Return to Dust

As seasons passed, the dish of clear water on the windowsill had long since dried up. The tender yellow and green blossoms of the cabbage roots, after their brief lifespan, eventually withered, leaving only a wisp of shrunken brown roots clinging to the bottom of the dish, like a mark dried by time. Lin Xiaoning didn't throw it away, but left it there, as if the remains themselves were an answer—evidence of life's struggle, regardless of its outcome.

The days stretched into a monotonous, resilient line. With Sister Wang's half-joking, half-serious advice that a breakfast shop could keep him going, and the support of his parents, who had almost exhausted their last bit of savings, Lin Xiaoning bought a small shop, just over a dozen square meters, at the entrance of an old residential complex not far from home. The name was straightforward: "Ningning Convenience Store." The sign, with white lettering on a red background, had a cheesy, festive air, yet also conveyed a clumsy effort to stay firmly grounded.

Business wasn't good or bad. Early mornings and evenings were peak hours, when she sold cigarettes, drinks, and snacks to neighbors rushing to and from work and to hungry children after school. Most of the time, the shop was deserted. She sat behind the glass counter, watching the sky outside, cut into squares. Light and shadows slowly shifted across the shelves, and dust drifted in the beams of light. The air was mingled with the scent of cigarettes, plastic wrappers, and a hint of moldy old paper. There was no hushed chatter here, no sharp glances to be constantly deciphered. There was only the trivial transactions of a packet of salt or a bottle of soy sauce, and the occasional casual chat about the rise and fall of vegetable prices. Her parents often came over, her mother helping her clean and count the goods, while her father silently moved heavy objects and repaired broken shelves. Their presence brought a touch of life to the small space, but also a silent, heavy weight of expectation that weighed heavily on her shoulders, which still felt weak.

This near-stagnant calm didn't completely dispel the chill within her. She continued to take her antidepressant medication regularly, but the exhaustion that sank into her bones and the occasional, empty, feeling of wanting to give up everything still recurred like ghosts. However, they no longer carried the devastating force they once did. The daily grind of the store felt like a mild anesthetic, a low-intensity rehabilitation exercise, forcing her to get up, open the door, and confront the real, concrete people and events, preventing her from completely wallowing in the turmoil within.

With more time to herself at the empty store, she began experimenting with online writing. Using a completely unfamiliar ID, devoid of any trace of "Lin Xiaoning," she sporadically recorded her thoughts on a niche writing platform. She wrote about the timid yet curious stray cats passing by the convenience store, the silent silhouette of the shoe repairman across the street, who sat all day, the exhausted look on the face of the overworked worker who came to buy instant noodles late at night... She also wrote completely fictional stories, shattering past heartbreaking betrayals, unbearable transactions, and bone-chilling despair, blending them into fictional characters and plots. She carefully obscured all real place names, company names, and personal names, as if constructing an isolated sandbox to house memories and emotions that could not be expressed in real life.

She had only a handful of followers, and the occasional like or comment was mostly polite encouragement. She didn't care. The allure and anxiety of monetizing traffic were, for her, a mere illusion from a previous life. She saw through the rules of the game woven by algorithms and capital, knowing it was just another golden cage, seemingly free but actually confining. She wrote no longer to prove anything or gain anything, but simply because the very act of characters dancing on the screen was like a form of organization, a silent confession. She captured those chaotic, sharp fragments in the form of words, examined them, even... tamed them. This brought her a strange, almost healing calm. She wrote every day, unable to stop, as if it were her only safe way to stay connected to the outside world without being swallowed up.

One afternoon, the rain was drizzling, and the shop was almost empty. Lin Xiaoning was staring blankly at his computer screen, composing a story segment about a river and a ferryman. The doorbell rang, bringing in a damp, cold wind and a thick, sour smell mixed with sweat and dust.

A homeless man walked in. His hair and beard were tangled, covering most of his face. His clothes were tattered and greasy, their original color barely visible. His cracked rubber shoes were stained with mud. He stood timidly at the door, not daring to go in. His eyes greedily scanned the food on the shelves, and a gurgling sound came from his throat as he swallowed.

In the past, Lin Xiaoning might have felt disgust and wariness, subconsciously wanting to drive him away. But now, looking at those eyes glimpsed from behind their tangled hair, filled with an animal-like survival instinct and a hint of humble pleading, her heart inexplicably softened. She recalled the embarrassment of being penniless after her account was frozen, and the feeling of helplessness and bewilderment she felt standing at the door of the law firm.

"Come in, it's raining heavily outside." Her voice was calm, even with a hint of gentleness that she herself was not aware of.

The homeless man was flattered and moved in, leaving a few wet footprints on the floor. He didn't ask for money, but simply pointed to the cheapest bag of bread on the counter. Lin Xiaoning handed him one and handed him an open bottle of mineral water. The homeless man took it and gobbled it up, choking and stretching his neck.

After finishing his meal, he didn't leave immediately. Instead, he seemed to unleash a chatterbox, rambling on and on. His accent was mixed, his words chaotic, but Lin Xiaoning understood the gist of it. He said he'd been wandering for over three years, moving through many places, sleeping under bridges, picking up trash, being chased away, and being bitten by dogs. He spoke of the winter cold, the summer mosquitoes, and the delicious visions he'd see when he was starving... His narration lacked much grief or indignation, but instead had an almost numb calm, and even... occasionally, a hint of incomprehensible enjoyment.

"Bitter? Of course it's bitter." He grinned, revealing his yellow-black teeth, and smiled. That smile had a strange sense of clarity. "But sister, think about it, what taste is not a taste? Sweetness is a taste, bitterness is also a taste. Being full is a taste, and being extremely hungry is also a taste. Others smiling at you is a taste, and being beaten and scolded is also a taste... All the feelings in this world, once you have tasted them, they are yours. Bitterness itself is a kind of enjoyment, really, don't disbelieve it... It's just that we are unwilling to admit it, always thinking of hiding, thinking of escaping."

Lin Xiaoning was stunned. Those words were like a bolt of lightning, splitting a dark corner of her heart. "Suffering itself is a kind of enjoyment." Such a paradoxical statement, yet so sharp. She recalled the agonies she had endured: the coldness of betrayal, the humiliation of being scrutinized, the weightlessness and shattering pain of falling from a height, the self-loathing that gnawed at her soul in the dead of night... They had once tormented her so deeply and so realistically that she wished she could rip her flesh and bones apart. But now, in the mouth of this sour-smelling homeless man, these extreme pains could actually be attributed with the attribute of "enjoyment"?

Could it be that enduring and remembering pain itself, like savoring the sweetness of a piece of candy, is simply a pure, life-giving experience? Why do people, including herself, instinctively resist and avoid pain, viewing it as something utterly negative, wishing to completely eliminate it from their lives? If we shift our perspective and simply "experience" it, like a rainstorm or a cold winter, without judgment, simply feeling the intensity and texture of its existence, then would pain lose its attached, debilitating "meaning"? Would it become reduced to a pebble in the river of life—a prickly stone when stepped on, but the current still carries you forward, and that pain eventually becomes part of your sense of existence, even... taking on a strange, tingling "sweetness" in the distant past?

The thought was so shocking that it made her shudder. She watched the homeless man finish his last bite of bread, wipe his mouth contentedly, and bow to her again with an awkward gesture. He turned, pushed the door open, and reentered the hazy rain. His back seemed surprisingly composed. Silence returned to the shop, leaving only the monotonous sound of rain pounding against the awning. Lin Xiaoning, however, felt something inside her quietly loosening, disintegrating, then slowly reorganizing itself in a new way.

After closing the shop for the evening, she returned to her small, still crowded, yet familiar home. Lele had already gone to bed; Wang Shumin was away on duty tonight. Her parents watched a bit of TV and then retired. The house was peaceful. She finished washing up and stood in front of the bathroom mirror, looking at herself. Her face was still pale, and fine lines were clearly visible at the corners of her eyes, but deep within her eyes, the emptiness and panic that had once filled them seemed to have been replaced by something more complex and calm.

She suddenly remembered the homeless man's words from the day before, and her thoughts drifted further. The world is filled with so many life-and-death struggles and conflicts, large and small, between nations, between interest groups, and between individuals, endless and seemingly eternal. So, within her own body, among the trillions of cells, is there also an equally fierce, perhaps even more brutal, "war" constantly going on?

Immune cells constantly patrol, identifying and eliminating diseased and cancerous cells. Is this a life-and-death struggle? New cells replace old and dead ones. Is this a silent, microscopic process of metabolism and iteration? Beneficial and harmful bacteria vie for territory in the intestines, maintaining a dynamic balance... The entire body is a miniature universe, filled with cooperation, competition, engulfment, birth, and death. Do they experience pain? Or ecstasy? How do they navigate these eternal contradictions? Perhaps there's no need for "processing" at all, simply following some primal, fundamental law: existence, then evolution. Survival of the fittest, elimination of the unfit. Pain and struggle are merely common accompaniments of this grand process, perhaps even part of its driving force.

She extended her finger, gently touching the cool mirror, her fingertips resting on her own chest in the reflection. There, her heart beat steadily, her blood flowed, and countless cells silently clamored, fighting, cooperating, and dying. None of this required her conscious "I" to direct or worry about it. They existed independently, possessing a powerful life instinct that transcended individual will.

If we could let go of the overly burdensome "I" of "Lin Xiaoning" for a moment, stop clinging to the glorious past and the unbearable scars, stop trying to completely control the course of our destiny, and instead trust, as we trust our body's instincts, the power of life itself to take root and grow upward, would we then find some freedom from this endless self-entanglement? Just like the cabbage root, which, without thinking, simply follows its instincts, can struggle to sprout a new green in clear water; just like the homeless man, who, even in the midst of extreme material deprivation, can savor the very taste of "bitterness."

She no longer questioned the future, no longer worried about returning to the past, and no longer demanded that her inner peace remain forever. She simply stared at herself in the mirror, at those eyes that reflected the bathroom light and the birth and death of countless microscopic universes. For the first time, she didn't try to find a definitive answer.

Outside the window, the sounds of the city's nighttime hustle and bustle were low and steady. In this world, in this body, war and peace were constantly unfolding. And she, a mere speck of dust in this vast process, a small world that had experienced its share of stormy waves and was now learning to coexist with the mud and sand.

Completed