restoration
After the welcome party, the weather got colder day by day.
The campus was quiet again, and the afternoon breeze carried a clean coolness, like freshly washed air. The leaves were gradually turning from deep green to yellow, and sunlight spilled onto the stone path, the light and shadow cut into delicate shapes by the branches and leaves.
The distant clock tower swayed slightly in the wind, and the sky seemed to stretch endlessly high. The pods of the bean tree by the school gate were turning slightly brown, and they gently bumped against each other in the breeze, making a clean and light sound, like the lingering echo of summer.
She was enveloped in a typical autumnal atmosphere—clear, vast, and inviting one to take a deep breath.
As Pan Qiu walked along the path, a long-lost sense of ease suddenly arose within her. It was as if the whole world was taking a breath, and she could finally breathe along with it. The feeling was like breaking through the ice on a lake in the depths of winter.
For the first time in almost half a year, she felt like she had come back to life—emerging from the shadows and no longer trapped by guilt and restraint.
But now, she finally confirmed it—he had no wife and no children. That meant that her affection, at least, was harmless and wouldn't hurt anyone innocent.
That light, liberating feeling made her want to laugh.
She recalled Yueyue's half-joking remark—"Who hasn't liked those high-class, radiant things when they were young?"
Yes, there's nothing wrong with liking something; on the contrary, it seems to put a gentle filter on everything you see.
She was no longer afraid to face the name in her heart. She could even whisper in her mind: "At least now, I can quietly like him."
This affection cannot be flaunted or spoken aloud, but at least she has a clear conscience.
This kind of liking has no destination and doesn't need to have a result.
...
That night, the room was so quiet that only the sound of air could be heard.
She subconsciously looked up at the wall above the desk. That spot had been empty for an entire summer, like a gap hollowed out by time.
She suddenly remembered Zhiwei's joke—"The weasel worships the moon."
Looking back now, I still find it a little funny, but also a little guilty.
She stared at the spot where the painting had been for a few seconds, and a thought popped into her head:
—Should we hang it back up?
Immediately afterwards, as if automatically on track, another voice followed:
"Isn't this a typical case of attachment theory? Symbolic attachment object."
When you can't get close to a real person, find a safe and controllable object to confirm that the feeling is still there—but won't cross any boundaries.
She could almost hear herself say "hmm" in her mind.
Then, an even more critical voice jumped out:
"No, a more accurate term is Winnicott's 'transitional object'."
Babies have blankets and toys; you, on the other hand, have a doctoral-level "canvas blanket." The relationship is close, yet not too close, so a compromise is found—how textbook!
Then, a gentler voice slowly rose to the surface:
"Or perhaps neither. Perhaps it's just a reconstruction of meaning."
You're finally able to face those emotions; there's no need to deny them, and no more running away. Hanging the painting back up is simply putting a period to that chaotic story. Let it remain quietly there, without explanation or contact.
After a few seconds of silence, I felt like I was having a roundtable discussion in my head.
Then he sighed softly.
—Look at you, you can analyze a painting into three different theories.
—No wonder they're from the psychology department.
—No wonder he's hopeless.
She chuckled softly and said to herself:
"Fine, let's just treat it as behavioral therapy. Hang up whenever you want."
She was just about to head to the wardrobe.
"bite--"
A soft sound interrupted my thoughts.
She turned around, and a notification for a new email popped up on her screen.
Pan Qiu walked over, and before she even clicked the mouse, her eyes fell on the title line:
[Congratulations! - Notification of the results of your submission to the 2026 International Conference on Language and Cognition]
She paused for a moment.
The line of letters seemed to be filtered through a shimmering lens—just seeing the word "congratulations" was enough to make one's heart race.
She barely dared to breathe, her fingers hovering over the touchpad as she opened the email.
Dear Panqiu:
We are pleased to inform you that your paper...
"Interlinguistic and Bilingual Regulation: A Hybrid Approach Study"
It has been accepted as an oral presentation for the International Conference on Language and Cognition (ICLC 2026), which will be held in Bergamo, Italy, from April 20 to 25, 2026.
After your thorough revisions and detailed responses to the reviewers' comments, the paper was re-evaluated and unanimously recommended by the program committee. The reviewers believed that this research made a valuable and high-quality contribution to understanding the mechanisms of intralingual regulation in bilingualism.
Congratulations again! Looking forward to seeing you in Bergamo.
—ICLC 2026 Conference Bureau
Panqiu's eyes lingered on the words "Congratulations" and "Accepted" several times.
She had a strange sense of disorientation—a feeling of being gently lifted by a breeze and carried to dance in the sunlight. The dazzling joy came so suddenly, as if someone had drawn back the curtains in her heart, and even the dust motes were swirling in the light.
The corners of her mouth slowly turned up, and she chuckled softly.
At that moment, she heard a long-forgotten fragment being gently unlocked.
"We'll only go if our paper is accepted."
That was Ethan's voice.
Now, she's really going to Bergamo, and with Ethan!
She searched online for photos and history of the city, imagining what it was like:
Stone-paved road, square, bell tolling, golden light at dusk.
“Bergamo,” she murmured, as if to confirm the weight of the word.
"bite--"
Before the joy could fully dissipate, a new email popped up.
From: E. Ellery
Subject: Re: Congratulations on the ICLC 2026 acceptance results
I'm proud of you, and I look forward to autumn.
Make the most of this opportunity – you deserve it.
She stared at those two sentences for a long time.
There were no pleasantries, no autographs.
It was more heart-pounding than any lengthy congratulations.
It felt like falling from a great height into the clouds—and then being gently supported. The air became crisp and sweet.
At that moment, she suddenly felt that everything should be put back in its place.
So she stood up, walked to the wardrobe, opened the door, and pulled out the painting that had been stored away all summer from the bottom shelf.
There was still a bit of dust on the edge of the picture frame, which she gently brushed away with her fingertips.
"Fine," she muttered to herself with a self-deprecating smile, a slight curve to her lips.
"Then let the weasel worship the moon a hundred more times."
She herself was amused.
The nail was still in the same place. She tiptoed and hung the painting back up.
In that instant, the room suddenly lit up a little.
She took a step back and looked up.
The tree in the painting remains the same—its branches are outstretched, and light falls through the gaps, like a still breeze.
Her gaze was drawn in little by little, and in a daze, it was as if she had crossed a thin layer of air.
She seemed to have truly stepped into the painting.
The stone slabs underfoot are hundreds of years old, damp and cool.
The sound of bells echoed in the distance, reverberating through the night of the mountain town.
That's Bergamo—an ancient, quiet city bathed in moonlight.
She looked up; the moon hung in the sky, clear and gentle.
Silver light filtered through the branches and leaves, falling right under the Rowan tree.
A gentle breeze blows, carrying with it a moist and fragrant floral scent.
She heard the rustling of leaves—
It was as if someone was calling her name softly from a very far place.
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