He teaches politics in a Chinese public school, and he is a very good teacher, but he does not like to teach from the textbook. In his spare time, he writes books about social science, or history. His books are very popular, but his books cannot be bought in the bookstore near the school, or in many other bookstores. In the students’ eyes, he is humorous and kind. The students smile at him in the corridor and he smiles back. They do not see that he is already dead as he walks. In his lessons, he shows his mind to his beloved children, he shows them the hope in his heart, but they cannot see that he teaches and writes with a bullet in his head.

One day, on his way home, he is killed. At a crossroads, a few students witnessed it. “It is a green light, but it might as well have been red.” They say, “A motorcycle passes before him and seems to suck his soul from his body. He falls to the ground and his heavy head hits the pavement. There is no blood on his shirt, only in his hair. He lies face down, but there is a hole at the back of his head, it looks upwards, reaching, hoping.” They say.

It was too big an incident to be missed by the press. In the papers, they called it a car accident. The eye witnesses said nothing. The students said nothing. They only thought. In their heads. In their heads it is supposed to be remembered as an accident. But his students knew, and his family members knew, and all who’ve read his books knew, that if you looked inside the cracked brain right after he died, you’d have seen the bullet that finally entered his head.