"I see."
I naturally raised my eyebrows.
Okay.
While I was engrossed in our conversation, my senior had already finished his coffee. "Let's end our farewell party here tonight. We don't have much free time anyway."
"Huh? They're leaving already?" I asked in surprise.
"Don't you have an exam tomorrow?" he replied casually, standing up and walking over to pat the Monkey King on the shoulder. "Buddy, I probably can't make it tomorrow. I'll say goodbye here."
"Why does it sound like a final farewell?" The Monkey King must have calmed down by now, because he punched his senior. "Goodbye is the word I hate the most in my life. Save it for when you die."
"Fine." The senior student retaliated with his fist.
"Little one, we're leaving now. Goodbye!"
I deliberately added a word that he had intentionally avoided mentioning.
"You're the kid, your whole family are kids." He scoffed dismissively, but waved goodbye gently.
He didn't realize that sometimes, saying goodbye really is something you should say.
Unfortunately, none of us figured it out.
Stepping out of the warm coffee shop, I immediately felt the biting chill even more intensely. The coldness was like an impending despair, seeping into my very bones.
"Senior."
I called out to the person walking ahead of me.
"What is it?" He turned around with a gentle smile, his smile calm and composed.
“”
I shook my head, trying my best to hold back the tears that were about to spill from my eyes. "It's almost ten o'clock now."
"I see." He narrowed his eyes, his smile becoming even gentler, but it reminded me of snowflakes falling onto my fingertips and about to melt. "So, Su Yue, are you afraid?"
I silently reached out my hand, futilely trying to feel the temperature of his face with my frozen skin.
Yes, I'm scared, I'm very scared.
I fear that unforgettable 3 a.m. when the whole world will collapse. I hope it never comes.
"Su Yue, say goodbye to me. Last time, I didn't have time."
"good."
I took a deep sniff, filtering out any extraneous, tearful sounds, and then flashed what I thought was a bright smile.
It felt like the first time we met.
"Goodbye, Senior Lian Sheng."
As I spoke, I slowly opened my arms and looked into his dark eyes through my blurry tears.
Without hesitation, he came over and gently hugged me.
"Could you call my name one more time, senior?"
I heard his laughter and imagined whether tiny snowflakes were falling on his soft hair.
"Okay, then you need to listen carefully."
I gripped his collar a little tighter, a hint of unease in my eyes.
"Su"
Suddenly, several dazzling fireworks burst into the sky above the nearby streets. Accompanied by scattered colors, a huge and awe-inspiring explosion drowned out the words he was about to say. The fireworks shimmered brightly in the deep blue, velvety night sky, illuminating the homes of the Chinese people living in a foreign land.
A sacred fire atop a tree. I think.
The Journey to the West is shrouded in flickering light and shadow; one moment the scene is crystal clear, the next it's so ethereal it's almost vanished, memories jumbled and confused. I know that the scene before me will forever pass through my pupils along with the cold wind carrying snowflakes, climb to the very end of my nerves in agony, merge into my blood, and flow until the end of my life.
Because this is his last night on earth. Whether I like it or not, I must remember everything.
Please forgive me for not hearing your promised call clearly.
The moment the Monkey King pushed open the door, the backpack on his shoulder slipped to the ground due to his sudden stiffness.
He was surprised. Because sitting in the room was a tall, thin boy with fiery red hair.
The friend who gave him the book.
That friend who has been missing for a long time.
He's back?
Actually, it was the Monkey King himself who returned.
He boarded what he thought was a mode of transportation in front of the coffee shop and wandered around for a long time. It seemed like he had traveled thousands of miles, but in reality, he had returned to the place described in Journey to the West.
But to the left of number 43, the lonely, dim sunlight and cool snow were no longer present. There, a clean street with gleaming glazed tile roofs stretched out. The closest house there was his home—No. 44, Journey to the West.
His long-lost old friend was sitting quietly in the house, as if waiting for his arrival.
My friend was holding a thick, old-looking book in his hands.
—Remembering Three O'Clock
In George's view, the Monkey King, who had been missing for four years, had not only returned unharmed, but was also more radiant than before.
God, are you kidding me?
In this light, my act of sitting here reminiscing—no, almost mourning—is utterly ridiculous.
What's frightening is that he's holding this book in his hand. It was found in a trash heap two days ago, seemingly some holiday gift that was casually tossed to him a long time ago. George has already read the last chapter.
So when the Monkey King pushed open the door, George didn't react at first and thought he had stepped out of the book.
It's really unpleasant to feel awkward. I wonder if this guy will, as usual, smirk and laugh at my "sentimental" behavior.
Actually, George himself felt quite awkward. After all, the Monkey King was an old friend of his, and seeing his old friend return unharmed didn't elicit joy or excitement from him; instead, he was worried about being mocked, a fact that had left a deep psychological scar from the past.
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