes: Patient had psychiatric history in youth. After becoming widowed, displayed emotional blunting and behavioral abnormalities. Three months ago began frequently asking strangers if they had AIDS while holding syringes. Brain CT showed no sulcal widening (ruling out dementia), but revealed cavum septum pellucidum suggesting organic schizophrenia pathology.
Partial Therapy Transcript
Xu (Therapist): Uncle Cao, why do you ask people on the street if they have AIDS?
Cao (agitated): That's slander! You're like the others—think I'm poor and look down on me!
Xu: Who are "the others"?
Cao: Those bastards in my neighborhood! Jealous I earn money collecting cardboard. They glare at me like I'm trash!
Xu: Do you know why you're at the hospital today?
Cao: I'm not sick! Huang made me come... (speeding up) It's all lies! They steal my cardboard and even my underwear!
Xu: Do you ever feel unwell?
Cao: I'm perfectly healthy! Just can't sleep—my breathing sounds like ocean waves on TV. Sometimes I chat at night...
Xu: Who do you talk to at night? Neighbors?
Cao (disdainful): Those red-eyed snakes? Never!
Xu: Then who?
Cao (turning to wall): Master's right here! Says you've got potential... wants to take you as disciple!
Xu: The Master is with you now? What does he say?
Cao: Only enlightened ones see him. He saved my life many times...
Xu: Was coming here today a crisis?
Cao (suddenly standing): You're... Yaoyao? Why aren't at the factory? (Sobbing) Yaoyao... I regret everything!
Xu: Yaoyao is your daughter?
Cao (wailing): My good girl... we fished together... I buried my own child! This pain... I can't bear it!
Though Mr. Cao exhibits memory gaps, his verbal fluency remains intact. All hallucinatory content traces back to emotional trauma. Combined with CT findings, we've ruled out dementia—this appears to be late-onset schizophrenia triggered by prolonged isolation and life stressors.
After presenting my diagnosis to Dr. Zhao, he approved a prescription of antipsychotic medication for Cao. Post-session, the old man—eyes still red from crying—allowed Ms. Huang to lead him out of the clinic in a daze.
Post-Consultation Encounter
By the time I'd seen my last patient (the eighth that morning), my stomach was growling violently. I'd just shrugged off my white coat and was sprint-walking toward the cafeteria when—
"Dr. Xu!"
I turned to find Cao still in the hallway with Ms. Huang. He'd been waiting there since his appointment.
"Uncle Cao, do you need something?" I softened my tone. "Confused about the medication?"
"You're so kind, Doctor." His smile turned shy, cracking the weathered skin around his eyes. "Not like those others who treat me like garbage... Dr. Xu, could I... ask a favor?"
I nodded.
"You doctors know AIDS patients, right?" His fingers twisted the red plastic bag into a tight rope. "Please—introduce me to one. Just one!"
"AIDS! Why AIDS?!"
The question burned in my mind. Why would this lonely old man fixate on AIDS?
"There you go again with that nonsense!" Ms. Huang rolled her eyes, tugging at Cao's sleeve. But he stubbornly held my gaze, his expression making it clear he wouldn't leave without an answer.
I stepped closer. "Uncle Cao, why do you want to meet an AIDS patient? Trust goes both ways—if you want my help, you need to tell me why."
His eyes darted away. A long silence stretched between us.
"The Master says this can't reach a third pair of ears," he finally muttered, shaking his head apologetically. "Loose lips sink fortunes—I'll lose my money-making luck!"
"Are you obsessed with money?!" Ms. Huang glared at him in exasperation.
"Money's the best thing in this world!" Cao's face lit up with sudden animation. He launched into a vivid description of his frugality—collecting discarded vegetable leaves at markets, eating leftover KFC from trash bins.
"Doctor, it's not that bad!" Ms. Huang hurriedly explained. "He gets rural pension payments and earns hundreds monthly recycling cardboard. Our office provides his staples—rice, oil, winter coats..."
She revealed attempts to enroll Cao in welfare programs had failed when his son-in-law—the last living relative—changed his number after refusing to cooperate.
The Puzzle Deepens
The hospital cafeteria food tasted like ash that day. If Cao had basic sustenance, why this AIDS fixation? How did it connect to money? I felt trapped in a maze.
Little did I know I'd encounter Cao again soon—in the most unexpected place.
During a mental health lecture at Changping No.1 High School (where I accompanied Dr. Zhao), I spotted a familiar figure at the gates after the event.
Cao was desperately shoving a paper packet at a teenage boy. "Take it! Take it!"
"I said NO!" The red-faced boy tried to shake him off as classmates stared. "Get lost, psycho!"
When security intervened, Cao collapsed—not from illness, but starvation (blood glucose: 3.5 mmol/L). As I treated his hypoglycemia in the school clinic, the mystery deepened:
"I never touch my savings," Cao admitted sheepishly. "I only eat after selling recyclables each day."
Then—a shadow at the window. The same boy lurked outside, pacing anxiously. When I yanked the door open, he froze like a deer in headlights.
"Xiaoming! XIAOMING!"
The moment Cao spotted the boy outside, his entire being ignited with desperate energy. Bare feet hit the floor as he lunged forward, his weathered face transfigured by hope. "You came to see me!"
The boy—Xiaoming—flinched as if struck. All hesitation vanished from his expression, replaced by resolve as he turned to leave.
"Don't go!" Cao collapsed to his knees, arms locking around the teen's legs in a vise grip. "I was wrong! I failed you!"
"Stop coming here." The boy's voice was leaden. "Just seeing you makes me sick."
"Then don't look!" Cao's words tumbled out in a frantic stream. "Just take the money—let your grandpa do this one thing right!"
At the word "grandpa," Xiaoming's face twisted with visceral disgust.
"You're NOT my grandfather!" He pried Cao's hands away with mechanical precision. "I never had one. Never will."
The sound Cao made as the boy walked away wasn't human—it was the howl of a mortally wounded animal. His fists pounded the tile floor in rhythmic agony, each impact echoing through the clinic.
I rushed to intervene before his fragile condition worsened. "Uncle Cao, let's—"
"WHY WON'T HE TAKE IT?!" His fingers dug into my wrists like talons. "Money solves everything! Why does he refuse?!"
Then—the shift.
"Yaoyao... my Yaoyao..." Suddenly I was his dead daughter. Tears splashed onto my skin like acid. "Do you need clothes down there? Money?"
Before I could react, he wheeled toward empty air: "Master! Is fifty thousand not enough? I'll save harder!"
As his tremors escalated, I administered carbamazepine. When coherence returned, I voiced my long-held suspicion:
"Is AIDS part of your... money-making plan?"
His stunned silence confirmed everything.
"You understand!" He grabbed my hands with frightening intensity. "The Master's ultimate secret! AIDS patients get government stipends—free treatment, extra subsidies! Faster than cardboard!" His eyes burned with manic triumph. "All for Xiaoming's future!"
The clinic walls seemed to contract around us. Cao's breath came in ragged bursts as he leaned closer:
"You'll help me get infected, right Doctor?"
His knuckles whitened around mine. In that moment, I finally saw the horrifying calculus of his delusion
"Hello, is this Dr. Xu Xiao? Can you come to Changping No. 1 High School right away?"
Fifteen days later, while at work, I suddenly received this call from the police.
When I arrived at the school, the officers solemnly informed me that Old Man Cao was threatening to jump off the building and refusing to communicate with anyone.
They had found a notebook inside the red plastic bag he left on the ground, which contained records of his follow-up therapy appointments and his doctor's contact information—that's how they got in touch with me.
From a distance, I could see a small dark figure standing on the rooftop of the teaching building. Below, emergency air cushions had been deployed, and a crowd had gathered outside the barricades—school administrators and teachers using megaphones to maintain order, and students murmuring and pointing like a swarm of bees.
"Whose grandpa is that? Why is he trying to jump at a school?"
"Did his family mistreat him and drive him to this?"
Amid the noisy chatter, Old Man Cao had unwittingly become the tragic protagonist of the scene.
The wind on the rooftop was fierce, and Cao, dressed in thin, tattered clothes that clung to his bony frame like rags, looked emaciated—his ribs nearly visible through the fabric. His toothless lips were pressed tightly together, and his hunched posture in the cold wind made him resemble a homeless old dog.
Suppressing my sadness, I climbed to the rooftop and cautiously tried to persuade him, "Uncle Cao, come down. It's too dangerous up here. Let's talk things through down below."
Cao wiped his tears and forced a smile that was uglier than a grimace, his gap-toothed mouth trembling.
"There's no way, Dr. Xu... no way to fix this. Xiaoming won't acknowledge me as his grandfather. A lonely old man like me... it's better if I just die sooner... It'll be better for everyone..."
"The only one who can reach Old Cao now is Xiaoming," I quickly whispered to the police, briefing them on the family situation.
The six-story school building loomed beneath us. Cao swayed in the wind like a plastic bag caught in a gust, his upper body teetering precariously over the edge. He seemed weightless—one strong breeze away from being swept into the void.
"This old fool should've died long ago... Just die... let it end today!" He'd stopped responding to me, lost in the mantra of self-loathing that played on loop in his broken mind.
Then—footsteps.
Police brought Xiaoming to the rooftop, accompanied by a harried-looking middle-aged man in a rumpled business suit. The man's shirt was half-tucked, half-untucked, his glasses slightly askew as he took in the scene.
Instant Rage.
The man—Xiaoming's father—shoved his son behind him and jabbed a finger at Cao:
"You miserable old bastard! Cut the fucking act! When Yaoyao was sick and begging for treatment money, you didn't give a single cent! And now you have the nerve to pull this shit at Xiaoming's school? We cut ties years ago!"
His voice cracked with decades of pent-up fury:
"Yaoyao warned me about you—said you were a stingy, heartless fuck. I didn't believe her until we visited after our wedding. You couldn't even serve us a warm meal—just rotten leftovers! What kind of father does that? Even wild beasts don't harm their own!"
He yanked Xiaoming forward, gripping his shoulders.
"See? This is who he really is! Stop wasting your pity on him!"
Xiaoming stood frozen, eyes darting between the two men. His father wasn't done:
"Swear to me—swear you'll never call him 'Grandpa'! If you acknowledge him, your mother would disown you from her grave!"
Tears welled in Xiaoming's eyes. His lips parted—but no sound came out. The weight of a lifetime of bitterness pressed down on him, suffocating any words before they could form.
Xiaoming's lips trembled soundlessly, words dying before they could form.
At his son-in-law's accusations, Old Cao didn't defend himself. Instead, he began slapping his own face with frightening force. "I'm an animal! Not even human! Today I'll jump to atone for my sins!" With that, he swayed dangerously, one leg already extending over the abyss.
"Don't do it!" I shouted. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Xiaoming lurch forward instinctively—then freeze, reeled back by his father's glare.
"Are you insane?" I turned to the son-in-law. "A man's life hangs in the balance, and you're provoking him? Could you live with yourself if he actually jumped?"
"Who the hell are you?" The man rounded on me, face contorted with rage. "Why are you defending this wretched old man?"
I identified myself as Cao's psychiatrist and explained his mental illness—how his obsession with contracting AIDS stemmed from a twisted desire to earn government subsidies for Xiaoming. "He's been hoarding every penny to make amends for your wife's death," I stressed.
At the mention of money, the son-in-law's expression shifted. A glint of greed flashed across his face before he schooled his features. He swallowed hard, voice suddenly oily: "How much could an old man like him possibly have saved?"
"Three hundred thousand!" Cao cried. Like a man possessed, he yanked thick wads of hundred-yuan bills from his pockets and began hurling them into the air. "This cursed money ruined me! The money's evil, and I'm worse—I killed my own daughter for it!"
The red notes swirled around us like a macabre snowstorm, fluttering against tear-streaked faces before settling on the cold concrete. Xiaoming stood motionless as one landed in his hair—a bloody poppy blooming against black strands.
Old Man Cao continued scattering the money while cursing himself, bundle after bundle fluttering down like arterial blood spraying from a slashed vein. He kept pulling out wads of cash as if he were tearing out his own bloody internal organs, trying to smash his son-in-law and grandson's hatred with each handful.
"All this money was for Xiaoming! If Xiaoming won't take it, then it's worthless—just like this worthless old man! Throw it away, just throw it all away!"
Amid the swirling bills, the son-in-law's expression shifted instantly—like a starving wolf spotting fresh meat, his entire body radiating greed. He bent down, picked up a few notes that had landed near his feet, and cleared his throat.
His attitude did a complete one-eighty.
"Dad, stop this. What happened back then... no one wanted it that way. Yaoyao's been gone eight years. If she were alive, she wouldn't want to see us like this."
Xiaoming turned to stare at his father, disbelief written across his face.
The middle-aged man stuffed the money into his pocket, clapped his hands together, and then—right there in front of everyone—dropped to his knees and kowtowed three times toward the sky.
"Wife, today I'll forgive Dad on your behalf. Don't worry—I'll make sure Xiaoming uses this money for college. If your spirit is watching over us, bless our family with peace and prosperity!"
If I hadn't been focused on keeping Cao from jumping, I might've lunged forward and slapped the man twice across the face.
Money really can make the devil push the millstone.
Was he doing this out of respect for his late wife? Bullshit.
He was doing it for the cash.
I glanced at Xiaoming. The boy stood frozen, tears streaming silently down his face, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
What followed wasn't so much a conversation as a negotiation.
Cao insisted the money would go to Xiaoming—but in return, he wanted his grandson to take care of him in his final years, to mourn him properly when he died, to carry on the family rites.
"I don't have many years left," he said. "I just want to settle things before I go."
"Of course, Dad. That's only right." The son-in-law nodded eagerly, shoving Xiaoming forward. "Xiaoming, say something nice to your grandpa."
Xiaoming stayed silent. His tears fell harder.
Down below, the crowd was growing restless, their shouts rising up to the rooftop.
"Get the old man down already! How much longer is this going to drag on?" A school administrator shouted impatiently from below. "Classes are disrupted with everyone gawking!"
"Kid, the wind's picking up," an officer urged Xiaoming. "Just say what he needs to hear so we can get your grandpa down safely."
"That poor old man... He's come looking for Xiaoming so many times, and Xiaoming never gave him the time of day!" A student muttered within earshot. "If it were my grandpa, I'd have—"
Even Xiaoming's homeroom teacher joined the chorus, publicly lecturing him on filial piety and social morality, stressing how his family drama was wasting valuable class time. The teacher went so far as to imply that a suicide on school grounds would tarnish the institution's reputation—all because of Xiaoming's stubbornness.
Xiaoming's face grew paler, his lips bitten until they turned purple.
His father kept prodding him, while Cao remained stubbornly perched by the railing, waiting for his grandson's acknowledgment.
Watching this unfold, my stomach churned. This wasn't reconciliation—it was emotional blackmail against a child.
Finally, after minutes of unbearable pressure, Xiaoming's fists clenched. He dropped to his knees with a thud and kowtowed.
"Grandpa... I was wrong. I acknowledge you. Please... come down."
The crowd below erupted in cheers and applause as Cao finally stepped back to safety.
The Aftermath
The moment his feet touched solid ground, Cao grabbed Xiaoming's hand. "You've never been back to your roots," he said urgently. "You've never seen where your mother grew up. Come home with me."
Cao's apartment was a dim, cluttered two-room unit, its living space and balcony overflowing with cardboard, plastic bottles, and copper wiring. Yet one room stood immaculate—untouched by the surrounding chaos.
"This was your mother's room," Cao said softly, guiding Xiaoming inside. He patted the bed gently, inviting his grandson to sit. "After she left... I never moved a single thing. Every day, I'd sit here... just to feel like she was still home."
His voice broke. He couldn't continue.
Xiaoming's eyes landed on childhood photos of his mother displayed on the dresser. The dam holding back his emotions burst—tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.
Amid the weeping, a police officer whispered to me, "A father's love is silent. Cao loved his daughter—he just didn't know how to show it. Now, after all these years, the rift between them is finally healed."
But as I watched Xiaoming's trembling shoulders and Cao's desperate grip on his hand, I couldn't shake one thought:
Some wounds run too deep for a single afternoon to mend.
The scene before me should have been heartwarming, yet something felt profoundly wrong.
My gaze fell upon the checkered bedsheet - and suddenly I understood. That Burberry knockoff pattern... There was no way Xiaoming's mother could have slept on this as a child.
Old Man Cao had lied. This wasn't his daughter's preserved childhood room at all.
Looking closer, the floral curtains seemed oddly familiar - like cheap market merchandise I'd seen before. When I touched them, the fabric was still damp to the touch.
If the daughter's room was fabricated, what else was a deception?
In the emotional chaos earlier, I'd been too concerned for Cao's safety to question things. But now, troubling inconsistencies emerged:
Cao's condition had been medically stable - was this "suicidal episode" truly a psychiatric relapse, or a calculated ploy to pressure Xiaoming?
Why had my contact information "coincidentally" appeared in that notebook?
Had he deliberately manipulated my professional sympathy to lend credibility to his performance?
Yet as I watched the "reunited" family, I released the curtain and suppressed my doubts. Perhaps if this fiction brought them peace, the truth didn't need to surface...
With family by his side, Old Man Cao could finally heal—his emotional wounds mending, his mind finding peace. And with a grandfather's support, Xiaoming's future would surely be brighter.
If the outcome was good, did the means really matter?
I shook my head and slipped out of the cramped apartment, leaving them to their reunion.
As I reached the courtyard, I ran into Ms. Huang.
"So he finally got his grandson back?" Her usual warmth was gone, replaced by a sharp, mocking tone. "That old fool! Skipped his cardboard rounds yesterday just to scrub that place spotless."
Before I could ask about her sudden change in attitude, she waved me off.
"After his little rooftop stunt, we at the community office had to investigate. Turns out, the whole 'grieving father' act was a sham."
She leaned in, her voice dripping with disdain.
"We tracked down someone from his hometown. Said when his daughter was born, he wanted to drown her in a washbasin. But back then, with the one-child policy in full force, he had no choice but to raise her—resenting every second of it."
"That poor girl suffered her whole life. Cut ties after marriage, but when Cao heard she'd had a son, he showed up with 50,000 yuan—demanding she change the boy's surname to carry on his family line. Nearly killed her with rage."
Ms. Huang's lips twisted. "And when she got pancreatic cancer? Begged him for treatment money? Not a single cent. Even on her deathbed, with her barely clinging to life, he was still harassing her about that damned name change..."
Last
Amidst my hectic clinical schedule, Old Man Cao had been but a minor episode.
Yet three months later, I saw him again at the hospital.
"Dr. Xu!" It was Friday afternoon, just as I was preparing to leave, when I heard someone call from the doorway.
I turned to see Cao Jianguo wearing a brand-new navy blue jacket and cap, grinning at me while holding an embroidered commendation banner. He had gained weight - his cheeks were fuller, his complexion ruddy, the former look of suffering completely gone. He was practically unrecognizable.
Now he looked like any ordinary retired Beijing local. Had I passed him on the street, I would never have placed him.
"Why waste money on this? You should return it," I said hurriedly, motioning for him to sit. These custom-made banners cost at least several dozen yuan even for the simplest designs. Remembering how he used to skip meals to save money, I tried to decline.
"Don't worry about the cost, Dr. Xu!" Cao cheerfully unfolded the banner before me, revealing the words "Miraculous Healing, Compassionate Physician" in bold characters. "My son-in-law got me a warehouse security job - I'm making three thousand a month now!"
"You've helped me so much. This banner is nothing - I'm even writing a thank you letter to your superiors!"
Seeing him so happy, I asked about his relationship with his grandson.
"Wonderful! We're very close now. Xiaoming's a good boy - excellent grades, very filial. Takes after me in valuing family ties. A true grandson of mine!"
"We've agreed - when I pass, he'll erect my tombstone with 'Cao Xiaoming' listed as my descendant. The Cao family line will continue at last!" Cao burst into laughter so loud it drew curious looks from the janitor in the hallway. Unfazed, he thrust the banner into my hands and plopped down in a chair.
"My life is complete now!"
"You wouldn't believe it, Dr. Xu - I've got this old hometown friend whose useless daughter only managed to birth two granddaughters. Poor bastard's lineage is ending with him!"
"I'll outrank him even in the afterlife, believe me? With a grandson to mourn me and carry on rituals, even Yama himself will show me respect!"
Cao exhaled deeply, his face the picture of smug satisfaction.
As I looked at this simultaneously familiar and strange old man, an involuntary chill ran down my spine.
Epilogue
"Money's such a good thing - why wouldn't he take it?" Adults truly couldn't comprehend how someone could feel anger instead of gratitude when offered cash. Amidst the flurry of banknotes swirling like bloodstained rain stood a conflicted child - one who resented his grandfather yet still worried for the old man threatening to jump.
But in this carefully orchestrated drama:
The grandfather cared only about continuing the family line
The father saw nothing but dollar signs
Caught between their demands, the boy's feelings became mere collateral damage.
"Just forgive him."
—The easiest solution for everyone involved.
Cao Jianguo claimed they were now close. But knowing that son-in-law, I doubted those promised funeral rites - the surname change, the tombstone, the mourning ceremonies - would ever materialize after the old man's death.
What truly haunted me was this:
What kind of man would this boy grow into, shaped by such toxic influences?