Chapter 21

Qinghe approached it cautiously, without touching it directly.

He guessed that what was on the table was a diary. If it were just a notebook for taking notes, there would be a textbook or supplementary teaching materials next to it.

Having learned from the previous incident with the items mentioned earlier, he now understood that everything in this room could be touched and then viewed without his or the owner's permission.

Although he wasn't particularly opposed to that kind of experience, he still had to respect other people's privacy.

But he had clearly forgotten that this was just a dream, and the events in a dream were beyond his control. He could only watch helplessly as he picked up the notebook and opened it. He read the words inside, and as he had suspected, it was a diary.

July 5, 2007

I broke my parents' favorite vase. I was terrified, so I hid. No one cleaned up the broken pieces, and the cleaning ladies, unwilling to take responsibility for something they hadn't done, started questioning each other, along with other people who had also been there. Luckily, my parents got off work early, checked the security footage, and readily let the cleaning ladies go, then searched the house thoroughly.

I'm quite clever; I knew to walk around under each camera for a while and then split up to go into different rooms. So my parents searched for a long time before they finally found me asleep in the closet.

Sweat was dripping from my forehead; Mom said it was because I felt guilty after doing something wrong. I was clutching my bib tightly; Dad said it was because I was afraid of being punished.

But they didn't punish me. Mom kissed me, and Dad tickled my cheek with his beard. They looked at my sleepy, dazed eyes and said, "You can't run away like that again next time. As long as you didn't do it on purpose, we'll forgive you, my lovely little one."

Qinghe casually flipped through it.

March 7, 2009

I don't know where I learned this, but I'm going to be really, really good to my mom tomorrow. I'm going to let her rest no matter what, I'm going to give her flowers, and I'm going to make her feel loved.

So, I happily went to find my dad!

Dad and I were immediately on the same page. Dad looked at me and praised me enthusiastically, calling me a little genius. I couldn't help but laugh so hard I could barely see my eyes.

How can we make Mom happy tomorrow? Dad and I thought about it together. I remembered reading somewhere that we should help Mom with the housework; but Dad shook his head and said that he does most of the housework anyway, so it shouldn't contribute to Mom's happiness. I then thought of giving her pretty flowers, but Dad shook his head again, saying that we have plenty of flowers at home, and Mom wouldn't find fresh flowers anything special. I hesitated for a long time, my brows furrowed, looking quite like a little old man. Finally, I suggested another idea: Let's write Mom a letter! We can write in it how much we love her, and then when Mom wakes up tomorrow morning, we can tell her how much we love her too!

Dad was surprised and kept saying he didn't expect me to think that way. He smiled and told me that his original plan was to tell me after I gave a few examples, "If you could wait at the door after Mom gets off work and bring her a bouquet of flowers, she would be very happy."

So what I thought earlier wasn't so bad. I puffed out my cheeks, not wanting to talk to my dad.

But Dad kissed me. So I forgave him, because if Mom wants to be happy, Dad needs to be happy too.

...

Some of the handwriting is bold and elegant, while others are delicate and graceful; the writers are either people who have practiced calligraphy for many years or are over thirty years old.

Judging from my appearance, it's impossible for me to possess either of these two conditions.

Qinghe lowered his eyes; this was an adult using the child's voice to write a diary for a child who hadn't yet learned to write.

Every moment of the protagonist's growth is imbued with the boundless love of his family.

This is not the owner's diary. The owner is simply looking through precious gifts given to him or her by his or her parents.

Qinghe clutched his chest. His heart was beating steadily, but he felt a pang of hallucinatory pain.

An overly happy life would deter unhappy people from even approaching it. If this dream hadn't forced him to do these things, he wouldn't be feeling this unusually pathetic state now.

It doesn't stem from physical ugliness, but from mental destitution and exhaustion.

Should he be grateful that at least he wasn't forced to experience the stories in the diary firsthand?

Qinghe closed the notebook and tossed it back onto the table like a hot potato. The story of this room, the story of this place, had come to an end. He suddenly realized that there were people outside waiting for his rescue, probably mostly burned to the ground.

He was completely isolated from the world in this space.

What if time stops flowing outside once we enter here?

He didn't even try to compose himself before rushing out. The heatwave nearly burned his eyes again, but thankfully it was all an illusion, and he was eventually safe. He searched the second floor as well, finally finding a mother and daughter in the study at the far end.

I don't know whether to be glad that there are only these two people, or to be sad that there are these two people.

The mother struggled to even open her eyes, while her daughter slept quietly on her lap without making a sound.

How strange. The flames weren't burning between them, yet the distance between them seemed like an insurmountable chasm.

Qinghe stood at the doorway, panting. His body wasn't strong enough to withstand the strain of just enduring grief and then being subjected to strenuous exercise. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to get inside and rescue them.

He didn't even have time to think about whether he could still save her. The important thing was to save her; who cared about anything else?

His legs belatedly began to ache, so he carried the woman on his back and held the child in his arms. The child still had a peaceful sleeping face, an angelic appearance that seemed out of place in the red world.

The woman spoke in a barely audible voice, "You don't need to save me... It's too much trouble." Her voice was as soft as a sigh, or a resigned curse, "If we can't save them, everyone will die. Helping us like this is just..."

A fire burned within Qinghe. There was no reason, and he couldn't explain it himself. But the fire grew stronger and stronger until he couldn't help but raise his voice and berate her: "So why didn't you take your daughter and run away? In the face of natural disaster, even the dumbest animal knows to protect itself and its offspring, to ensure life can continue after danger! You say you accept your fate, then why didn't you push me away when I was carrying you, and kill me too!"

He endured the pain, his steps quickening. As long as he could breathe the free air outside before the despair she spoke of, he believed things would turn around, and people would regain hope. The plants outside were growing, and he was inexplicably convinced that it was springtime, with everything lush and green, the sweet fragrance of flowers floating and spreading in the air, the florist unable to contain its blissful sweetness.

The woman was silent for a moment. She shifted, about to say something, when suddenly a roof beam collapsed in front of them. If Qinghe hadn't stopped in time, they might have died down there.

It's only about five meters away from the exit.

Qinghe hadn't found a suitable gap to cross yet—he himself might not die, but he had to ensure the safety of these two people. The woman got off him, took the child from his arms, and smiled gently at him. Qinghe couldn't move while these actions were happening. He watched as she stroked his hair, the soft strands falling from one side to his eyes.

He then realized that he had lowered his head at some point, as if in mourning and in silent tribute, or as if expressing apology and remorse.

The scorching wind swept over him, but he could only feel normal temperatures.

He had long forgotten that it was all a dream.

Even if he remembered, he wouldn't feel relieved to have survived a nightmare because "it was just a dream."

“This is the end,” the woman told him. She lifted the child high, her expression like that of a victor raising her scepter: “Our death is like yours, without happiness, without pain, and we muster our courage to face it.”

Because they really died in his memory.

Not only things that actually happened can be called memories.

*

I sat up in bed, tears streaming down my face. I couldn't control the tears any longer, and they just kept wetting my eyelashes and cheeks.

I don't remember what I dreamt about, only that I touched something. That thing was hot and burning, scorching my heart, and then sprouting from the ashes.