Eternal original intention

On a spring afternoon, sunlight filtered through newly sprouted sycamore leaves, casting dappled shadows on the worn concrete floor. Li Xiaoyu pushed Mo Xiaoyu's wheelchair, slowly entering the alleyway destined for demolition. This was once the site of their first office, now surrounded by demolition barriers. Only the familiar little bungalow stubbornly remained.

"I didn't expect that I could take another look at it before it was demolished." Mo Xiaoyu's voice was filled with a smile. Her hair was almost completely white, but her eyes were still as clear as before.

Li Xiaoyu used the key to unlock the rusted door, and the hinges made a familiar creaking sound. The twenty-square-meter space was empty, save for a few dusty cardboard boxes piled in a corner.

"Look," Mo Xiaoyu pointed to a faint mark on the windowsill, "that's the mark I made when I measured your height when you first came here."

Li Xiaoyu squatted down, her fingertips gently tracing the scars that had almost been smoothed away by time. Suddenly, she seemed to see her younger self, ponytailed and psychology textbook in her arms, in this small space, listening to Mo Xiaoyu's first talk about his dream of "healing psychology."

The original intention is not a souvenir for remembrance, but a compass deeply rooted in the blood, which always points you in the direction at the crossroads of life.

The wheelchair slowly moved across the uneven concrete floor. Mo Xiaoyu's eyes scanned every corner. "Remember? That winter when the heating broke, the three of us wrapped in the same blanket to work on the plan. Zhang Wei was crying from the cold, but you smiled and said it was a test of our 'adversity quotient.'"

"I remember." A gentle smile flashed across Li Xiaoyu's eyes. "Later, it was Uncle Wang next door who brought us a coal stove. He also said it's not easy for young people to start a business."

They opened the dusty boxes, revealing yellowed meeting minutes, hand-drawn event posters, and stacks of letters from beneficiaries. Li Xiaoyu carefully flipped through them and suddenly pulled out a photo—it showed a young Mo Xiaoyu squatting over a crying girl, gently wiping her tears.

"This is..."

"Xiaoya," Mo Xiaoyu said softly, "our first official recipient. I heard she's now a psychological counselor and has opened a studio in her hometown in the northwest."

On the back of the photo, there is a line of beautiful words: "Thank you for letting me see the light. Now I have become the light for others."

The value of life lies not in how much you possess, but in how many other lives you can illuminate.

Li Xiaoyu pushed Mo Xiaoyu around the room slowly. The sunlight shone through the dilapidated window lattice, drawing bright beams of light in the air.

"Actually, I've been thinking a lot lately," Mo Xiaoyu suddenly said, "What have we left behind in this life?"

Li Xiaoyu paused and pulled a tablet from her bag. The screen displayed a dynamic map—countless dots of light flickered, flowed, and connected across the landscape of China and the world.

"Look," she said softly, "this is our current network of influence. Every dot of light is a functioning 'Spirit Station' or 'Lighthouse Project'; every flowing line is a trained volunteer; and every newly lit dot of light..."

She zoomed in on an area in the northwest, saying, "Everyone here could be a new Xiaoya, becoming a light for others."

Mo Xiaoyu stared at the star-like map for a long time in silence. The afternoon breeze blew in through the shabby window, bringing with it the scent of spring.

"Do you remember you asked me why we named the foundation 'Healing Psychology'?" Mo Xiaoyu suddenly asked.

"You said at the time that you wanted psychology to be more than just cold terminology, but rather a warm and practical wisdom."

"Now what? What do you make of this name?"

Li Xiaoyu thought for a moment, then pushed her wheelchair to the window and pointed at the children playing in the alley outside. "Look, they don't need to understand cognitive behavioral therapy or humanism. They just need a warm hug when they're hurt, a sincere word of encouragement when they're lost, and a companion when they're lonely. That's healing."

The deepest wisdom is often hidden in the most ordinary life.

The sun began to set, gilding the soon-to-disappear space. Li Xiaoyu squatted in front of Mo Xiaoyu's wheelchair and held her wrinkled hand.

"Teacher, I sometimes get scared. I'm afraid that we're not doing well enough, and that we've let down so many people's trust."

Mo Xiaoyu held her hand, just like he had twenty years ago: "Xiaoyu, look at the sycamore tree outside the window. Its leaves will fall in autumn and wither in winter, but when spring comes, new buds will naturally sprout. Each of us is just a leaf on this land in the previous season."

She leaned slightly from her wheelchair and pulled a rusty key from the crack in the windowsill. "This is the spare key that Mr. Wang from next door left us. Before he died, he told me that no matter what this house became, he must leave a key for us. He said this was the starting point of so much hope."

Li Xiaoyu took the rusty key and felt it was as heavy as a thousand pounds.

The sun was setting as we left. Its golden light cast a shadow over the shattered walls of the demolition zone, creating a sense of ruined beauty. Li Xiaoyu pushed Mo Xiaoyu down the long alley, her shadow stretching out behind her.

"What are your plans next?" Mo Xiaoyu asked.

"I want to start a 'spiritual archaeology' project," Li Xiaoyu's voice sounded especially gentle in the sunset, "to collect and organize the stories and wisdom of these vanishing communities. Just like the key that Grandpa Wang left us, some things shouldn't be lost with the bulldozer."

Mo Xiaoyu nodded with satisfaction. "Very good. Remember, it's not the form that changes, but the heart behind it that always beats for others."

They reached the entrance of the alley and looked back. The small bungalow stood quietly in the sunset, as if telling something, as if quietly waiting.

"Teacher, do you think anyone will still remember us a hundred years from now?"

Mo Xiaoyu smiled, a smile that seemed especially peaceful in the sunset. "Look at the setting sun. How could it care if anyone remembers its light? It simply warms the world according to its own nature. And if we can be like this setting sun, illuminating a few corners and warming a few hearts before disappearing, then our lives will not be in vain."

Li Xiaoyu pushed her wheelchair forward without looking back, because she knew that some places would disappear, but some things would last forever—just like that rusty key, which, although it could no longer open any physical door, could always open the invisible door between hearts.

Night slowly fell, and the first star lit up the sky. At this moment of transition between day and night, Li Xiaoyu understood a truth: every era has its dark nights, but there are always those who keep their lights on. All she had to do was pass on the light she held, believing that a single spark could start a prairie fire.

Because the eternity of life does not lie in the length of existence, but in how we have lived, how we have loved, and how we have illuminated other lives. Just like a drop of water will eventually flow into the sea, but as long as it has reflected the sun's light, its value is eternal.

We are just a drop of water in the long river of time, but if we can reflect a ray of sunshine and nourish the land, we will be eternal.