Atonement for the rest of my life
Zheng Yiming didn't know how long he had been sitting in the rain until his neighbor aunt shoved an umbrella into his hand and sighed, "Child, go home, don't catch a cold." Only then did he slowly stand up like a puppet on a string.
His clothes, soaked to the bone, clung to his body, cold as ice, but he couldn't feel them. His mind was blank, with only Shen Zhixia's last look flashing repeatedly in his mind—calm, empty, like ashes that had been burned out.
He wandered aimlessly down the street, raindrops dripping from his hair and splashing into puddles on the ground, creating tiny ripples. Passing the stationery store they often went to, the poster outside still bore the words "Good luck on the college entrance exam," exactly the same as three years ago. He walked in almost unconsciously, his fingertips brushing against the sketchbooks on the shelf, suddenly remembering how Shen Zhixia always liked to draw tiny sunflowers on the title page of these notebooks.
"Young man, what would you like to order?" The proprietress poked her head out, and upon seeing his disheveled appearance, she paused for a moment. "You are... Zheng Yiming?"
He looked up, and the bloodshot eyes startled the proprietress. "Does Auntie remember me?"
“How could I not remember?” the shopkeeper sighed. “You used to come with Chen to buy art supplies. She even painted posters for me… Sigh, that girl, poor life.”
Zheng Yiming felt as if his throat was blocked, and he couldn't utter a single word.
“Before she left, she came to buy a sketchbook,” the shopkeeper said, wiping the counter. “She said she wanted to finish one last drawing and give it to…someone very important.”
His heart skipped a beat: "That painting..."
"I don't know, I didn't have time to ask." The proprietress shook her head. "Later, when the police came to my house looking for things, they didn't mention it."
Zheng Yiming bought the sketchbook that was exactly the same as the one Shen Zhixia had bought last time, his fingertips gripping the cardboard cover as if holding a branding iron. When he left the stationery store, the rain had stopped, and a faint ray of light broke through the sky, shining coldly on the wet street.
He suddenly remembered Shen Zhixia's home.
When her mother moved out, she left some unimportant things with the neighbor, saying, "If Zheng Yiming comes, let him take them; it'll be something to remember him by." At the time, he was overwhelmed with guilt and didn't even dare to approach her door. Now, however, he was frantically running to the neighbor's house as if grasping at the last straw.
"Auntie! Where are the things Shen Zhixia left behind?" He burst through his aunt's door, panting as he asked.
The aunt was startled by him and pointed to the cardboard boxes in the corner: "They're all over there. If you want them, take them. They're just taking up space."
The cardboard box was covered in dust, clearly untouched for a long time. Zheng Yiming crouched down and carefully opened the lid, a damp, musty smell wafting out. Inside were mostly Shen Zhixia's textbooks and workbooks, along with a few faded school uniforms, and at the bottom was a wooden box tied with a red rope.
His heart suddenly raced, and he trembled as he untied the red string. Inside the box was no sketchbook, only a thick stack of letters. The envelopes had no recipients listed, only small sunflowers drawn in the lower right corner.
The top letter is dated the day they first argued.
“Zheng Yiming, you got angry with me again today because of Li Zichen. Actually, I just wanted to tell him to stop spreading rumors, but you wouldn’t listen to my explanation at all. You gripped my wrist really hard, it hurts so much, but I didn’t dare tell you, I was afraid you would get even angrier.”
“Zheng Yiming, the list of winners for the physics competition is out, and your name isn’t on it. I know you’re upset and I wanted to comfort you, but you knocked over the water I offered you and said, ‘Don’t pretend to be kind.’ Actually, I just wanted you to have some water; you’ve been practicing for so long, and your voice is hoarse.”
“Zheng Yiming, you saw the scar on my wrist in the art studio today. You asked me if I had hurt myself again, and your tone was so fierce. But you don’t know that the day you pushed me against the wall, and my back hurt so much. I just wanted to remind myself through the pain not to get close to you anymore, but I couldn’t do it.”
"Zheng Yiming, Zhou Manyi is talking badly about you again. She said you promised her you'd break up with me after the college entrance exam. I don't believe it, but you've been avoiding me lately. Is what she said true?"
“Zheng Yiming, we’ve had another fight. You said, ‘You’re mine in life and in death,’ and I’m so scared. The bruises on my body haven’t faded yet, and my wrists are starting to hurt again. I feel like… I can’t take it anymore.”
The last letter was unfinished; the handwriting was so messy it looked like it was trembling. Only half a sentence remained: "Zheng Yiming, if there is a next life, I don't want to..."
Zheng Yiming held those letters as if they were Shen Zhixia's cold body, a sob escaping his throat like that of a trapped beast. The grievances he was unaware of, the details he had overlooked, the hurt he had inflicted with his own hands, were like countless needles, densely piercing his heart, causing him so much pain that he almost fainted.
It turns out she wasn't unwilling to explain, but afraid of making him even angrier; it turns out she didn't enjoy self-harm, but wanted to use another kind of pain to numb the pain of being hurt by him; it turns out she wasn't calm, but rather in utter despair.
And he, the man who kept saying "it's for your own good," became the executioner who killed her.
"Ah—!" He slammed his head against the wall, the dull thud echoing in the room. Blood streamed down his forehead, dripping onto the letter and spreading into dark red patterns.
The aunt was so frightened that she quickly grabbed him: "Child! What are you doing! Are you out of your mind!"
"I deserve to die... I really deserve to die..." he muttered to himself, his eyes unfocused, like a completely insane person.
After that day, Zheng Yiming was like a different person.
He didn't take the college entrance exam. Instead, he locked himself in his room, reading those letters over and over again, and looking at Shen Zhixia's photo repeatedly. He was no longer irritable or easily angered, and he rarely spoke. Only the light in his eyes was completely extinguished, like a dry well.
Three months later, he packed his bags and left the city. No one knew where he went. When Zhou Ziang called him, he only said, "Don't look for me."
I saw him again five years later.
I went to teach in a mountainous area and saw that familiar yet unfamiliar figure in a dilapidated primary school. He was wearing a faded T-shirt, his trousers were covered in mud, and he was repairing desks for the children. The scar on his forehead was particularly noticeable in the sunlight.
"Zheng Yiming?" I called out tentatively.
He turned around, paused for a moment when he saw me, then gave a very faint smile, like a mirror covered with a layer of dust. "Long time no see."
How did you get here?
“Come and do something.” He lowered his head and continued tightening the screws. “The children here… are a lot like us back then. They need someone to take good care of them.”
Looking at his focused profile, I suddenly remembered that spirited young man from high school. Time has etched its mark on his face, but it has also smoothed out all his rough edges, leaving only a calm that comes after a storm, like the surface of a lake after a tempest.
“I heard about it,” I hesitated for a moment before saying it anyway, “You send money to Shen Zhixia’s mother every year and even donated a library in her name.”
He paused, then said softly, "It's not enough."
"What?"
“What I’ve done is far from enough.” He looked up, tears glistening in his eyes. “I owe her something I can never repay in this lifetime.”
The children finished class and gathered around, chattering, "Teacher Zheng!" He put down his wrench, smiled, and gently ruffled a little girl's hair, his touch as tender as if he were protecting a fragile treasure. On the little girl's wrist was a sunflower-shaped bracelet, very similar to the one Shen Zhixia used to wear.
"This is……"
“I made this for the children,” he smiled. “Zhi Xia used to like sunflowers, saying they always face the light.”
The setting sun cast a long shadow over his face, falling on the children's smiling faces, as warm as a painting. I suddenly realized that he wasn't running away, nor was he exiling himself; he was atoning for his sins in his own way—using the tenderness of the rest of his life to make up for the cruelty of the past; using kindness towards others to repay the debt he owed to Shen Zhixia.
On the day I left the mountains, Zheng Yiming came to see me off. He handed me a cloth bag containing a sketchbook.
"This is……"
“I found it in her old studio,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “The last painting was of the ginkgo avenue in Yenching Garden. She said she wanted to go see it with me.”
The last page of the sketchbook depicts two figures walking side by side on a path lined with ginkgo trees, sunlight falling on them as if they were gilded. Next to them is a line of small writing: "Zheng Yiming, if only we could be together."
My tears couldn't be held back and fell down.
"Keep it safe for me." He turned around and walked towards the school. His figure looked particularly lonely in the sunset, yet it carried a kind of firm strength.
As the car drove away, I looked back and saw him standing at the school gate, bowing deeply towards the direction of Yan Garden.
Perhaps some wounds can never be healed; some regrets can never be let go; some people can never be forgotten. But those who are alive must carry these heavy past experiences and move forward—not to forget, but to commemorate; not to atone for sins, but to allow those beautiful memories to continue in another way.
Just like Zheng Yiming, he will stay in the mountains, watching over a group of children like sunflowers, waiting for the light day after day; just like Shen Zhixia, she will live forever in those times when she was treated gently, on the ginkgo path in that sketchbook, and in every repentance and longing of Zheng Yiming for the rest of his life.
And that long-overdue "I'm sorry" will eventually transform into the mountain breeze, the rain under the eaves, and the sunflowers covering the hillsides, telling its story year after year—
If only things had been alright back then.
But life has no "what ifs," only consequences and results. All we can do is carry those irreparable regrets and, in the days to come, treat everyone around us well, so that what we've missed doesn't become forever.
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