Time flies. It's been almost a year since she left. She found a job nearby as a highway patrolman, which is similar to a security guard job. Many friends think that it's a waste of talent for a retired mercenary to do this job.
But I still chose this job, because it's the closest to her. Every day I spend half an hour at the place where we parted ways, reminiscing about the place and missing her.
In the end, I still couldn't let her go. This place is called Changjiangling, nestled against the mountains and overlooking the water. Green hills and clear waters are not far away. In this season, dandelions bloom all around, and when the breeze blows, the fluff flies everywhere.
I vaguely remember her saying that she liked the freedom of dandelions and their pure white plumage. Every time she passed by this place, she would stop the car and look into the distance through the car window, often hoping that she would miraculously see herself standing there in the sea of dandelions, gazing at them.
"Attention all units, a major traffic accident has occurred on the Changjiangwan section of the road. Please send any staff in the vicinity to assist in clearing the traffic. I repeat, all units..." The rough and powerful voice of the highway patrol team leader rang out on the walkie-talkie hanging in the car, interrupting my thoughts.
He chuckled to himself, realizing he'd have to get busy again. So he started the car, put it in reverse, and turned it 60 degrees. "Squeak... hiss..." The wheels screeched against the ground as he sped towards the Changjiang Bay section of the road.
After finishing my work on the Changjiangwan section of the road, I took out my phone—the same phone she had given me—and checked the time. It was already past 11 p.m. The traffic accident was quite serious. I figured I'd see it on the news by tomorrow morning. After all, it was a PetroChina oil tanker that suddenly exploded while driving. It was a bit strange, but it was big news.
After handing over the work to the next shift of staff, a colleague drove back to the city, so I hitched a ride with him.
After getting off the bus, I wandered aimlessly through the streets, a cigarette dangling from my lips. I had no idea where I was. I just wanted to clear my head and release the stress and frustration of a day's work.
Ten minutes passed in this way, and a building resembling an ancient inn came into view, interrupting my thoughts. The bronze-colored doorway was flanked by large red lanterns, which illuminated the dark black signboard. The signboard bore the two powerful and vigorous golden characters "Li Yuan" (meaning "Leaving the Garden"). It stood out on this street surrounded by modern buildings, making it particularly eye-catching and easily attracting the attention of young people. Retro style has been popular in China for years, so one can only say that the owner of this inn is very talented and has a good business sense.
Intrigued, I headed towards the inn to experience its retro charm. As I stepped inside, a cool breeze swept over me, gently caressing my face. A young man, seemingly a waiter, rushed out to lead me to a seat. He then habitually wiped the table and greeted me, "Sir, what would you like to eat? Our inn has everything you could want, all kinds of delicacies from around the world."
A little uncomfortable with his teasing, I replied with a wry smile, "Just a few jugs of fine sake, and a few of your signature dishes, please."
The waiter smiled obsequiously and said, "Alright, just a moment, the food and wine will be ready soon, I'll be right there." Then he ran toward the counter, where there was an old, large cabinet with seemingly disordered yet orderly compartments, filled with earthenware jars and pots. Each jar had a red square piece of paper pasted on it, with a black character for "wine" written on it.
Turning around and looking around, I was almost scared to see all sorts of people here. There were old people, young people, and children. Some were wearing clothes from the old Republic of China era, some were wearing Tang suits and hats, and some had long braids... I thought I had traveled back to ancient times. Fortunately, the people at the tables on the left were relatively normal, some were wearing suits and some were wearing casual clothes.
They all lowered their heads and ate their own food, completely ignoring what was happening outside. Some were whispering to each other, exchanging words in hushed tones.
Four people were sitting at the table next to them. The old man who was shouting and boasting about his skills was sitting diagonally opposite them. To his right was a drunken man with a felt hat on his head. To the old man's left was a fair-skinned young man, full of vigor and exuding the air of a scholar. He was dressed in an old-fashioned white robe and a hat, and had a folding fan, a typical feature of cultured people, in his right hand.
Next to the scholar sat a man resembling a landlord, with a protruding belly, dressed in auspicious clothes, and a mustache hanging from his mouth, looking both comical and endearing. The old man, in a boisterous manner, drank wine and gnawed on braised lion's head meatballs, the clinking of glasses and bowls making a "thump...thump...thump..." sound, while also engaging in loud conversation with his companion.
"Back in the day, I single-handedly killed dozens of government officials in Pixian County. What a spectacular sight that was..." the burly old man boasted without blushing.
"Are you lying or exaggerating? They're government officials..." the slightly drunk young man sitting next to him mumbled.
“That’s right… Is it so easy to fight against the government?” the scholar replied.
“The kids are all honest and law-abiding…don’t try to fool me…” The landlord cast a questioning look at the old man.
"Hehe, don't doubt it, those scars and puncture marks on my back are souvenirs left by those government dogs... Now I'll take them off and show you..." The old man took off his shirt and showed it to his companions.
The people at the next few tables heard this and joined in the fun, craning their necks to take a look. After they had all seen the knife wounds and stab marks, they gasped in shock and exclaimed in disbelief.
"These marks on the embroidered spring knives, which are exclusive to the government, are easily recognizable as injuries inflicted by the knife." The scholar gently waved his fan.
"I've lived all these years and I've never seen many people with scars like yours," said a portly old man beside him, stroking his white beard.
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