This love can wait
The bells of Bergamo struck exactly eight times. The sound came from the high places of the old town, deep and long, as if echoing among the stones.
The streets were still bustling—the nightlife in the old town was just beginning. Outdoor tables and chairs were set up in front of restaurants, where guests chatted and laughed with glasses in hand, Italian, English, and French mingling together. Waiters moved among them, carrying pizzas and wine, their calls echoing throughout the area.
Ethan didn't say where he was going, he just walked uphill. After passing two quiet alleys, he pushed open a wooden door. The light inside was soft, and the air smelled of stewed tomatoes and butter. Panqiu looked up and saw the handwritten sign at the door—
La Tana — Cucina Bergamasca Tradizionale.
The handwriting is messy, yet it carries a friendly and casual feel.
The light coming through the window was warm and soft.
You can hear the clinking of cups and plates inside, as well as soft laughter.
Panqiu couldn't help but look up and observe: "This place seems quite popular."
“Yes,” Ethan said softly, “Luckily I made a reservation in advance.”
She was taken aback: "You made a reservation?"
"in case."
He smiled and pushed the door open, his tone as calm as if it had been arranged long ago.
The indoor lighting was softer than the outdoor lighting. The walls were bare stone, old photographs and earthenware pots sat in the corners, and candles flickered on every table, their light dancing in the wine glasses. The air was filled with the aroma of stewed tomatoes and buttered bread.
Most of the guests spoke in very low voices, creating an atmosphere so soft and gentle that it made you want to slow down your breathing as well.
A waiter approached and asked in heavily accented English, "Do you have a reservation?"
Ethan nodded. "Ellery, table for two."
The other person immediately smiled knowingly and led them past several tables by the window, stopping in a small corner half-hidden in the shade of grapevines.
It was a perfect spot—you could see the streetlights below the hillside from the window, and the candlelight cast their shadows into soft, diffused shapes.
As Pan Qiu sat down, she suddenly had a strange feeling—it was as if everything had been arranged in advance, yet without any fanfare. Even the background music had a familiar rhythm, slow piano music, and soft breathing sounds.
She couldn't help but recall that night at the Korean restaurant, when they ate tofu soup side by side. It was just like that—the lighting was soft, they didn't talk much, but everything was just right.
The waiter handed over the menu. It was a thick page in Italian, with a few lines of English translation interspersed within.
Before Panqiu could even look, Ethan whispered, "This restaurant is famous for its casoncelli alla bergamasca—a traditional Bergamo dumpling filled with minced meat, butter, and sage."
He paused, then pointed to another line, “If you’d like something lighter, this risotto al taleggio is also good. It’s a local cheese risotto.”
Panqiu looked up at him and couldn't help but laugh: "You even studied the menu in advance?"
Ethan chuckled slightly, seemingly a little embarrassed: "Doing some homework can't hurt. If you take students abroad and they don't eat well, they'll complain."
"I won't," Pan Qiu said firmly. Who you eat with is more important than what you eat.
She lowered her head to hide her emotions: "Then I'll order the rice stew."
Ethan nodded and ordered another serving of braised beef ribs for her. "This portion isn't large, but the taste is very authentic."
After the waiter left, he looked up, smiled, and said, "When you come to Italy, you should try the local home-style dishes; you don't necessarily have to go to Michelin-starred restaurants."
"Have you been here many times?"
“There were several academic conferences. Each time it was too rushed.” He said this in a calm tone.
Soft piano music drifted through the restaurant, the melody gentle, almost like the wind.
Ethan steered the conversation back to her research: “Your presentation today was excellent. Especially the sentence ‘language is how we build our homes,’ it was very moving.”
Pan Qiu smiled and said, "That was actually your statement."
“No,” he shook his head, “that’s your own interpretation. I’m just here to accompany you through it.”
The risotto is served, its aroma of cheese warm and comforting.
Ethan picked up his knife and fork and gently cut off a small piece of stewed beef rib, speaking calmly and deliberately.
"Did you know that the professor who asked you the question today—Ferri—is very famous in the field of sociology of language? You could send her an email thanking her for the question and attaching your research abstract. She's a very nice person, and perhaps you could establish some collaborative connections."
Pan Qiu nodded: "I know her question was very precise; I almost didn't answer it well at the time."
Ethan smiled gently: "That just shows she listened to your report carefully. Don't be afraid to be asked questions. Sometimes, the more questions they ask, the more they see your value."
After saying that, he paused, looked up at her, and said, "You should start building your own little network, not just listening to others, but also making sure people remember your name."
Panqiu stared at him blankly.
In that instant, she suddenly realized that his tone and manner of speaking didn't sound like a "reminder," but rather like an instruction or a entrustment. She recalled that when the report was completed and they took a group photo, Maggie had said it was an important moment of passing on the torch.
Ethan picked up a napkin again and wiped his hands.
In a calm tone: "Next semester, you can continue to expand your fieldwork with James. But at the same time, you should also start to systematize it a bit—shift from observation to interviews. Invite participants from different backgrounds to increase the diversity of the sample."
As he spoke, he casually drew a simple arrow on a tissue.
"From fieldwork to interviews, and then to experiments. You can try doing a control group test on monolingual individuals the semester after next. That will make your research more complete and help you complete your doctoral dissertation smoothly."
Pan Qiu looked down at the paper. The few lines on it were as simple as could be, but they represented her entire roadmap for the coming year.
Ethan continued, “James will continue to assist you. Taking him on fieldwork and supervising his master's thesis will be great practice for you, mentoring a student yourself. By the time he graduates, your doctorate will be nearing completion. It will be a win-win situation for both of you.”
Pan Qiu was stunned for a moment. It turned out that he had even calculated the timing.
The candlelight illuminated the side of his face, softening his features.
He slowly added, "There are some paths you have to walk on your own. What I can do is help you walk them more steadily."
Panqiu wanted to answer, but couldn't speak. She picked up her wine glass and took a small sip.
The wine tasted sour and astringent, much like the emotions in her heart at that moment—a complex mix of emotion and reluctance. Having followed the path Ethan had planned, it was time for her to graduate and leave.
Ethan, oblivious to her emotions, simply smiled again.
"So, in the time before graduation, don't rush to write your thesis. First, read more, think more, and truly understand what the story you want to tell is."
“Tell a story…” Pan Qiu repeated softly, remembering what Maggie had said during the day. She suddenly choked up a little, but smiled to cover it up: “You two are so alike.”
Ethan paused for a moment, then smiled, his eyes softening: "What she taught me, I'll probably be teaching others for the rest of my life."
The words were spoken softly, yet they felt like a pebble landing on her heart. She suddenly understood something—he had been "passing on" all along: from Maggie to him, and from him to herself.
But at that moment, she suddenly realized that the completion of this "transmission" also meant "farewell".
Perhaps when she graduates, they will become like Ethan and Maggie now—from everyday companions to annual greetings at conferences.
They both fell silent for a few more seconds. The wind outside the window rustled the grapevines, and the candlelight flickered gently. The air was warm and almost still.
Ethan looked up, smiled, and asked, "How's the taste?"
Pan Qiu nodded vigorously, her smile a little forced: "It's delicious."
“That’s good,” he said softly. “This is my favorite Bergamo flavor.”
When they paid their bill and left the restaurant, the air on the street had already cooled down.
Ethan glanced at his watch, smiled, and said, "It's not too early, but it's not too late either. Want to give it a try? Let's walk back."
His tone was calm, yet carried a gentle invitation. "This is a rare opportunity; a nighttime stroll through an ancient Italian city isn't something you get every day."
Pan Qiu looked up at him, her lips curving slightly, her smile as light as the wind: "Okay."
They walked side by side onto the cobblestone street. The central area was still bustling—guitar melodies drifted from the bar entrance, people raised their glasses and chatted loudly, and the street performers' songs mingled with the aroma of coffee and the night breeze, forming the city's gentlest backdrop.
As you walk further, the noise gradually fades away. The stone-paved road narrows and the streetlights become sparse. The houses along the road are mostly two or three stories high, with walls bearing the mottled marks of time. The wooden window frames are tightly closed, and occasionally a light shines through, casting a small patch of golden light, as if someone is turning over in a dream.
The night was cool and still. Their footsteps echoed softly on the stone slabs—one after the other, their sounds blending into an almost silent understanding in the gaps of the wind.
Pan Qiu suddenly had a strange feeling. At this moment, she felt as if she was not in this time and place, but on a road folded by time.
The person beside her is no longer just her mentor or colleague, but a kindred spirit, walking together through the gaps of time and light.
It wasn't a thrilling romance, but a quiet, unforgettable experience—like she finally understood what it meant to "walk side by side."
Ethan didn't say anything. He only occasionally glanced at her, as if to make sure she wasn't cold.
The light from the streetlamp fell on his face, highlighting his quiet and composed expression, which overlapped with the image of him that was earnest, patient, yet extremely gentle, deeply imprinted in her mind.
She suddenly felt a little dazed, as if they were walking not only the road of Bergamo, but also a part of her life. That feeling of transcending time and space was so clear, as if she could hear the breath of time—half from this moment, and half from their future that would never overlap.
They walked silently through the entire ancient city, their footsteps light, yet each step stretched into a long stretch of time.
The streetlights recede into the distance, and the stone-paved road stretches out beneath our feet, like a river paved with the marks of time.
Neither of them spoke, as if afraid to disturb the ancient night.
As they walked, the view suddenly opened up ahead. It was the boundary between the upper and lower towns—the wind blew from above, carrying a faint fragrance of flowers and the smell of lime.
They stopped.
Looking down from here, there is a sea of lights. The phrase "dim lights" suddenly takes on a real form: gentle lights, undulating along the hillside, flowing to the distant plains.
Just then, the bell rang. One chime, two chimes… Panqiu counted in her mind. When the eleventh chime fell, she suddenly realized—they had been walking for so long.
A breeze stirred, ruffling the clouds. The night seemed to be gently lifted, revealing a bright moon. The moon was so bright it was almost transparent, as if it hung suspended in the air—hazy, serene, and so beautiful it almost brought tears to one's eyes.
Pan Qiu held her breath. She had never seen a moon like this before. The grandeur of a full moon, like a gentle tremor deep within the years.
Ethan seemed to hold his breath as well. He stared at the light, remaining silent for a long time before letting out a soft sigh—so soft it seemed as if it would be carried away by the wind.
"The moonlight is so beautiful tonight." The words were calm, yet they were like a soft pebble falling into her heart, creating ripples that spread out in circles.
Looking at his profile, Panqiu suddenly felt like crying. She didn't know why—she just felt her chest filled with something soft yet profound.
She spoke softly, like an echo, like a response: "Yes, the moonlight is beautiful."
Neither of them spoke again. A gentle breeze swept through the air between them, and the distant lights resembled a silent sea.
He lowered his head slightly and smiled at himself—a smile that held a hint of melancholy, but also a touch of relief.
“Let’s go,” he said softly. They started walking again, following the downward-sloping stone path. The sound of their footsteps was gradually swallowed up by the night, as if dissipating into the depths of time.
As midnight approached, they finally arrived at the hotel entrance. The sounds of people on the street had long since faded away, leaving only the gentle whistling of the wind echoing on the cobblestone path.
The glass doors in the lobby reflected the shadows of the two people—side by side, yet slightly offset.
They stopped in their tracks. Neither of them spoke first.
Ethan looked at her, his eyes calm, yet seemingly hiding a hint of reluctance.
He whispered, "Goodnight." Panqiu replied softly, "Goodnight."
The air was so quiet you could hear the billboards swaying in the wind.
Ethan's hand twitched, as if he wanted to lift it up, but in the end he simply put it back into his pocket.
In that instant, Panqiu suddenly sensed that he wanted to say something, but chose to remain silent.
He added in a low voice, "It's getting late, let's go inside."
Pan Qiu nodded, turned around, and pushed open the door to enter.
The moment the door closed, the night outside was reflected in the glass—Ethan was still standing there.
She hesitated for a moment, then turned back.
He was still there, his dark figure bathed in the faint light of the streetlights.
Seeing her turn around, Ethan raised his hand, waved gently, and gave her a faint smile in return.
Panqiu suddenly felt that this moment was quieter than any farewell, and she would remember this scene for the rest of her life.
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