Snow Mountain Rehabilitation Road

As the train bound for Tibet bumped along the Tanggula Pass, Zhong Hua suddenly clutched his chest and bent over. Ah Yu's freshly brewed butter tea had spilled onto his trousers. Ignoring the heat, he reached out to help her, his fingertips touching her cashmere sweater soaked with cold sweat on her back.

"It hurts again?" He rummaged through his canvas bag and pulled out an oxygen tank, holding the mask to her face. Zhong Hua shook her head, her knuckles white as she gripped the car window handle—outside the window, the glacier was melting in the sunset, the meltwater seeping down the ice fissures like someone bleeding in the snow.

“It’s an old problem.” As she caught her breath, the scar behind her ear from the mudslide was red. “The doctor said that at an altitude of over 4,000 meters, the lungs will feel like crumpled paper.”

Ah Yu pressed her head against his shoulder, inhaling the lavender scent mixed with medicinal notes from her hair. It was essential oil she had bought in Provence before the trip; Zhong Hua said the smell reminded him of the crackling flames in the fireplace of a guesthouse. At that moment, Tibetan folk songs filled the carriage. He counted the shadows her eyelashes cast on his collarbone and suddenly realized she had lost a significant amount of weight since his interview with the Gu family last year.

Upon arriving in Lhasa, the Tibetan guide who greeted us handed us two strings of Bodhi seeds. "Drolma said you're going to circumambulate the mountain?" the guide, Tenzin, asked in accented Mandarin, pointing to the distant, cloud-shrouded peaks. "That mountain is the goddess's dressing table; circumambulating it three times will ward off misfortune."

Zhong Hua's hands trembled as she took the bodhi beads. Ah Yu noticed the bandage peeking out from under her sleeve—after the last press conference, she had cut her wrist with a deep gash that exposed bone when she tried to retrieve evidence hidden by Gu Yanming's remaining forces. He calmly exchanged his bodhi bead string for hers; he had been handling those beads for half a year, and the patina on them was as warm and smooth as a piece of jade.

Their guesthouse was halfway up the mountain, and from the window, they could see the pilgrims on the prayer wheel path. Every morning, Zhong Hua would move a rattan chair to the porch and watch the people prostrating themselves every three steps. One day, she pointed to an old woman prostrating herself and asked, "Do you think people can really atone for their sins through piety?"

Ah Yu was brewing Tibetan medicine to nourish her lungs, and the fritillaria cirrhosa in the pot made a soft popping sound. "Gu Yanting said in his suicide note that he dreamed of the polluted river every night." He added a cow dung cake to the fire pit, and sparks flew onto the blue brick floor. "But atonement is not for others to see."

Zhong Hua suddenly laughed out loud, and the scar behind her ear twitched. "Do you still remember Lin Wanqing?" She pulled a worn notebook out of her canvas bag. On the first page was a photo of the three of them at a cocktail party—back then, she was still Gu Yanting's "President's Wife." Lin Wanqing was handing champagne to A Yu, while A Yu's camera was always pointed at her, who was holding a recording pen.

“She emailed yesterday saying she’s built a primary school in Africa.” Zhong Hua’s fingertips traced Lin Wanqing’s smiling face in the photo. “She said that when we visit her, she will teach the children to sing ‘The Olive Tree.’”

As the aroma of medicine wafted from the kitchen, Ah Yu saw Zhong Hua press her notebook to her chest. Her breathing quickened again, and he quickly poured her a cup of butter tea, handing it to her, but she grabbed his wrist instead. "Come with me to the prayer wheel tomorrow," she said, her palm tasting of the bitter taste of Tibetan medicine. "Dunzhu said the prayer wheel at the highest point is a hundred years old."

The pilgrimage route was more difficult than expected. Zhong Hua had to stop and catch her breath every three steps, while Ah Yu carried her camera bag on her back, her other hand always gently supporting her waist. On one steep slope, there was still some snow, and she slipped, falling into his arms—he smelled the lavender scent in her hair mixed with the crispness of the snowflakes, and suddenly remembered that rainy day when they reunited in Montmartre, Paris.

"Slow down." He rummaged through his bag and pulled out a red string, which he had bought on Barkhor Street before setting off. The stall owner said that if the red string was tied to a prayer wheel, one's wishes could travel up to heaven along the prayer wheel. When Zhong Hua took the red string, her fingertips inadvertently brushed against the back of his hand, and both of them withdrew their hands as if they had been burned.

The highest prayer wheel was about two people tall, its copper surface engraved with Sanskrit. Zhong Hua tiptoed to reach the handle of the prayer wheel, and Ah Yu noticed that her sleeve had slipped down, revealing the gauze wrapped around her wrist—when the stitches were removed from that wound, the doctor said it might leave a scar forever. He was about to speak when he saw her tie a red string to the copper ring of the prayer wheel, and the silver bell at the end of the string swayed gently.

"What did you wish for?" He pretended to adjust his backpack strap, but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the character "真" (zhen, meaning true/genuine) engraved on the silver bell on her red string. That was her pen name; she used it to serialize reports exposing the dark side of the industry in the newspaper years ago, and almost had her fingers broken by the Gu family.

Zhong Hua didn't answer, turning to look at the distant snow-capped mountains. Sunlight filtered through the clouds, streaming across the scar on her cheek, like gilding the gruesome wound. While she wasn't looking, Ah Yu quickly pulled a red string from his pocket—the same kind he'd secretly bought, with a tiny "Yu" engraved on the silver bell. His hands trembled as he tied the string, afraid the clinking of the brass rings would disturb her, but he didn't notice Zhong Hua secretly laughing at the reflection of the snow-capped mountains.

On the third lap, Zhong Hua suddenly stopped under the prayer flags. “Look,” she said, pointing to a wooden board covered by mani stones. It had “Truth Never Dies” written on it in red paint, the words blurred by wind and rain. “This was written by the environmental journalist who was killed by the Gu family last year.”

Ah Yu squatted down and touched the wooden board, discovering a series of dates engraved on the back—the very days of the arson attack on Gu's Chemical Warehouse. He suddenly recalled the words in Gu Yanting's suicide note: "Some truths are like stones beneath an iceberg, seemingly silent, yet capable of sinking an entire ship."

On the way back, Zhong Hua's breathing grew heavier and heavier. Ah Yu squatted down to carry her on his back, but she clung to his collar and wouldn't let go. "I can walk by myself," she said, her voice trembling with tears, the scar behind her ear turning bright red. "I don't want people to say that Zhong Hua has to live in someone else's protection for the rest of her life."

Ah Yu suddenly pulled her closer to him. The light from the fire pit spilled out of the guesthouse window, weaving a warm, cozy net at their feet. "Do you remember in Montmartre, Paris, when you were taking pictures of the sunset?" His chin rested on the top of her head, and he smelled the scent of lavender mixed with the smell of snow. "Back then, I was the first thing you saw in your lens, not because I was standing close by, but because you had wanted to take my picture for a long time."

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