Chapter 123 doesn't seem so lonely anymore.

Three years later, in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo, Africa, at a UN peacekeeping force camp.

In a relatively sturdy prefabricated steel building in the center of the camp, a tribal reconciliation meeting had been going on for several hours. Around the long table sat representatives from two long-time rival tribes, local government officials, UN officials, and international observers.

All eyes were focused on the figure presiding over the meeting at one end of the long table.

Song Zhiyi.

Three years had honed that calmness into a more reserved and resilient demeanor. She wore a light blue shirt, standard for the United Nations, with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing her tanned forearms. Her hair was shorter, neatly tucked behind her ears. In front of her were documents, maps, and notebooks, and beside her sat a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

At this moment, she was guiding the meeting in fluent and clear French, while also translating key terms in Swahili and the local dialect. Her voice was not loud, but it carried a steady strength.

“Chief Ngongtu,” she said, turning to a stern-faced old man on her left, “I understand your anger over last year’s pasture dispute. But according to the verified map markings and oral histories, there is a traditional agreement for the seasonal alternation of use in the disputed area.” She pushed over a satellite map and a hand-drawn diagram. “Violent evictions cannot solve the problem of seasonal cycles.”

She then turned to a middle-aged man on her right who was agitated: “Mr. Kasongo, the amount of compensation you are proposing needs to be based on a verifiable list of losses. Prior to this, the road blockade prevented another village from obtaining water, which violated the core clause of the ceasefire agreement guaranteeing basic humanitarian needs.”

Her words were precise and her logic rigorous. Sweat trickled down her forehead, which she wiped away casually, her gaze remaining sharp.

The meeting progressed with difficulty. The afternoon's consultations finally showed signs of improvement. The two sides reached preliminary verbal agreements on several points, including temporary grazing arrangements, third-party involvement in damage assessment, and a monitoring mechanism for reopening water access roads. While a final settlement is still far off, this represents the most constructive progress in months.

When Song Zhiyi announced the end of the meeting and that consultations would continue tomorrow, the hostility on the faces of the attendees seemed to lessen slightly.

After seeing the representatives off, she let out a long sigh of relief, leaned back in her chair, and rubbed her temples. Several hours of intense translation, mediation, and managing the situation had taken a toll. Her assistant handed her a bottle of water, which she thanked and accepted.

I went to the window for some fresh air and looked out at the camp. A brand-new, sky-blue painted bungalow had just been completed, with a sign on the roof that read in three languages: "Peace Hope Primary School – Built with aid from the Huo's Peace and Development Foundation." Workers were doing the final cleaning, and a group of local children were gathered at the door, their dark faces beaming with excited smiles.

A school built with the assistance of the Huo family. Yet another one.

Over the course of three years, the Huo Foundation's projects were a constant presence in many of the challenging areas she worked in. Wells, clinics, and even more so, schools. She knew this was no coincidence. This was someone quietly laying the foundation for peace on the front lines of her work to eliminate the root causes of conflict, in his own way.

Looking at the children's smiles, a gentle warmth appeared on Song Zhiyi's tired face. Education is one of the most important keys to breaking the cycle of poverty and violence. Huo Yanli had indeed found the right direction.

Back at her desk, she opened her encrypted laptop and tackled the backlog of emails. A weekly report from the local program manager at the Hock Foundation lay in her inbox, detailing the completion of the new elementary school, progress in teacher recruitment, and plans for community integration activities next quarter. The report was professional and comprehensive, and even included close-up photos of the children's delighted expressions when they first saw their new desks and chairs.

She quickly skimmed through them, replied with a few key instructions and thanks, and copied them to her colleagues in the relevant UN departments. It was work, purely professional correspondence. But every time she saw these reports, and witnessed the tangible changes taking place, a complex warmth would well up within her.

As soon as I closed the email interface, a special encrypted communication software icon started flashing. This channel is only used for the most urgent or private information transmission.

She clicked on it. It was Huo Yanli.

There were no pleasantries, only a line of text and a picture.

Text: "Following the Amman incident, this is an improved third-generation portable water purifier sample. It's 40% smaller than the previous generation, has double the filter life, and is suitable for single-person transport. It has passed basic testing. Detailed specifications and trial application procedures are attached."

The image shows a military-green, sturdy-looking, lightweight, bottle-shaped device.

Song Zhiyi's heart skipped a beat. That night in Amman, she had casually mentioned that reliable, on-demand water purification was a major issue during field research, especially for solo workers. She hadn't expected him to remember it and actually drive improvements.

She stared at the text and image for a few seconds, her fingertips hovering over the keyboard. Finally, she replied with four words, as concise as ever: "Received. Thank you."

There were no superfluous words. But this "support," which crossed oceans and precisely responded to actual needs, carried more weight than any flowery language. He remained true to his initial promise: to be a "markable supply point," providing tangible, but not overstepping, assistance when she needed it.

Almost simultaneously with her reply, another message arrived, still brief: "The rainy season is approaching in eastern DRC; please be aware of malaria prevention. The foundation will be delivering a batch of new mosquito repellent and rapid testing kits to the local hospital next week; the list has been shared with your logistics department."

Song Zhiyi took a soft breath. He was always like this, wrapping his concern in practical work-related messages. She replied again, "Understood. I'll keep an eye on it."

The conversation ended there. There was no small talk, no greetings. But it was precisely this restrained yet efficient interaction that made this "comradeship" that transcended time and space seem exceptionally solid and reliable.

Three years have passed. She remains here, on the edge of conflict, on a land where mud and hope intertwine, doing arduous yet meaningful work. Exhaustion, danger, and loneliness are her constant companions. But whenever she sees disputes temporarily quelled by her efforts, and smiles blooming because of tangible aid, she feels that it has all been worthwhile.

Her journey continues through mountains and rivers, where all is well. But amidst these mountains and rivers, another person's silent yet steadfast footsteps echo hers in a way she approves of, walking alongside her, even though they are still separated by thousands of miles and that unspoken yet mutually understood and restrained distance.

Another day on the banks of the Congo River slipped away amidst sweat, negotiations, small breakthroughs, unexpected warmth, and silent concern. The road ahead, though still long, no longer seemed so lonely.