I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 28

The winter of the fifth year.

The letter arrived on a bone-chilling, dry morning, brought by the rural mail carrier.

An Chuxin was leading the children in their morning run on the playground. This was a habit she had maintained for four years; the thin plateau air and biting wind helped clear the mind and keep the children warm. The mail carrier’s motorcycle sputtered to a halt at the edge of the dirt field, kicking up dust that was clearly visible in the morning light.

“Teacher An! You have a letter! It is from the big city in the east!” the carrier shouted at the top of his lungs, waving a thick manila envelope.

The children looked on curiously. An Chuxin’s heart skipped a beat. A big city in the east? Who could it be? Cheng Sutong knew the school’s address, but they communicated through postcards and rarely sent letters.

She thanked him and took the envelope. It felt surprisingly heavy. The handwriting on the front was unfamiliar to her, and the sender’s name was listed as “Cheng Xia,” Cheng Sutong’s father.

In an instant, the envelope in An Chuxin’s palm felt as though it were burning. That name brought back every chaotic memory of the past. She steadied herself, folded the envelope, and tucked it into the inner pocket of her padded coat. She clapped her hands and called out to the children as if nothing had happened. “Keep running! Last lap!”

The letter stayed in her pocket all day. Through teaching, grading, settling student disputes, and conducting home visits, she acted as she always did. However, her fingers would occasionally brush against that spot on her coat to confirm it was still there.

It was not until late at night, when the dried yak dung in the dormitory stove was burning brightly and crackling, that she finally pulled it out. The orange firelight danced on the walls. Dried wildflowers given to her by the children sat in an old tin can, emitting a faint herbal scent. Her lesson plan for tomorrow lay on the desk next to the most recent postcard from Cheng Sutong, which bore only the brief words: “Fifth year, all is well.”

An Chuxin finally placed the letter near the flickering firelight. The envelope had softened from her body heat. She stared at the name “Cheng Xia” for a long time before using a letter opener to slowly slice along the edge. Her movements were as careful as if she were dismantling a live shell.

There was more than one sheet inside. The first things to slide out were several photographs. She picked them up.

The first photo showed a ginkgo-lined path on a university campus, the ground covered in gold. Cheng Sutong wore a light-colored sweater and a long skirt, looking up at the falling leaves. Her profile appeared serene in the play of light and shadow, carrying a relaxed smile rarely seen in An Chuxin’s memories. She had grown taller and leaner.

The second photo was a picture of the father and daughter in front of their home. Cheng Xia stood half a step behind his daughter, wearing a jacket with his hands hanging stiffly at his sides. His back was slightly hunched, and his hair was graying at the temples. He wore a smile—clumsy, perhaps, but genuine and relaxed. Cheng Sutong stood in front, her head tilted slightly toward her father, her expression peaceful.

The corners of the photos were worn, suggesting they had been held and touched frequently.

An Chuxin’s gaze lingered on Cheng Xia’s face for a long time. This man, who had once caused her terror and eventually became a heavy burden, appeared in the photos as nothing more than an ordinary father trying his best to smile for his daughter.

She set the photos down and unfolded the thick stack of letter paper. Every stroke of the pen carried a heavy sincerity.

“Teacher An,

I hope this letter finds you well. I asked Sutong for your address.

Sutong came back for the holidays and talked a lot about her university. She is doing well; she smiles more than before and has grown a bit stronger. This is all thanks to your kindness.

I have had something suppressed in my heart for many years. Back then, I was a scoundrel. I am sorry. I should not have raised my hand against you, and I certainly should not have said those horrible things. I was not blaming you; I was just afraid. I was afraid Sutong would take a wrong path or that she would suffer. But I was wrong. You are truly good to her; I can see that now.

She treats that ring like a treasure and says you gave it to her. Teacher An, I do not understand the kind of feelings you two have, but I understand what it means to be good to someone. You are good to her, and she acknowledges you. That is enough for me.

In the future, may you both be well. If you ever come back, there is a meal waiting for you at home.”

That last sentence stood on its own line, followed by a large blank space as if he did not know how to conclude.

“Cheng Xia. P.S. Sutong says you are in the West and it is dry and cold. Drink plenty of hot water and watch your joints.”

The paper rustled in An Chuxin’s trembling hands, curling slightly in the heat from the stove. She did not cry, but a scalding torrent surged from the depths of her heart, clogging her throat and stinging her eyes.

This clumsy apology did not pull the thorn out of her heart, but it felt like a hand filled with regret and warmth had reached out to grasp the handle of that thorn. It did not try to pull it out by force, which would have caused a second injury. It simply acknowledged the thorn’s existence and accepted the pain of holding it.

She remembered a letter Cheng Sutong had written mentioning the changes in her father: “He is older now and speaks even less, but he watches the weather forecast on TV for your city. When I take my medicine, he silently pours a glass of warm water for me.”

The fire crackled, sending out a stray spark. An Chuxin remained in the same position for a long time. The firelight flickered across her face as she gazed vacantly into the distance.

The heavy burden did not disappear, but its nature changed. It shifted from a crime or injury she had to fight and carry alone into a shared past divided among three people: Cheng Xia, herself, and Cheng Sutong.

An Chuxin did not reply immediately that night. She carefully tucked the letter and photos into the bottom of her diary. For the next few days, she went about her life as usual, though her mind would occasionally wander. When her gaze swept across the distant mountains, she would think of that far-off family.

A week later, on another quiet night by the fire, she spread out her stationary. Her reply was extremely brief, consisting of only five lines:

“Uncle Cheng,

I received the letter and the photos. Thank you.

Sutong is doing well because of her own hard work.

Please take care of your health.

An Chuxin.”

She chose the compromise of “Uncle Cheng” for the salutation, maintaining a slight distance. She did not mention the past, nor did she say “it is okay” or “I forgive you.” There were no emotional outpourings or promises, only the most concise acknowledgment and polite greeting.

True reconciliation does not lie in the words of forgiveness, but in the withdrawal of internal judgment. She no longer nailed Cheng Xia to the pillar of shame as a perpetrator, nor did she confine herself to the role of a victim out of self-pity or resentment. She restored him to the status of an ordinary man who had made mistakes, felt regret, and was growing old. By moving him away from the central battlefield of her emotional world, she achieved the greatest release possible.

She stamped and sealed the envelope, entrusting it to a teacher heading to the county town the next day. Once it was done, she stood by the school’s earthen wall, watching the snow-capped peaks glisten with a cold light in the sun. The plateau wind blew through the stray hairs on her forehead.

A few days later, she wrote a slightly longer postcard to Cheng Sutong. She did not mention Cheng Xia’s letter. Instead, after describing her daily routine, she added a seemingly casual sentence at the end:

“Lately, I often feel that time and distance may not only separate people but also allow certain sharp things to settle into their original texture. Like mountains, like stones, or like the human heart. Do not worry; I am at peace.”

She believed that with Cheng Sutong’s intelligence and her connection to her father, she would understand the unspoken message. This was not a report or a shared secret; it was a way to let Cheng Sutong know that her father’s step forward had been received. The knot between them was slowly loosening, and she no longer needed to worry about it.

For the rest of that winter, the wind and snow on the plateau no longer seemed so harsh. She was still busy and tired, but the shadow of the past that had chilled her heart since she began her teaching service had been largely dispelled by the genuine warmth of that correspondence.

In the fifth year, An Chuxin achieved her most important reconciliation with the past in the far West. Through silent acceptance and distanced response, she successfully repositioned a heavy relationship into a more appropriate and peaceful place in their respective lives.

She could finally be certain that when she walked toward Cheng Sutong, she would no longer be dragging the shadow of those conflicts behind her. She would go to fulfill that six-year wait with a clear heart and no lingering burdens.

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