I never consider myself a proper short story reader nor a good short story writer. The last book I published in China, a short story collection, was remarked by a book reviewer as “a bunch of excerpts from unfinished novels”. As much as I try, I seem to remain oblivious to the esoteric and exquisite art of short fiction. Instead, I’m only able to write and read them as stories.
The stories on this list share one thing in common: they all made me cry at a certain point of my life. It is hard to know if my tears were the reflections of the extraordinariness of the stories or they were drawn out by the circumstances, the air, the temperature, the blue tinge at the periphery of my vision – the fleeting moment when the story and I encountered each other. 

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