All around me stretched an endless expanse of barren silence, cloaked in darkness. In this chaotic and unformed world, I had forgotten who I was and all that I had once known. The only thing I remembered was standing by a river, listening to the sound of its flowing water—a steady “ding-dong, ding-dong”—that seemed to have gone on for countless years.
From time to time, someone would approach me and say, “Young lady, it’s time to cross the bridge.”
Each time, I would shake my head.
Why I refused, I did not know. It felt as though I were waiting for someone, but who it was I could no longer recall.
And so I lingered, muddled and aimless, standing by the river day after day, year after year.
Until one day, I saw a man appear in the dark waters of the river. His face was unkempt, covered in a scruffy beard. He wandered drunkenly along the springtime streets of Yang Zhou, lost and erratic.
The spring breeze failed to disperse the scent of wine clinging to him, and the vibrant peach blossoms and lush green willows could not hide the sadness etched into his being. In one hand, he clutched a jade pendant; in the other, a wine gourd. Whenever he saw someone, he would tell them that he was searching for someone, his disciple.
But whenever anyone asked him what his disciple’s name was, he would falter. He would laugh, unable to answer.
He would say, “Back then, I was too lazy to even give her a name. She was my only disciple, so I just called her ‘Little Disciple.’ And that’s what I called her, from the very first day… to the very last.”
As he spoke, his voice would tremble, and eventually, he would collapse by the roadside, crying in a hoarse, broken voice.
Watching these scenes reflected in the river’s surface, I felt droplets falling from my own face, though I didn’t know why.
“Young lady, it’s time to cross the bridge.”
The voice came again from behind me. I turned to see an elderly woman standing there, holding a bowl of soup. Her expression was heavy with pity as she sighed, “All things in this world require letting go to gain something in return. If you let go of your waiting, only then will he have the chance to find you.”
I looked at the bowl in her hands, my gaze lingering. In the end, I took it and drank.
I let go of my waiting.
I could only hope that in another life, he would find me.
And I hoped that, when that time came, there would no longer be grievances or estrangement between us—only days and nights spent together, and the gentle breeze of Yang Zhou in March, carrying with it the unchanging faces of those we loved.
[The End]
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