The wings are full, soaring into the sky
The July sun scorched the asphalt, steaming up twisting waves of heat. I stood in front of the publishing building, clutching the manuscript of "Breaking Out of the Cocoon." The glass curtain wall reflected the glare, and I felt a stark difference from the shadowed me of a year ago. The manuscript felt heavy in my hands, not only because it was the product of three hundred days and nights of painstaking work, but also because it carried the cries of countless souls trapped in the cage of tenderness.
"Ms. Mo, this way please." The editorial assistant trotted over, a warm smile on her face. She was dressed in a sharp business suit, her name badge gleaming in the sun. "The editor-in-chief is already waiting in the conference room."
I took a deep breath and followed her into the air-conditioned lobby. The polished marble floor reflected the hurried figures coming and going. Compared to Mrs. Gu, trapped in her luxurious apartment with nothing to do a year ago, every step I took now was firm and resolute.
In the conference room, the editor-in-chief was carefully leafing through my manuscript. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting streaks of light on his graying hair. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even look up immediately after we entered.
"It's very shocking." He finally took off his reading glasses, his eyes gleaming with sharp admiration behind them. "The analysis of psychological manipulation, in particular, is both sincere and informed by personal experience, and grounded in professional reflection. It's very socially significant."
I smiled in thanks, my gaze careening out the window. Across the street was a black sedan with dark film on the windows, but I knew it by heart—it was the Maybach Gu Yanshen always drove. My heart tightened slightly, but then relaxed again. Now, I was no longer his canary, a puppet he could manipulate at will.
"What's wrong?" The editor-in-chief noticed that I was distracted.
"Nothing." I looked away, returning my attention to the meeting. "Let's get on with the publishing details."
After signing the publishing contract, I deliberately left the building through the back door. I crossed two busy commercial streets, making sure no one was following me before slowing down and blending into the bustling flow of people leaving work. Office workers hurried by, students played and laughed, and street vendors hawked seasonal fruit—these ordinary yet vibrant scenes of life always gave me a strange sense of peace.
The phone rang, and it was Shen Que's exclusive ringtone.
"Did you finish signing?" His voice was filled with a warm smile. "Celebrating? I know there's a new place that serves creative cuisine..."
"Okay." I gave the address of a nearby cafe. "But be careful. I think I saw Gu Yanshen's people just now."
The café was tucked away in an alley lined with plane trees, its greenery providing a blanket of shade, shielding it from the hustle and bustle outside. Shen Que was already seated by the window, two glasses of iced Americano in front of him, their walls shrouded in fine condensation.
"The publisher is very satisfied." I handed him the contract. "The first print run is 30,000 copies, and it will be in bookstores nationwide next month."
"It's worth celebrating." He raised his coffee cup and then said seriously, "But I have something to tell you. Gu Yanshen sold most of his company shares last month and is now receiving systematic psychological counseling."
I stirred the ice in my glass, listening to the crisp sound of it clinking. "He's finally admitted he needs professional help."
"But his lawyers are still appealing," Shen Que lowered his voice. "He insists the surveillance was out of concern and protection, not control. But this time he's changed his strategy, emphasizing that his behavior was out of control due to mental illness."
Outside the window, an elderly flower seller passed by with a cart carrying sunflowers in full bloom, their golden petals gleaming in the setting sun. I suddenly remembered what Gu Yanshen had said one morning: sunflowers always stubbornly chase the sun, much like the absolute loyalty he sought in me.
"Let him appeal," I said. "Actions speak louder than words. After the book is published, more people will understand the difference between healthy love and control."
That evening, I went to pick up my mother for her first follow-up appointment since her discharge. The familiar smell of disinfectant in the hospital corridors was still there, but this time, my mood was completely different. The doctor said she was recovering well, her heart function was stable, and her mental state was good, but she still needed regular checkups. As we left the hospital, the setting sun stretched our shadows, as if to leave behind the past.
"Xiaoyu," the mother suddenly stopped and looked at the neon lights gradually lighting up in the distance, "I want to sell the old house."
I was stunned: "Why? That's not you and Dad..."
"That's why we're selling it because it's your father's." My mother squeezed my hand, her palm warm and strong. "We need to move on. We can't live in the past forever. Besides, that house carries too many bad memories."
I knew she was using this method to help me sever my last connection with the past. The old house witnessed my father's death, our most helpless moments, and how Gu Yanshen gradually intervened in our lives.
That night, I solemnly wrote on the title page of my new book: "Dedicated to all those who are looking for light in the darkness, may every soul emerge from its cocoon and become a butterfly." The tip of my pen rustled on the paper, like a prelude to a new life.
Late at night, I was revising the final chapter of my manuscript when the doorbell rang. The screen showed Zhou Ling standing outside. Over a year after not seeing him, he looked much more haggard, with deep wrinkles around his eyes, as if carved by the years.
I hesitated for a moment, then opened the door. He was standing in the dim light of the corridor, holding a plain cardboard box.
"Mr. Gu asked me to give this to you." He placed the cardboard box at the door and said in a low voice, "These are all your old things. He said...they should be returned to their original owners."
The box contained my college notebooks, award certificates, and the fountain pen that had long since stopped writing—it was my eighteenth birthday gift from my father. On top was a letter. The envelope was in Gu Yanshen's familiar handwriting, though the ink was shaky, not as smooth and powerful as before.
"Xiaoyu: If you see this letter, it means I've finally learned to let go. My therapist said writing letters is part of healing. But I don't know what to write. "Sorry" is too light, and explanations are redundant. I can only say that I finally understand that love is not about possession, but about fulfillment. I will spend the rest of my life untying those shackles in the name of love. I wish you fly higher and farther."
The letter was thin, the ink smudged, as if wet by water droplets. I folded the letter and put it in the bottom drawer of my desk. Some forgiveness takes time; some letting go doesn't need to be announced.
The next day was the book launch. The venue was packed, and many readers were clutching copies of Metropolis Weekly, which featured my column. As flashbulbs flickered, I stood on the stage, looking at the expectant faces below, and suddenly remembered myself, secretly writing in the fire escape a year ago.
"Ms. Mo," a young girl stood up and asked, her voice trembling slightly, but her eyes firm, "Your book mentions 'control in the name of love.' How can we recognize this in our daily lives?"
I took a deep breath, feeling my heartbeat in my chest. "When you feel your boundaries being eroded, when you have to give up yourself to maintain a relationship, when you become less and less like yourself in this relationship... these are warning signs. Healthy love should feel freeing, not suffocating."
After the Q&A session concluded, a familiar figure stood up from the back row and prepared to leave. Despite wearing a hat and mask, I recognized Gu Yanshen from his upright figure and distinctive gait. Our eyes met briefly in mid-air. He nodded slightly, his expression complex, then turned and walked away. At that moment, I seemed to see relief and a blessing in his eyes.
My new book topped the bestseller lists in major bookstores within its first week. Letters from readers poured in, many sharing their stories. One woman in her fifties wrote that she had been trapped in a marriage for thirty years, and that my words gave her the courage to leave. A university student said she had finally realized her boyfriend's control wasn't love and had decisively broken up with him. I carefully kept these letters; they gave me the strength to keep moving forward.
A month later, with support from all sides, I established the Mockingbird Charity Foundation, dedicated to helping victims of emotional manipulation. My mother was also present at the launch ceremony, sitting in the front row, tears of pride glistening in her eyes. In the audience, counselors, lawyers, and volunteers from across the country applauded relentlessly.
"I'm so proud," my mother said after the ceremony, hugging me tightly, her voice choking with emotion. "Your father would be proud of you, too."
That evening, I was alone in the foundation's office, sorting through materials. Rain began to fall outside, its patter against the glass like a melody for a new life. On the table lay letters of help from all over the world, each one carrying the message of a soul yearning for freedom.
My phone lit up with a photo from Shen Que. He'd snapped a picture of my new book displayed in the bookstore window, with a "Bestseller" sign beside it and a long line of readers waiting for autographs in the background.
"See, your wings are strong enough."
I replied with a smiling emoji and continued working at my desk. Spread out on my desk was the outline for my next book, tentatively titled "The Road to Rebirth." The rain outside the window gradually stopped, and moonlight filtered through the gaps in the clouds, casting a silver glow on the wet streets.
I walked to the window, gazing at the twinkling stars in the clear night sky. The pain of the past has scabbed over, transformed into the strongest feathers on my wings. The brokenness of the past is for a more resilient flight today; the darkness of the past is for a greater appreciation of the light now.
The wings that were once broken can now soar into the sky.
And I know this is just the beginning. In the broader sky, there are more landscapes waiting for me to discover and more souls waiting for me to illuminate.
The wings that were once broken can now soar into the sky
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
