Chapter 7 Just like my parents did back then
As the plane climbed to an altitude of 10,000 meters, the clouds stretched out outside the window like a continuous white mountain range.
Song Zhiyi sat in a window seat in economy class. The cabin lights were dimmed, and most passengers had already put on eye masks and begun to rest. Song Zhiyi turned on the overhead reading light and took out a light gray folder from her briefcase. Inside were background materials for the emergency meeting in Geneva. She unfolded the tray table, laid the documents out flat, picked up a red annotation pen with her right hand, and unconsciously stroked the old pocket watch hanging around her neck with her left hand—the watch face was worn smooth, and there were tiny scratches on the edges; it was a keepsake left by her mother.
She quickly scanned the latest situation reports in the conflict zone, her gaze lingering on several key data points, and circling the paragraphs that required special attention with a red pen.
The plane encountered a gust of turbulence, causing a slight bump. She reached out and pressed down on the documents on the table, her fingertips brushing against the edge of a small, hard photo frame at the bottom of the folder. She paused for a moment.
That was a photo of her and her grandfather taken last summer. In the photo, her grandfather was sitting in a wicker chair in the courtyard of the military retirement home, wearing a faded old military uniform with medals plastered all over his chest. She stood behind him, slightly bent over, her hands resting on the back of the chair, both smiling at the camera. Her grandfather's smile was one of contentment and age, while her smile was calm and gentle.
"You understand..."
I could almost hear my grandfather's hoarse voice again, in that single ward in the military hospital that smelled of disinfectant.
That was two months ago. My grandfather's health was in its final stages, and he was becoming increasingly lucid. That afternoon, the sunlight was bright, streaming in through the hospital window and falling on the snow-white sheets. Suddenly, my grandfather seemed to perk up a bit, gripping her hand tightly with his withered fingers.
"This engagement... cough cough..." He coughed a few times, and Song Zhiyi quickly picked up a water glass and moistened his lips with a cotton swab.
Grandpa shook his head and continued, each word seeming to be squeezed out from his lungs: "If... your parents were still alive, if Grandpa were still healthy... I wouldn't force you."
His hand trembled slightly, but he held it tightly: "But Zhiyi... Grandpa can't be with you anymore."
Song Zhiyi remembers that she didn't say anything at the time, but simply held her grandfather's hand in her own. His hand was very cold, his skin was as thin as paper, and the outline of his knuckles was clearly visible.
“You’re all alone… Grandpa is worried.” Grandpa looked at her with his cloudy eyes, which held a complex mix of emotions—reluctance, worry, guilt, and a deep, unspeakable loneliness. “Your Grandpa Huo… is a man of great loyalty. Back on the battlefield, I took that bullet for him, and he’s always remembered it. With the Huo family behind you… Grandpa has nothing to worry about.”
As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes: "Don't blame Grandpa for being feudal... and don't blame that kid from the Huo family. You're not wrong, it's us old folks who are wrong... always trying to impose our past relationships on you."
Song Zhiyi remembers shaking her head and saying softly, "Grandpa, I don't blame you."
It's really not her fault. She understands the weight of that bond forged through life and death, and she understands her grandfather's only and final concern for her at the end of his life—that she wouldn't be all alone in this world.
Even if that person is only associated with the law.
Another jolt of turbulence pulled Song Zhiyi back from her reverie. She loosened her grip on the pocket watch; her fingertips were slightly cold.
My gaze refocused on the document, landing on a line in the report: "More than three hundred civilians have been killed or injured in the region this month, including at least forty-seven children."
Song Zhiyi's breathing paused slightly.
An announcement came over the intercom, and the flight attendant gently reminded passengers that dinner would be served soon.
Song Zhiyi slowly closed the document. The sun had completely set, and outside the porthole was a deep blue night sky, with a faint reddish halo still lingering on the edge of the clouds below, like an unhealed wound.
She opened the pocket watch around her neck. The hands ticked silently, and the small family photo inside the watch face was slightly yellowed, but the smiles of the three people were still clear. Her father was wearing a Ministry of Foreign Affairs uniform, her mother a white lab coat, and she, with two pigtails, leaned between her parents.
She gently ran her fingers over the surface of the photograph, then closed the watch cover.
She tidied up the documents and put her briefcase away. When the food cart was pushed to her side, she asked for a glass of warm water and politely declined the food.
The plane continued northwest towards Geneva—the European headquarters of the United Nations and the venue for this emergency mediation meeting on the conflict. She will participate as a core member of the Chinese translation team in this crucial meeting concerning a ceasefire, humanitarian access, and the framework for future negotiations.
Avoid war through diplomatic means.
This is a sentence written on the title page of her father's notebook, in strong and powerful handwriting. It is also what her mother said to her in their last video call: "Zhiyi, remember, medicine can only heal the wounded, but good diplomacy can prevent people from getting hurt."
She was twelve years old at the time, and nodded as if she understood but not quite.
Now she understands.
Therefore, she chose to join the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, chose to apply for an overseas posting during the most intense period of war, chose to build a defensive line with language at the negotiating table, and chose to promote even the slightest chance of peace at every possible juncture.
Just like our parents did back then.
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