Fiona James only found out much later that her father had once been the deputy head of a provincial ballet troupe, and her mother had been a student admitted to that same troupe. She didn’t know how the ballet troupe went bankrupt; all she knew was that for as long as she could remember, her father’s health had been ruined by tuberculosis, and her mother’s figure was now nothing like what one would expect from a former professional dancer. Over the years, her mother constantly complained about and criticized her father, who had never recovered, and this taught Fiona James from a young age to block out all distractions and focus intently on playing with her dolls, even under a barrage of harsh words.

Not long after, when Mr. Clark praised her for being able to concentrate on memorizing scripts at such a young age, no matter the circumstances, Fiona James still didn’t know the meaning of the phrase “a blessing in disguise.”

Maybe all the talents we have as children come from finding joy in hardship, without even realizing it.

Fiona James could never remember when she first set foot in a theater. Maybe she was five, maybe even younger. Once, while she was getting a penicillin IV drip on a cold plastic chair in a hospital corridor, a man walked by and suddenly called out her father’s name in surprise.

Maybe he was an old colleague, but he was clearly in better spirits and looked more presentable than her father. The adults’ small talk held no interest for her as a child; she politely greeted the uncle, then turned her head back to watch the medicine drip, drop by drop, through the IV.

It wasn’t until she suddenly felt someone pat her head that she snapped out of her daze. The two adults had finished talking, and the uncle smiled and said, “Your daughter is so cute, not the least bit pretentious. That’s how a child should be.

I say, you should take her to give it a try. I’ll put in a word with our boss—she’s definitely better than those kids other people send in.”

In Fiona James’s memory, the uncle who changed her childhood with a casual remark had already become a blur, but she always remembered the lively, offhand tone of his voice.

Two weeks later, Fiona James stood on stage for the first time.

“The winners’ performance of the first ‘Concord Youth Music Contest’ begins now!”

She woodenly followed the other young hosts and recited the opening line, which she herself couldn’t even break into proper sentences. The thunderous applause sounded like a numb, flowing river, gently washing away the quiet childhood that should have belonged to her.

Much later, when she heard that Zoe Young had replaced her to participate in the “Concord Pharmaceuticals Story Contest,” even the seven-year-old Fiona James in the Fiona James side story felt a sense of world-weariness far beyond her years. At that time, she was truly grateful to this pharmaceutical factory—she didn’t even know what medicines it produced—for pushing so many of them onto a dazzling, adored stage.

Only later did she realize that, in fact, they had all taken the wrong medicine.

When many children still didn’t even know what “memories” were, Fiona James was already trying to list all her various honors in chronological order on her resume. Every year: provincial and city “Three Good Student,” Campus Star, Outstanding Young Pioneer, National Student Union Committee reelection… At first, her father helped her write the applications, but later she could skillfully write in the third person, without blushing or skipping a beat: “She is diligent and hardworking, a good example for her classmates; she is helpful, a good friend in life.” Fiona James went through more formalities than others, saw more of the world, and was surrounded by applause that many people never receive in a lifetime. Her youth was so dazzling it nearly blinded her.

The first time she hosted the “Concord Youth Music Contest,” she wasn’t the main character—at most, she was a “side dish” standing next to three older kids, responsible for announcing a few performances in the preschool group. Most of the words on the cue card, which was the size of a business card, she couldn’t even read, but she imitated the others and tried to hide it in her hand—even though the card was far too big for her small hands to conceal.

Interestingly, she was never nervous, not even when facing the heavy, dark red curtain for the first time, or the noisy crowd behind it. Maybe she was just too young to know what “saving face” meant, so she didn’t care about the consequences of making a fool of herself.

Originally, this ordinary experience would have just been a small episode in Fiona James’s memories, something she could look back on in surprise when she grew up: “Wow, I was a host on a big stage when I was little!”

But just then, fate threw her an olive branch that was both a blessing and a curse.

She had just stepped onto the stage, having memorized the next preschool group performer’s name and sponsoring unit perfectly. As soon as she was under the stage lights, she heard a teacher backstage exclaim in panic, “Didn’t I tell you one of the kids couldn’t perform today? Put another one in! Why is she still announcing this one?!”

Fiona James’s mind went blank. She was about to turn around to find the source of the voice when another calm voice sounded from the left backstage.

“I’ll say a line, you repeat it. Don’t look over here.”

“Electronic keyboard performer, Provincial Government Kindergarten, Charlotte Lee.”

Fiona James was astonishingly calm. She looked straight ahead, kept smiling, and announced in her childish voice, “The next performer is Charlotte Lee from Provincial Government Kindergarten. She will perform…”

A slight pause.

The backstage voice quickly continued, “Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night.”

“Electronic keyboard solo, Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night.”

She had no idea what “Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night” was, nor did she hear it clearly, but she repeated it anyway, and almost no one noticed the mistake.

Then, amid applause, she turned and walked backstage. The stage lights went out, leaving only a spotlight. Staff carried chairs and the keyboard stand onto the stage to prepare, and Fiona James brushed past the performer with pigtails.

She looked up in confusion at the relaxed and relieved expressions on everyone’s faces, when suddenly a voice spoke up.

“This little girl has presence, very calm. But don’t slouch when you walk, and your steps are too big. You need to fix that.”

It was the same stern, cool voice. The owner of the voice was Benjamin Clark, a teacher at the youth center, 34 years old, still unmarried. In those days, being single at that age clearly meant she was a solitary old maid.

The old maid looked down at her, tugged her ponytail, and said, “Who did your hair, your mom? Don’t wear it so low on stage next time—do pigtails instead. That way the audience can see them from the front, and it adds a bit of childlike liveliness.”

Fiona James was completely lost, staring blankly at the cold-faced auntie whose hair was styled to perfection.

The auntie stared back at her expressionlessly. After a while, she finally smiled a little, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Fiona James.” After saying her name, Fiona James paused, then suddenly remembered something and added, “…Thomas James’s ‘James’, Fiona James side story, ‘Fiona’ as in swallow, ‘Fiona’ as in flying.”

Her parents had taught her this: if an adult asked her name, she should answer this way, without worrying about who Thomas James was.

“Fiona James…”

The auntie frowned slightly, lost in thought. Fiona James suddenly felt panicked, afraid her parents had given her the wrong name.

But the auntie quickly crouched down to meet her gaze and said, without room for argument, “Let’s just call you Swallow.”

From that day on, Fiona James became Swallow.

“I’m going to my aunt’s house tonight, by the river. We’re on the way—let’s go together.”

Fiona James snapped back to reality. The big cleaning was almost over, the teacher had dismissed them, and the girls were happily packing up to leave. Quincy Sherman, who was close to her, came over, pulled her along, and invited her to go home together.

“Where’s your aunt’s house?”

“It’s in the neighborhood behind yours, just five minutes away.” After saying this, Quincy Sherman slumped her shoulders and added dejectedly, “My aunt’s little troublemaker is driving me crazy lately—she’s just as annoying as the adults.”

Whenever anyone wanted to complain, they liked to go to Fiona James. She was always calm, with dimples when she smiled, looking kind and warm. Even if her comments were just comforting nonsense, what really mattered was that she made people feel better.

So she gave a gentle smile and asked, “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?”

Quincy Sherman put on an arrogant air, lifted her chin, stretched her neck, glanced down, and looked at Fiona James with her nostrils, sticking her butt out as she walked.