Airport Postcard
In the departure hall of Oslo Airport, Chen Wang sat on a chair in front of the boarding gate, holding a newly purchased postcard. The postcard featured a deep, starry sky, with a few stars dotted against a deep blue background—simple yet tranquil.
He took out his pen and paused for a long time on the blank space. The clamor of passengers filled the air, and the boarding announcements in Norwegian and English played alternately over the speaker. Finally, he put down his pen and wrote, stroke by stroke:
"Thank you for letting me be a light in other people's lives. Best wishes."
The handwriting was neat, the ink smudged slightly on the paper. He blew gently, waiting for the ink to dry, before carefully placing the postcard into the airport envelope.
When he mailed it at the counter, the staff told him that it would take about a week for the postcard to arrive. He nodded and paid the postage. Watching the postcard being placed in the basket marked "International Mail," he suddenly remembered that when he was in high school, Lin Weixi had also sent many letters in this way, but those letters never received a reply.
It was still early for boarding, so he wandered aimlessly through the airport bookstore. A photography album on the shelf caught his eye—the cover was of a Norwegian fjord under the aurora, very similar to a set of photos Lin Weixi had recently taken. He picked up the book, flipped through a few pages, and gently put it back.
Through the glass walls of the terminal, he could see the ground crew busy on the tarmac. A plane was taxiing, slowly accelerating, and finally taking off, disappearing into the clouds. Just like some people, destined to fly in different directions.
He found a window seat and opened his phone's photo album. The most recent photo was taken last night in Stat—the observatory's lights cast a warm glow on the snow, and a figure could be vaguely seen in the window. It was the only photo he had of her, even though it didn't even capture her from behind.
As boarding began, he checked his luggage one last time. In the side pocket of his backpack, he found a small, smooth stone he'd picked up by chance on the beach in State. Tiny crystals shimmered on the stone's surface in the light. He hesitated, but didn't throw it away.
After finding his seat, he fastened his seatbelt and looked out the window. The lights of Oslo faded into the night, like fading stars. He remembered the words in Lin Weixi's diary: "We are like two stars, seemingly close, but actually separated by light years."
When the flight attendant brought dinner, he noticed a constellation pattern printed on the lunch box. This reminded him of when Lin Weixi was in high school and was also obsessed with constellations, often drawing stars in the corners of her textbooks. At the time, he thought it was a little girl's thing, but now he understands that it might be her way of quietly getting closer to him.
After dinner, he turned on the reading light and began to read an academic paper. But the words blurred before his eyes, and he kept thinking about the postcard. He wondered what her expression would be when she received it. Perhaps she would just smile faintly and put it away somewhere, like any other ordinary greeting.
As the plane encountered a slight turbulence, he subconsciously protected the backpack on his lap. Inside was the diary, carefully wrapped in brown paper, but he was still worried about damaging it. That was her most cherished youth, and it was something he belatedly understood.
As the flight map on the plane's display indicated he was about to leave Norwegian airspace, he sighed softly. This impulsive journey was like a fleeting aurora, beautiful but fleeting. And the postcard he left behind was perhaps the best way to conclude this story.
He turned off his reading light and leaned against the window. Outside was the pitch-black night sky, occasionally catching the lights of other planes, streaking by like shooting stars. It was like those people we pass by in life, so close yet always separated by an insurmountable distance.
Gradually, he fell asleep. In his dream, he was back in the apartment piled high with cardboard boxes, sunlight streaming through the blinds, and the diary open on his lap. Only this time, he turned to the last page, where a line of words was neatly written:
"May you continue to shine as brightly as you once did on me."
As the plane touched down, a slight jolt startled him awake. Outside the window, a bright, sunny morning greeted Princeton. He turned on his phone, and the first message that popped up was from Zhou Xu: "Wei Xi just asked me if you've been to Norway."
He looked at the message for a long time, then replied with three words: "It's all over."
Then he put away his phone, picked up his luggage, and followed the crowd off the plane. The morning sun was shining brightly, stretching his shadow very long. Just like the shadow of the girl who always followed him many years ago.
What he didn't know was that in faraway Norway, Lin Weixi was holding that postcard, standing in front of the window of the observatory. The aurora danced in the sky, making the starry sky on the postcard shine brightly.
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