Hiding a House in the Apocalypse

He was born in Hong Kong.

During the handover, his family left and settled in the United States. Unlike other Chinese immigrants, his parents never tried to instill Chinese values or culture in him.

His parents ran a business in Hong Kong, one he never fully understood, but it was clear that they had made a fortune.

As a result, he never knew poverty, nor did he care to.

He had no national pride, no sense of belonging.

He was educated in American schools, ate American food, and grew up immersed in American culture.

He was an American. And up until the moment he earned his PhD, he never once considered any alternative.

But sometimes, the blood running through your veins changes your future in ways you never expect.

One day, he felt like an outsider in American society.

The world around him, once familiar, suddenly seemed hostile, condescending, and dismissive.

The trigger was a minor traffic incident.

While driving, he honked at a car that abruptly cut in front of him.

A Black man rolled down his window and shouted a racial slur.

He averted his gaze.

The man stared at him for a while, then finally drove off, and that was the end of it.

A trivial event, nothing worth thinking about.

But it overlapped with other recent frustrations—being passed over for a promotion, harsh criticism of his research presentation, his daughter mysteriously failing her private school entrance exam—and made him start thinking seriously.

He had learned to get along with people of other races, had accepted the unspoken discrimination and limitations that came with being Asian in America, and had resigned himself to it, thinking it was just the way life worked.

But something inside him suddenly stirred, shattering that resignation.

He picked up a pen and wrote down a single word.

Zhonghua

It was strange.

His parents had taught him to speak and write in Chinese, but apart from his early childhood, he had hardly ever used it.

Even at home, his parents spoke English. Their spacious, modern mansion had no Chinese decorations, no books, not even traditional liquor.

They had never deeply discussed this term with him.

Yet he still remembered it—and wrote it down effortlessly.

At that moment, he became aware of his ethnic identity.

And he remembered the Chinese agent who had recently tried to contact him.

Returning to China was not easy.

His wife was against it.

His daughter was against it.

His parents said nothing, but their stance was clear—if he left, they would never want to see him again.

When he grew tired of trying to convince them, he left alone.

The China he saw was even more luxurious and advanced than he had expected.

But it didn’t take long before he began to notice the cheapness, the carelessness, and the hidden flaws behind all that splendor.