Mother

After I finished the snow scene, I didn't take it down and put it away, or nail it to the wall as usual. It just stayed on the easel, that tiny bit of warm yellow amidst the cool white, like a silent and stubborn declaration.

The days continued to flow at a new rhythm. I sketched the black wall, painted memory fragments, handled Foundation affairs, occasionally exchanged emails with Chen Hui, and even began attempting to depict the real-time scenery outside the window, as I had that day. These activities filled my time, interwoven into a complex yet stable structure that supported me and prevented me from falling into the initial emptiness.

My copy of that black wall is nearing completion. The further I go, the more hesitant I become. It's not fatigue, but the realization that once the last area is copied onto paper, this long ritual will conclude. I somewhat resist this ending. It has become a constant channel for my daily dialogue with the intense past.

For the final area, I chose the area surrounding that grayish-purple spot. It was the center of the emotional storm on the wall, yet also its softest and most delicate spot. I spent almost an entire day mixing the colors as closely as possible, my brushstrokes extremely light and slow, as if afraid to disturb anything. When the final stroke was complete, I set down my brush and took a few steps back.

"Copies" of the entire wall, in the form of countless pieces of paper, large and small, densely covered the side walls. Together, they formed a vast, calm contour map of an emotional earthquake. I stood there, looking at this "wall of analysis" and then at the original "wall of occurrence" across from me. A huge sense of completion enveloped me, accompanied by a slight sense of loss.

The ceremony is over, but perhaps the practice has just begun.

I carefully removed all the copies, sorted them in order, and stored them in archival-quality acid-free boxes. They are my "Black Sutra," a private document written in visual language about how to survive.

The studio suddenly seemed much emptier.

Then, the young sculptor funded by the foundation sent a message. Attached was a photo. It was no longer the hopeless, half-finished work from before, but a fully cast metal work.

It was a reshaped, twisted piece of copper, its surface intricately processed, bearing both traces of violent compression and incredibly smooth curves that reflected subtle light. As he put it, it exhibited a strange texture that was both "sad and beautiful," silent yet powerful.

In the email, he wrote: "Thank you. That sentence was more useful than any technical guidance. It's still there, that feeling. I caught it."

I stared at the photo, speechless for a long time. An indescribable emotion welled up in my chest, deeper than joy, more complex than relief. It was a tangible sense of connection that transcended personal grief. Through my hands, the resources Zhou Yu left behind borne a small, resilient fruit in the hands of this young stranger.

I replied, "Great. Keep going."

---

As the Spring Festival approaches, a noisy and alienated atmosphere permeates the city. To me, the scene of reunion with thousands of lights on is like a silent movie watched through a glass.

My mother called, her tone cautious, testing my return. At this time of year in previous years, Zhou Yu would always arrange everything in advance and accompany me back. With his tactful and thoughtful manner, he would ease the awkwardness between me and my relatives and reassure my mother.

This year, it’s just me.

I held the phone, watching the lanterns gradually light up outside the window. I was silent for a few seconds, then said, "I'll call back. I'll call back myself."

On the other end of the phone, my mother was visibly relieved, and immediately started nagging again: "Okay, okay, I'll make you your favorite braised pig's trotters. The bacon I picked this year is also delicious... Be careful on the road alone, and don't bring too much..."

After hanging up the phone, I took a deep breath. Facing those concerned, and inevitably questioning, eyes alone wasn't easy. But I knew I had to go. For my mother, and for myself.

Before leaving, I visited Zhou Yu's grave. It wasn't Qingming Festival, so the cemetery was practically empty. The winter sun shone obliquely on the rows of cold stone tablets, making the scene seem especially solemn and quiet.

His tombstone was simple, with only his name and the dates of his birth and death. I put down the small reproduction of his watercolor of pothos that I had brought with me (I have kept the original), along with a sprig of fresh holly, its red berries standing out against the gray and white background.

I stood there for a moment, silent. The wind was cold, stinging and dry on my face. But my heart was at peace.

"I'm going back to spend the New Year with my mother." Finally, I said softly, like an ordinary farewell.

When he turned and left, his steps were not as heavy as when he came.

---

The high-speed train sped by, and the scenery outside the window quickly swept past. I wore headphones, but didn't listen to any music. I just looked out the window at the monotonous winter fields and the occasional village that flashed by.

My hometown hasn't changed much. The air is filled with the familiar aroma of food and firecracker debris. When my mother saw me, her eyes immediately reddened. She looked me up and down, muttering, "You've lost weight!" as she quickly pulled me into the warmth of the house.

The inevitable family dinner arrived. For a moment, the atmosphere at the table was subtly stagnant. Everyone seemed to be studiously avoiding asking any specific questions, simply asking about life and work in Beijing.

Until a distant relative who was not very tactful, drank a few more glasses, and sighed with a sigh: "Chen Zhi is alone now, what will he do in the future..."

The table fell silent instantly. My mother's smile froze.

I put down my chopsticks, met the relative's gaze, and said in a surprisingly calm tone, "I'm not alone. I'm just living alone temporarily."

After a pause, I added, my voice not loud but clear enough: "Besides, I'm doing well. I'm doing what I want to do."

The relative smiled awkwardly and said nothing more. My mother looked at me with a complicated expression, a mixture of surprise and heartache, which eventually turned into a silent support as she quietly squeezed my hand under the table.

At that moment, I knew that I had overcome some obstacles.

The Spring Festival Gala was still blaring, and the sound of firecrackers echoed outside the window. My mother and I sat on the sofa, watching TV and chatting about family matters. She asked about the foundation, and I tried to explain it in terms she could understand. She seemed to understand, but her eyes were filled with pride.

When my mother fell asleep while I was staying up all night, I covered her with a blanket and went to the balcony alone.

The cold air sobered people up. From time to time, brilliant fireworks exploded in the distant night sky, flickering and illuminating the darkness for a moment.

I pulled out my phone and clicked on the almost instinctive, pinned dialog box. Inside was countless daily sharing messages that had been sent but never responded to.

The latest one is a picture I just took of my mother’s silhouette sleeping on the sofa.

I typed: "Mom fell asleep. The Spring Festival Gala is still so boring."

"The braised pig's trotters are a bit salty, not as good as yours."

"They've banned firecrackers here, but it's still a bit noisy."

"Just now, I suddenly felt that you were just on a business trip, somewhere very far away."

"I'll take care of her and myself."

"Happy New Year, Zhou Yu."

Click send. Before the green message bar, there was still a cold, gray check mark indicating no one had received it.

But when I saw the message, my heart was no longer desolate.

Fireworks bloomed silently in the distance. The new year has arrived.

I returned to the house. I didn't bring my easel, but I did bring my sketchbook and pen. I sat beside my sleeping mother, and in the shifting light of the television screen, I began to sketch her as she slept. My brushstrokes were gentle, filled with love.

I know that after I return, the work that has been waiting on the easel for a long time, which only consists of two lines and a snow scene, will have new content.

It will no longer be about loss, but about how to continue living with memories.

And, live life to the fullest.