Superstar Daddy

Lin Chuan opened his drowsy eyes, a splitting headache pounding in his skull, his mouth parched and dry, his entire body drained of strength. As he looked around, he was taken aback—everything surrounding him was utterly unfamiliar.

The room was small and crude, barely more than twenty square meters. In the center stood an old wooden dining table, scattered with rice grains and circled by a few buzzing flies. In one corner, a battered guitar lay quietly on the floor, cloaked in a thick layer of dust from long neglect. The air was tinged with a faint, musty odor that turned Lin Chuan’s stomach, making him feel nauseous.

“Daddy, have some water. You’ll feel better after you drink,” a childish voice sounded at the bedside.

Lin Chuan turned his head to find a boy of four or five, holding a porcelain cup with a chip glaringly obvious at the rim. The child was thin and frail, yet his face was clean and tidy—a contrast to their surroundings. With delicate, handsome features and a hint of mixed heritage, the boy was instantly endearing.

Lin Chuan frowned, startled to hear the boy call him “Daddy.”

“When did I become a father? Why don’t I remember?” he muttered.

Suddenly, his mind buzzed as if struck by lightning. Images and memories surged forth, a torrent of information flooding his brain like scenes from a movie. Pressed by pain, Lin Chuan absorbed and merged with these memories. Minutes passed; as the agony faded from his face, astonishment and bewilderment took its place.

“Daddy, are you alright? Does your head still hurt?” the boy a