Chapter 29

The story I'm about to tell is very simple.

Although I said I wanted to tell a story, I might not be very talented at it. If you'd like it to be something to enjoy with your drinks, that would be wonderful. But if not, could you at least offer a toast to it in a kind of remembrance after it's over?

After all, this is the end of a story. The wine is not only for that, but also for a new beginning.

What about you? Do you feel the same way? Have you had similar experiences or insights?

Okay, now I'm going to start talking.

It was a long, long time ago. Actually, this story is quite recent, but spatially it must have become very distant. Because the space is so far, we can't go there, so it became a story from a very, very long time ago.

Long, long ago, there lived a couple and their two children. Their neighbor was the younger son's childhood playmate.

The youngest son is a very fortunate person. He has the love of his parents, the love of all his elders, the love of his older brother, and the love of his friends. He basks in the sunshine of love, his eyes are always smiling, his mouth is always talking, and he faces the world with great interest and curiosity. He grows up healthy and strong with his family by his side, gaining knowledge, friendship, and the beauty and goodness of the world, and becoming a part of that beauty and goodness himself.

His life is too complicated to recount, because there are so many happy stories, making it difficult to tell one. Let's pick a typical example here, one that happened after he made a mistake. Even the punishment for his mistakes is a happy one for such a happy person, making this a very representative story of his life, allowing everyone to understand how happy he was.

On this very day, the youngest son committed a grave mistake: due to his addiction to video games and skipping classes, he ended up with a below-average grade in his first year of high school midterms. Previously, he had always been at the top of his class. He didn't need anyone to worry about his development; he only needed others to focus on whether he was receiving a lot of money and love. So, he dejectedly took his report card home, reluctant to show it to his family.

He even stopped eating, hid in his room, locked the door, and sat sadly on the bay window, afraid that his family would worry about him and that they would find out about his grades because they were worried about him.

He hadn't learned to lie yet. When his beautiful eyes blinked rapidly, it usually meant he was struggling with his own thoughts. Should he lie? A lie like "I did very well on the test" would make his parents feel betrayed and disappointed in him when they talked to other parents. But if he didn't lie, he would see the sad expressions on everyone's faces in the family tonight… The teacher always talked about good grades; not getting good grades would be letting down his family, letting down their sacrifices. He didn't want them to know that their efforts were useless, that they were wrong.

For the first time, he felt a pang of resentment at having so many people love him. But the next second, he shook his head violently, banishing the thought: How could he treat those who loved him like this? It was just an exam, and he was already having such thoughts about whether or not to lie for it. The more he thought about it, the sadder he became, feeling ashamed and worthless.

Later, he still took the initiative to tell his family. Their reaction surprised him, and he realized that there were some inaccuracies in what the teacher had said. A spirit of inquiry is something that should be cultivated from a young age, but under the pressure of those few words and the tension of the learning environment, he had doubted his closest relatives. He apologized to them with shame, promising that this would be the last time he did such a thing. Sure enough, in the next monthly exam, he achieved his previous grades.

This is the life I imagine. I think I should often think about it, often fantasize about this being my life, otherwise I wouldn't feel such nostalgia and longing in my heart, and I wouldn't have such an urge to cry. You know, even when I recall those painful memories, I don't cry. Those things just happened to me as stories, and the past is the past. I don't want to care about them anymore.

The tall man politely finished his drink, then waved it at me to indicate that he had finished it, and said: "I thought you were going to tell a sad story about yourself, or a poignant tale you'd heard from someone else."

I smiled, looking relaxed: "It's already past midnight, how can I talk about sad things? Besides, do I look like the kind of person who has had a tragic past?"

I pointed to myself and said incredulously, "You think I'm in a bad situation? You've really misjudged me." It was a really funny joke, and I laughed so hard I couldn't stand up straight. In the process of bending over backward, I accidentally bumped into a wine glass that someone had filled for me, and the wine spilled all over my face, sliding down my eyelids and cheeks.

I shook my head, trying to shake off the water: "I'm so happy."

I added, "On the contrary, do you guys really have nothing on your mind? If you do, I can try to help you comfort you, as a way of repaying you for the wine."

My gaze swept over the three of them. The tall, thin man seemed hesitant to speak, but the silent man next to him spoke first: "I have one."

“Sure, go ahead and ask.” I looked at him, looking every bit the spiritual mentor. “If it can help you, I definitely will.”

He didn't hesitate at all, and his expression remained calm. I watched his mouth open and close, and finally asked this question: Why are you talking to us?

He asked me.

My smile faded, and the two people next to him immediately covered his mouth. He didn't resist, because his question was over.

I don't need to look in the mirror to know my face looks angry. "Angry" isn't quite the right word; "cold" or "distorted" would be more accurate.

"Do you want me not to talk to you?" I pressed on, "Do you want that? It's so lonely, in this world, there's no one to talk to. It's just me here, right now, just me! I can help you, so why are you asking me this? Have I made you uncomfortable? I'm dedicated to creating or maintaining a harmonious environment, and if you feel that way, you should tell me first. I don't want to be suspicious, and I don't want anyone to get hurt. If you're angry, take it out on me, don't use this self-harming method!"

I grew increasingly agitated as I spoke, finally slamming my hand on the table and standing up. The bottle rattled on the small folding table before rolling off, but he, the one I was questioning, remained motionless. The two men beside him were also motionless. They seemed dead, like three statues, frozen in place. But his eyes shone brightly in the darkness, so bright that I clearly saw my own stubborn eyes and the nearly collapsing muscles in them. They were about to go on strike, but before they did, they diligently maintained their best working condition.

My cheeks twitched violently, draining all my strength. I slumped down, only to fall flat on my backside.

I sat there, somewhat bewildered, unsure where to look. I looked at the sky, but it was overcast. I looked around, and shadowy figures loomed all around. My eyes instinctively groped for the entrance to the residential complex, where a blurry, dark figure stood.

The other person was wearing a long overcoat; I wondered if he was even looking this way. I stared at him intently, forgetting that I looked like a mentally ill person about to have an attack on innocent passersby.

He could definitely escape before I had my attack. I thought, because the distance was just too far. So far that even if I sprinted at top speed, he could easily evade my pursuit at the same speed.

He stood there under the dim lights at the entrance of the residential complex. His shadow was short, just a short distance in front of his feet. I felt that distance was constantly shrinking and then growing, until a pair of leather shoes appeared in front of me. I looked up and saw his eyes, warm orange, or perhaps dark brown, with narrow pupils.

I smelled a faint fragrance, like the freesia that everyone uses on the streets. I had never smelled it before, but now, as if reminiscing, I felt a deep drowsiness and a long-lost tranquility in its scent.

I felt myself being held in someone's arms. The embrace was warm, so warm that it made me a little uncomfortable, with a slightly bitter taste. I blinked hard, and my unfocused pupils finally managed to catch a glimpse of the people who had just gathered, only to find a tightly closed roller shutter door.

I slowly closed my eyes. All around was still silent, so silent it felt as if I were the only person in the entire world.

A fleeting image flashed through my mind: a family of three, hand in hand, walking home. I inexplicably knew my brother wasn't excluded; he just wasn't there temporarily. The three of them were about to happily see another member of the family—such simple joy.

I can hear it. The child is pleading with his mother, saying he wants to go home.

I want to go home early.