Chapter 93 Their Faith
As Song Zhiyi grew older, the mother's diary entries gradually shifted from everyday anecdotes to more observations and reflections on her daughter's personality and future.
"Zhizhi is ten years old. She's mature beyond her years. She studies very hard and has a wide range of interests. She no longer asks 'Why is there war?' but has started researching to try to understand the root causes of conflict. She discussed with me the ethical dilemmas in refugee healthcare and with Huaiyuan the strategic gains and losses of diplomatic mediation. Huaiyuan was both proud and worried, saying that this child is too thoughtful and carries too much burden."
(annotation)
"The light in her eyes is the same as when you were at the medical point in Tripoli—firm and clear, but with a weight beyond her years. Our choices have influenced her world. I don't know if it was right or wrong. —Huaiyuan"
"It was Zhizhi's eleventh birthday. Huaiyuan specially rushed back from the turbulent region, bringing a small bracelet made by the local children. Zhizhi treasured it terribly. After we ate cake, Zhizhi made a wish: 'I hope for world peace, and for Mom and Dad to be safe forever.' Huaiyuan and I were both silent. That night, Huaiyuan hugged me and said that maybe we should consider transferring back to China to give Zhizhi a more stable environment to grow up in. I'm also considering it."
After this page, there are several blank pages, or pages that have been burned. Turning over the tattered pages, the date of the next diary entry is when Song Zhiyi was twelve years old. The handwriting is no longer calm, but hurried and filled with deep unease.
(The last complete diary entry, the date is unclear, but Song Zhiyi knows which day it is)
"Huaiyuan received an emergency evacuation mission to region X. The situation there had deteriorated drastically, with armed conflict escalating. My medical team also received orders to move to the front lines to receive any wounded that might appear. We were all going to the most dangerous place."
"I video chatted with Zhizhi last night. She seemed to have a premonition, and kept asking, 'When is Daddy coming back?' 'Mommy, is it safe where you are?' I tried to tell her in a relaxed way that Daddy and Mommy would finish their mission and come home soon, and told her to listen to Grandpa and study hard."
"After hanging up the video call, I cried. Huaiyuan held me, saying nothing. We both knew this journey would be dangerous."
"But we had no choice. It was our duty, and it was our belief."
"If... if something really happens, Zhizhi, my darling, please forgive your mom and dad. We love you more than life itself. But we also have many more lives and trust on our shoulders."
"May you grow up safely, may you live up to your studies, and may you... not miss us too much."
"Mom and Dad love you, forever."
The diary ends here.
The last few pages were completely burned, leaving only charred edges and scattered fragments of illegible writing.
The notebook slipped from Song Zhiyi's trembling hands and fell onto the desk covered with a dark tablecloth with a dull thud.
The room was deathly silent.
The night outside the window was as thick as ink, and the city lights in the distance looked like floating stars.
Song Zhiyi remained seated, motionless. There were still no tears on her face, but her complexion appeared unusually pale under the desk lamp, and her lips were pressed into a straight line. Her eyes were fixed on the open notebook on the table, teetering on the edge of despair and farewell, and deep in her pupils, it seemed as if a storm was silently sweeping, shattering, and slowly rebuilding itself.
Those warm and trivial daily moments, those annotations full of love and expectation, those bits and pieces about "Zhizhi"... all eventually solidified in that diary with messy handwriting, permeated with unease and the meaning of farewell.
She finally understood why her grandfather always gave vague answers and had deep sorrow in his eyes whenever she asked about her parents' final days.
She finally understood how her mother's hands, which always held the scalpel steadily, trembled as she wrote those last words.
She finally truly grasped the weight of her parents' ideals—they weren't distant slogans, but choices ingrained in their blood, responsibilities and promises they couldn't abandon even knowing the road ahead was fraught with danger and that their young daughter was a burden behind them.
Love and responsibility, family and country, individual and collective... those questions she had pondered and tried to understand since childhood were now laid bare before her in the most cruel and real way.
The parents made a choice with their lives.
She inherited their surname, their ideals, and the responsibility and weight that were deeply rooted in their bones.
Song Zhiyi slowly, extremely slowly, reached out and picked up the diary again. Her fingertips brushed over the anxious handwriting in her mother's last entry, over her father's strong and forceful annotations, and over the burnt pages whose contents could no longer be known.
Then, she gently closed the diary and held it to her chest.
It felt as if I were embracing a warmth that had never truly faded away, and a mission that had long been ingrained in my soul.
It was very late at night.
But her eyes, against her pale face, shone with an astonishing brightness.
It contains clarity after sorrow has settled, steadfastness forged through pain, and a kind of almost tragic tranquility after sudden enlightenment.
The road ahead may still be long and treacherous, but she has seen where she came from and has a clearer view of where she is going.
The unfulfilled dreams of parents and the unhealed wounds of the land are all there.
And she, Song Zhiyi, will continue down this path.
With their love, their hopes, and their faith, which they practiced with their lives.
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