The first rays of morning sunlight were awakened by the ringing of the copper bells under the eaves. The string of bells hanging above the inn's door, strung together by the town's children from colored stones and scrap copper, tinkled in the morning breeze, like someone gently knocking on the door of parting hearts. Ayu was the first to push open the wooden door. The stone path was still damp with last night's dew. She walked to the center of the courtyard, her long shadow trailing behind her, and looked up at the sky divided into four squares by the wooden lattice windows—a sky as blue as freshly washed coarse cloth, so clean it reminded her of the muddy wind on the ridges of the fields when she first arrived in the town.

"Sister Ayu, is this quilt folded correctly?" Xiaotang's voice came from the second floor, with a slightly sleepy nasal tone. Ayu looked up and saw the little girl leaning on the railing, holding a cotton quilt with a floral print in her arms. It was a "road blanket" that the innkeeper's wife had insisted on giving her, saying that the nights in the mountains were cool and the air conditioning on the train was strong.

"Arrange the blankets a bit more," Ayu said with a laugh, "and bring that sketchbook from under your pillow too, don't forget it."

Xiao Tang said "Oh" and shrank back. A rustling sound filled the inn, like silkworms eating leaves—Uncle Lin was packing the bamboo farm tools he'd bought, Sister Chen was stuffing osmanthus cakes wrapped in oil paper into her suitcase, and A-Kai was repeatedly adjusting the straw hat he'd bought at the market in front of the mirror. Last night, everyone had agreed that they didn't need to say goodbye this morning, they could just leave quietly. But when A-Yu entered the lobby, she saw the landlady squatting in front of the stove, filling a rough earthenware jar with freshly made plum sauce; the lotus leaf sealing the jar was still dripping wet.

"Take it," the proprietress said without looking up, her voice a little muffled, "mix it with porridge on the way. You city folks don't get this kind of fresh flavor."

Ayu took the earthenware jar; its warmth felt like holding a beating heart. She wanted to say something to express her gratitude, but her throat felt blocked. Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door. It was Uncle Zhou, with his white hair, carrying a string of wild walnuts tied with a red rope. On each walnut, crooked characters were carved with a knife: "Peace".

"These are for the children," Uncle Zhou said, pressing the walnuts into Ayu's hand, his knuckles rough like old tree bark. "These are mountain walnuts; cracking them open is good for the brain. You all, don't overwork yourselves in the city."

The sunlight grew brighter, shining through the carved window lattice onto the square table in the main hall. There, a basket of freshly picked wild berries, red as agate, had appeared sometime earlier, alongside several bouquets of wild chrysanthemums and foxtail grass. Suddenly, Ayu heard a sniffling sound behind her. Turning around, she saw Xiaotang holding a wild chrysanthemum, her eyes red-rimmed. Uncle Lin slung his bamboo farm tools over his shoulder and said in a gruff voice, "Look at your long faces. It's not like you're not coming back."

But when they reached the alley entrance with their suitcases, they found the entire alley packed with people. An auntie selling tea eggs held a basket of hot tea eggs and insisted on stuffing them into everyone's pockets; the hunter who had taken them to the mountains yesterday carried two skewers of smoked meat, saying it was for "the brothers in the city to have a taste"; even the aunties who always washed clothes by the stream put down their mallets and held out freshly embroidered handkerchiefs, stuffing them into the girls' hands.

"Here you go, young lady," an aunt with wild chrysanthemums tucked into her hair said, taking Ayu's hand and placing a handkerchief embroidered with twin lotus blossoms into her palm. "This flower is called 'Lotus of Unity' here, hoping that you will both find good marriages."

Ayu's fingertips touched the fine stitches on the handkerchief, embroidered by her aunties who had stayed up all night. She suddenly remembered the first night by the campfire, the aunties sitting around teaching them embroidery, the firelight reflecting the wrinkles on their faces like the rings of time. Xiaotang couldn't hold back her tears; Sister Chen put her arm around her shoulder, her own eyes reddening. Akai awkwardly accepted the smoked meat from the hunter's brother, wanting to say something joking, but his voice choked with emotion.

The most touching sight was that of Uncle Zhou, who walked shakily to the front, holding a walking stick—made of old mountain vines, with several red ribbons wrapped around it. "Ayu," he said, handing her the stick, "this vine has grown strong in the mountains for decades. When you walk on the mountain paths, use it as a support, as if Uncle is watching over you."

Ayu took the walking stick; the vine still carried the dampness and sunshine of the mountains. She suddenly remembered how Uncle Zhou always led them through the forest, using this walking stick to clear away thorns, muttering, "Walk slowly, don't step on the ant nest." At this moment, the walking stick felt heavy, as if it weighed down the affection of the entire town.

The train whistle drifted from afar, like a long sigh. Finally, everyone moved and left the alley. Looking back, the town's residents were still standing there, their figures shrouded in morning mist, like a gradually blurring ink painting. Ayu raised her cane and waved it forcefully, hearing a chorus of "Goodbye"s behind her, mixed with children singing nursery rhymes in their dialect.

On the way to the station, no one spoke much. The stone path stretched out beneath their feet, each step feeling like treading on the keys of a piano of memories. Xiao Tang, head down, played with the wild walnuts in her hand, and suddenly said, "Sister Ayu, the 'peace' that Uncle Zhou carved seems to be missing a dot."

Ayu leaned closer to take a look and, sure enough, the radical for "peace" (安) was missing a small stroke. She suddenly smiled and said, "That's Zhou Bo for you! He always said, 'In this life, how can one be perfect in everything? Leaving a little imperfection is how you remember to come back and make up for it.'"

Uncle Lin, carrying bamboo farm tools, suddenly stopped on a stone arch bridge. The stream beneath the bridge was still crystal clear, reflecting the green mountains on both banks. "Look," he said, pointing to the water, "when we first came here, the water was muddy from the spring floods, but now it's all clear."

Yes, time is like this stream, flowing by unnoticed. Ayu recalled the day they first arrived, when they argued heatedly about their destination, but now they were in the same small town, basking in the same sun, walking on the same soil, and listening to the same insect chirps. The sweat from working in the fields, the panic when lost in the mountains, the nights spent chatting under the stars, the moments of dancing at celebrations—all these are now like pebbles in the stream, settling deep in her memory, shimmering with a warm light.

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