I look at Grandma，at a loss for words.Is it actually possible for someone to be so easygoing？Grandma doesn’t seem to concern herself with things like intellectual property and monetary gain at all.I silently take the pamphlet out of my pocket and hold it in my hands，folding and unfolding it.
“Don’t worry about that for now.First come and look at this.”Grandma points to the microscope in front of her.
I take a halfhearted peep through it.“What is it？”I ask，offhandedly.
“Genetically engineered photosynthesizing bacteria.”
I perk up.This sounds interesting.“How did you do it？”
“I simply reverse transcribed genes from the chloroplasts into the bacteria.They’ve already expressed many of the proteins，although I’m sure there are still problems present.If we can overcome them，maybe these bacteria can be used as a source of alternative energy.”
As I listen to Grandma’s placid，happy voice，I suddenly get a strange and dreamlike feeling.It’s like I’m cocooned in a layer of fog，while her voice is coming from a long distance away.I look down.I’m rubbing the pamphlet between my fingers.I need to make a choice.
Grandma’s still talking.“As you know，I’ve laid down a lot of culture medium on the floors.I plan to replace more material so I can grow the bacteria all over the house.If it works，we’ll have a use for porridge leftovers and everything.As for the actual electricity generation，you were the one who gave me the inspiration.Cell membranes normally have high fluidity，which makes it difficult to capture the high-energy electrons generated from photosynthesis.However，if we add large quantities of cholesterol molecules，we can just about stabilize the membrane.In theory，we can use micro-electrodes to position…”
I stand there woodenly.I’m not really paying attention to Grandma，just catching fragments here and there.This discovery might have even bigger future applications.But my brain is a worse jumble than before.I can’t concentrate enough to listen anymore.“You’re bringing up all the things I did wrong，”I say awkwardly.
Grandma shakes her head.“Zhanzhan，do you still not understand？”She stops，looking into my eyes.“Every day，every moment，countless random events will occur.You’ll pick one of many possible restaurants to eat at，take one of many possible buses，see one of many possible advertisements.And at that point in time，you can’t classify them as good or bad，right or wrong.They take on worth only in the future.What we do at this moment in the present gives meaning to another moment in the past…”
Grandma’s voice sounds light and drifting.I can’t react to it in time.Chance，time，meaning，future，the words spin in my head.I think of Borges’“The Garden of Forking Paths”.Yu Tsun must have felt what I’m feeling，the decision uncertain but fomenting in my heart，even as enigmatic words wisp into my ear…
“…biology is based on just one set of principles：random events and directional selection.What’s doing the selection？What allows some events to stick around and prove to be beneficial？The answer is perpetuation alone.If a protein can persist，it will persist.It will claim a position in the course of history，while other proteins appear and then disappear at random.The only way to make a step you’ve taken’correct’is to take another step in the same direction...”
I think of myself，of the fat guy next door，of Mom and Jingjing，of the four years I spent in a muddle，of my dejection and conflict，of the bright and shining lobby of the patent office.I know I need an opportunity.
“…that’s why，if we can make use of them，cheese and spilled porridge and broken-off flowers don’t have to be bad things at all.”
And I make my choice.
7
After that summer，I get an internship at the patent office.I learned of the opportunity from the booklet.
It’s not very easy to find a proper job here，but they’re always looking for college students to take care of odds and ends—fortunate，that I haven’t graduated yet.The work at the patent office isn’t hard，but it requires a bit of knowledge from every field—fortunate，that I was so aimless in my studies at college.
An’an—the girl I met the first time I came here—is now my girlfriend.We fell in love while studying together for the English exam—fortunate，that I hadn’t passed the fourth level.An’an says that I seemed polite and shy on first impression，which she found charming—I didn’t tell her that it was due to nervousness and a guilty conscience.Everything seems to have worked out like magic.Even the things I felt bad about ended up helping me.
Taking it a step further，I can even say that my inner turmoil was a good thing—if it weren’t for that，I wouldn’t have gone to Grandma’s house，and everything that came after wouldn’t have happened.Looking back，everything from before was all linked together into one chain.
I know that no one planned this for me.Fate doesn’t exist.I chose all of it.
It’s a strange feeling.We always think we can choose our futures，but that’s not true.What we really can choose is our past.
I chose the lunch I had a couple of years ago，made it a lunch different from the thousand other possible lunches.Likewise，I chose whether my time at college was a mistake.
Maybe accepting reality is just another name for staying true to yourself.Who are you，really，other than the sum of everything that’s happened？
A year has passed.With a happy mindset，I’ve done great at my work.The patent office has accepted me as a full-time employee.I’ll start my job in the fall.
I like it here.I like learning bits and pieces from all sorts of subjects.Besides，I’m no good at making long-term plans，or carrying them out.The work here is just one case after another，no need for looking far ahead.Plus，I have the same job as Einstein，which is pretty awesome.
After a year of repeated experiments and observations，Grandma is applying for patents for her anti-cancer factor and photosynthesizing walls.Several large companies have already expressed interest.Grandma isn’t interested in contract negotiations，so I’ve taken on the responsibilities of a middleman.Fortunate，that I work for the patent office.
Oh，right，I forgot to mention.The fat guy next door didn’t steal the Petri dishes with the anti-cancer factors after all.He thought he found the incubator，but it was actually an ordinary wardrobe.The real incubator looks like a dresser.
So you never know what something’s really meant for，Grandma says.Turns out she knew from the beginning.Turns out she knew everything from the beginning.
If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler
by Xia Jia，translated by Ken Liu
Many are the ways of commemorating the dead，and no one can say which is best—not even the dead.
The method I’m about to tell you is perhaps the strangest of them all.
My father was a librarian.Years ago，when I was a little child，he used to bring me to work and let me loose among the dusty tomes on old shelves.The experience forged an emotional bond between me and paper books.I could spend a whole day with my head buried in a book，careless of the absence of other entertainments.As I grew up，I discovered that the world outside the library was far more complicated，and I had a hard time adjusting.Socially awkward and having few friends，I returned to my hometown after college and started working at my father’s old library.It felt natural，like a book finding the exact place on the shelves assigned to it by the numbers on its spine.
There wasn’t much to do at work.In an age when most reading was done electronically，the library had few patrons.Like a graveyard attendant，I took care of the forgotten books and saw the occasional visitor，but there was little expectation of real conversation.The sunlight glided tranquilly between the shelves，day after day.Every day，I entered this sanctuary，quiet as a tomb，and pulled a book or two randomly off the shelves to read.
This was pretty much my version of heaven.
Borges once wrote，“God is in one of the letters on one of the pages of one of the four hundred thousand volumes in the Clementine.My parents and my parents’parents searched for that letter；I myself have gone blind searching for it.”I didn’t believe in God，but sometimes I felt that I was searching for something as well.
One rainy autumn afternoon，the library received a donation of books.I opened one and saw a small red collector’s seal on the title page，which told me that another old man who had treasured books had died.His children had piled his collection，gathered over a lifetime，in front of his apartment building.Those which were worth something had been picked out by used book dealers，leaving the rest to be sold by the kilogram to a paper mill，to be gifted，or to be donated to the library.This sort of thing happened every year.I sorted the books，recorded and catalogued them，stuck on call numbers and barcodes，wiped off the dust，and stacked them neatly so that they could be shelved.
This took me two hours；I was exhausted，dizzy，and needed a break.While the teakettle was boiling，I picked up a slim volume off the top of the stack.It was a chapbook of poetry.
I started to read.From the first character in the first line of the first poem，I felt that I had found what I had always sought.Accompanied by the faint pitter-patter of rain outside，I chewed over the verses carefully，as delighted as a starving man who had finally been given manna.
The poet was unfamiliar to me，and there was only a short paragraph that passed for her biography.There wasn’t even a photograph.She wrote under a pen name，and her real name was unknown.She had died twenty years ago at the age of thirty-one.I pulled out my phone to look her up，but the Internet gave me nothing，as though she had never existed.
I felt a tingling up my spine.How could a poet who had lived in the information age leave no trace on the Web？It was inconceivable.
In the middle of the chapbook I found a library book request form.The sheet was thin，yellowed，but still well preserved.The borrower had filled out the form with the title of the poetry book as well as his library card number in a neat，forceful hand.I inputted the information into the computer system and found that the borrower had been a regular patron，though he hadn’t come for a few months.The borrower’s records in the database did not contain this book—which made sense，as the library had never had a copy of it.
Why would a book request form from my library be found in the private collection of an old man，and how did it get back here to me？Who was the borrower listed on the form，and what was his relationship to the old man？Or perhaps they were the same person using different names？
I finished the poems in the chapbook and shelved it as well as the other donated books.The next day，for some reason，I found myself in front of the shelf with the chapbook.It was still there，a slim volume squeezed between other books like a mysterious woman hiding in the attic.I pulled it out and re-read it from the first page.Though the poems were decades old，I could clearly sense from the rich，ambivalent images the massive waves of sorrow that had swept up most people in this age，like a lonely cry slipping through the cracks and seams of broken walls and fallen ruins，flowing without end.
Who was the poet？What did she look like and where did she live？What was her life like？Other than me，the dead collector，and the mysterious borrower，had she had other readers？
I had no answers.All I could do was to read the poems over and over again，like a fish diving deeper.The poet and her poems turned into the dark abyss of my dreams，concealing all secrets.
Three months later，as the first snow of winter fell，I met the borrower.
He was in his forties，of medium height，possessing a lean，angular face，and dressed plainly.When I saw the familiar string of numbers on his library card，I got so excited that I almost cried out.But the looming silence of the library reminded me to swallow the cry.
Using the library’s surveillance cameras，I observed him passing through the stacks and up and down the stairs like a ghost.I saw him walk into the room where old newspapers and magazines were kept，the only patron in that space.He retrieved a stack of bound newspapers and carefully laid it out on the desk，where he proceeded to flip through it slowly，page by page.I was puzzled.These newspapers were electronically stored and indexed，and all he had to do was to perform a simple search in the database.Why did he bother to come into the library to flip through them like this？Perhaps he was nostalgic for the sensation of bare fingers against old paper？
Suddenly，the borrower on my closed-circuit TV screen lifted his face and glanced around，staring in the direction of the camera for a second.Then he shifted his position so that his body blocked my view.A few seconds later，he moved away and flipped the newspaper to the next page.
I was certain that he had done something he did not want others to find out during that brief moment.Maybe he took a photograph.But considering all these papers had been digitized，what was the point of sneaking a picture？
Before closing time，the borrower approached me and set down that thin chapbook.I scanned the barcode but held on to the book.My curiosity got the better of me，and I decided to break my habitual silence and risk speaking with a stranger.
“Do you like these poems？”I asked.
He was surprised.It was as if I had been invisible，but now appeared out of thin air.
“They’re…all right.”His tone was cautious.
“I think they’re lovely，”I said.“No，that’s not quite right.They’re powerful，as though they could return order and form to ruins that had been slumbering for thousands of years.”
I told him how I had come across these poems，and repeated to him the quote from Borges.I spoke to him about how I couldn’t forget the mysterious poet，and even recounted for him how I had become the librarian here.
Ripples of emotion spread across his face，as though my words had been drops of rain falling into a pond.
After I was done talking，he picked a book request form from the box on the desk and handed it to me.“Please give me your contact info.”
I wrote down my name and phone number.Without glancing at the form，he picked it up and placed it between the pages of the chapbook.“I will be in touch.”He strode toward the exit.
I waited more than a week.On a stormy evening，my phone rang.I answered it，and the borrower’s low，sonorous voice filled my ears.
“There’s a gathering tonight we’d like to invite you to.”
“Tonight？”I looked up at the dense，swirling snow outside the window.“We？”
He gave me an address and a time.Then he added，“I hope you can make it.”He hung up.
His last words were irresistible—it had been many years since anyone had said“hope”to me.I checked myself in the mirror and left the library，opening my umbrella as I did so.
The snow was so thick that it seemed solid.There were very few pedestrians or cars out on the road.My town was too small to have a subway or tube transport system，and transportation was no different from how it had been twenty，thirty years earlier.I made my way through ankle-deep snow to the bus stop，and the bus also had very few passengers.I rode for eight or so stops，got off，walked some more until I reached the address the borrower had given me：it was a bar that had seen better years.
