After burning incense and bowing to Old Man Zhang's memorial tablet with Grandpa, he gave me the handwritten Feng Shui Zhai Zhi from the Republic of China era. The signature at the end read "Zhang Zidao." Grandpa said the book expounded on folk feng shui theories, with many annotations with Old Man Zhang's own insights.
From then on, I immersed myself in yin-yang feng shui studies at home with Grandpa. Passing by university campuses always stirred a twinge of regret—missing out on college life was a lifelong (pity).
While my peers spent their first year dating, I holed up for a full year, devouring Feng Shui Zhai Zhi. In my spare time, Grandpa taught me the I Ching, opening the door to the bizarre decade that followed. (To avoid revealing too much, place names will be altered. If it coincidentally resembles your hometown, please be kind.)
After three years of training with Grandpa, while graduates planned their careers, I set up a fortune-telling stall on the street. I often went to the old Railway Hotel on Taiyuan Street until (urban management) chased me away, then settled near Zhongjie Commercial Building.
In 2007, I arrived at Zhongjie as usual, spreading my small white banner inscribed with "Accept fate and worry not," weighing it down with three wooden plaques: "Face Reading," "Dragon Tracing," "Tomb Consulting."
My youth drew curious glances from passing couples, some giggling as they teased me. Normal readers paid 20-30 yuan, but Grandpa insisted I write "One Thousand Gold Coins per Reading."
With Line 1 subway under construction and the midday heat, the street was quiet. My steep fee and young age meant more hecklers than clients. As I played Dou Dizhu on my phone, a woman's voice asked, "Mister?"
I looked up: a girl in her early 20s stood before my stall.
"Miss, want a reading?" I put away my phone and studied her face. Beautiful features but sallow skin; a smooth, ruddy "sun corner" indicated a wealthy father, yet the "moon corner" lacked definition, with a fine line between her brows disrupting the harmony—I guessed her parents divorced early, and her worry involved her father.
"Others charge 20 yuan. Aren't you afraid of getting beaten up?" she teased.
Eyeing her designer clothes and genuine Gucci bag, I noticed dark-yellow qi on her forehead—she'd been plagued by misfortune. "Will you get a reading or not?"
"Only if you're accurate." She raised an eyebrow defiantly. "Here's a deal: I do have a worry. If you guess it, I'll pay. If not, write 'I'm a fraud' on your banner and run to the crossroads and back. Agree?"
Young and competitive, provoked by her challenge, I accepted. Taking her hand to read her palm and face, I noticed a tiny mole on her forehead—poor health and hardship in childhood.
"You were frail as a child. At five, you offended Tai Sui, fell into water but survived. Your father is a successful businessman. Parents divorced when you were 13; he's remarried. Your worry stems from him, doesn't it?"
Watching her expression closely, I felt unsure—being new to street fortune-telling. But her dilated pupils told me I'd hit the mark, and my confidence grew.