Land of Dreams

As the captain's steady voice came over the cabin intercom, Ah Yu was staring blankly at the clouds outside the window. The bluish-white clouds, like torn cotton wool, stretched layer upon layer towards the sky, and for a moment, they even overlapped with the illustrations in Lin Wanqing's notebook from many years ago. That sketchbook with its worn edges was still lying at the bottom of the suitcase, with half a dried eucalyptus leaf tucked inside—they had picked it up at a charity farm outside Paris, when she had squatted on the edge of the field drawing dandelions, the wind swirling the fluff onto the drawing paper like someone had scattered a handful of stars.

"What are you thinking about?" Lin Wanqing handed her a glass of warm water, her fingertips still cool from the cabin air conditioning. She had just woken up, and her bangs were a little messy, but they looked better than any carefully styled look. The sunshade wasn't fully closed, and the sunlight slanted across her profile, casting a soft shadow on her nose, like a sketch gently softened by time.

Ah Yu paused as she took the water glass, the water droplets on the glass wetting her fingertips: "I was thinking about the sea you painted."

When Lin Wanqing smiled, fine lines appeared at the corners of her eyes, gentle marks left by time on her face. "Back then, I always thought that the bluest place in the world must be in a corner of the map that wasn't marked in red." She looked out the window, her tone filled with childlike longing, "I never thought I would actually be standing here."

Seven hours later, the view outside the porthole changed from a sea of ​​clouds to a continuous expanse of green. As the small propeller plane skimmed low over the coastline, Ah Yu heard Lin Wanqing gasp. Pearl-white sand beaches dotted the emerald-green sea, volcanic rocks eroded by the waves into honeycomb-like holes, and spray crashing against the reefs shattered like snowflakes, like gems casually scattered by the gods. Ah Yu gripped Lin Wanqing's hand tightly; the warmth of her palm seeped through their interlocked fingers, more comforting than the cabin's heating—just like three years ago in the Congolese refugee camp, when she held his hand like this as they walked through the mud, with the dust kicked up by UN peacekeeping armored vehicles behind them.

The town where they stayed was nestled among volcanic rocks and coconut groves, with colorful wooden houses lining the winding coastline like an overturned palette. The guesthouse owners were an elderly Dutch couple; the husband always wore a faded floral shirt, and the wife always had a fresh frangipani flower pinned to her silver hair. As she handed them chilled lime juice, she pointed to a yellowed photograph on the wall and said, "Fifty years ago, he and I made a vow by this sea to live our lives as colorful as the rainbow."

The young man in the photo was wearing bell-bottoms and laughing heartily on the beach. Lin Wanqing stared at the photo for a long time, then turned to Ya Yu and said, "Look, happiness really does come in many forms." She ran her fingertip along the edge of the photo, where there was a faint crease. "Just like that year in Paris, when you said you would accompany me to do charity work, I also felt that such days were wonderful."

They rented a vintage motorcycle, its sky-blue body rusted, with a string of seashell wind chimes hanging from the handlebars. Every morning, Ah Yu would go to the bakery on the corner to buy freshly baked banana pancakes, while Lin Wanqing would write in her diary on the terrace of the guesthouse. Before setting off, she would squeeze sunscreen into his palm, watching him clumsily apply it behind his ears, then smiling as she wiped the white residue off his earlobes.

When cruising along the coastline, Lin Wanqing always loved to sit in the back seat. When the wind tousled her long hair, Ah Yu could smell the scent of sea salt and gardenias—the aroma of handmade soaps she'd found at the local market. One day, passing a deserted bay, she suddenly patted his shoulder and exclaimed, "Look!"

On the shallows after the tide receded, countless plankton shimmered in the moonlight. Each step sent up tiny blue sparks, like strolling on the Milky Way. Lin Wanqing ran barefoot, her skirt sweeping across the water, leaving long trails of light, like a sprite walking on a galaxy. Ah Yu chased after her, camera in hand, the clicks of her shutter mingling with the sound of the waves, becoming the most beautiful rhythm of the night. She suddenly turned, the moonlight shining into her smiling eyes, brighter than any starlight.

"Do you remember?" Lin Wanqing suddenly asked as she sat on the rocks drying her hair. The sea breeze carried her words, salty and damp. "Back in Paris, you said that once we found the place we truly wanted to go, we would bury all our troubles in the sand."

Ah Yu draped his coat over her shoulders, the salty sea breeze carrying a chill: "I remember. You said we should bury ourselves deep so we wouldn't be washed back when the tide comes in." He recalled that drizzly afternoon when they sat on a bench on the Seine, watching the cruise ships cleave the grey-green water. Lin Wanqing had just finished a charity event rescuing homeless children, her eyes weary, yet she still stubbornly said, "One day, we'll go to a place where we can see clear seawater."

The two looked at each other and laughed, their laughter startling the seabirds perched on the rocks. In the distance, fishing lights twinkled like stars scattered across the sea; for a moment, it was hard to tell whether they were stars fallen from the sky into the sea, or bioluminescence rising from the sea into the night sky. Lin Wanqing suddenly pointed to the horizon and said, "Look at that cloud, doesn't it look like the sun drawn by a Congolese child?" Ah Yu looked in the direction she was pointing and indeed saw a cloud with gold-edged edges, like a crooked circle drawn by a child with crayons.

On their third day in the small town, they were caught in a sudden downpour. Large raindrops pounded against the motorcycle windshield, making a pattering sound. Taking shelter in a seaside café, the raindrops on the glass transformed the world into an impressionistic painting. The old painter next to them was painting the sea, his chapped fingers gripping his brush, applying distinct layers of blue to the canvas—from the mint green near the shore to the indigo of the deep sea, and then to the cobalt blue of the horizon, as if he had blended all his dreams about the sea into his work.

“When I was young, I always wanted to paint the most magnificent waves,” the old man said, taking a sip of rum, his cloudy eyes gleaming. “But now that I’m old, I realize that the most moving thing is that fleeting white at the crest of the wave.” He pointed to the lower left corner of the canvas, where a few strokes of white paint were applied, like the marks left by waves kissing the beach.

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