I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 29

In the spring of the sixth year, Cheng Sutong’s graduation project entered its final binding stage. Her project was an art book titled Seven Years, which collected every sketch she had drawn over the past six years, photocopies of her six postcards, several posters, and various planning drafts.

She picked up the postcard featuring the “City Nightscape.” The image depicted a fictional metropolis of lights, brilliant and cold. Over the past five years, she had filled them in sequence with snowy mountains, the ocean, the desert, the starry sky, and the forest. Each one had been sent to that specific coordinate in the West. This time, the address line pointed to the starting point of their story.

She did not write immediately.

Outside the window, the city lights glowed with a reality that overlapped with the pattern on the postcard. She walked to the window and gripped the ring on her chest. Six years had passed, and this ring had become like a piece of her own bone.

She sat back at her workstation and unscrewed the fountain pen An Chuxin had given her, the one engraved with “For the one who bends light.” The nib hovered over the line following “Year Six.” For the first time, she found it incredibly difficult to write. It was not because she had nothing to say, but because she had too much. The thousands of words accumulated over six years were jammed in her throat, leaving her momentarily speechless. She discovered that the deepest emotions are often the hardest to carry in words at the exact moment they must be expressed.

What should I write? Sutong’s mind raced. Should I write that I graduated? That I finished the sketchbook? That I lived to see this day in good health? She knows all that. Or should I write how much I missed her? But the scales for measuring longing have long since failed. It permeates every breath and cannot be stated in isolation.

Her fingers trembled slightly. She closed her eyes, and countless fragments flashed through her mind, all pointing toward the same source of light. She opened her eyes, her gaze steady. The pen touched the paper.

First line: “Coordinates: Our Alma Mater.” I have returned to the place where our story began. This is not just in a geographical sense, but in a spiritual one. Here, I was once a piece of porcelain on the verge of shattering, and you were the one brave enough to reach out and touch the cracks.

Second line: “Completed: All Promises.” I did not waste a single day of the six years of freedom you gave me. I ate well, studied hard, painted diligently, and treated others with sincerity. I experienced the clamor of youth and tasted the profound depth of solitude. I have grown into an adult who can stand firmly on the earth without needing you as a crutch. I have fulfilled every expectation you had for Cheng Sutong.

The nib paused there, and a tiny spot of ink bled into the paper. Then, she wrote the most crucial sentence.

Third line: “Observation: At the end of time, it is still your eyes.” In these six years, I have seen great mountains and vast oceans, the bustle of the human world, and the heights of art. I have seen countless pairs of eyes: curious, admiring, pitying, and wise. But my deepest visual memory remains your eyes in the wind of Qingwu Mountain, eyes filled with tears yet still looking at me with trust. That is the only confirmed home I have found after traveling through all this time and scenery.

For the last line, she changed her stroke, using a heavier touch.

“Request: Fulfill the vow.” Teacher, the six year term is up. I have come to fulfill the contract.

After finishing, she stared quietly at those four lines. There was no excessive lyricism, no explanation, and not even a signature. The name Cheng Sutong, along with the entirety of her life over the last six years, was already branded into this piece of paper and the years behind it.

She flipped the card over. In the recipient address line, she wrote in neat handwriting the address of the KFC where they had their first private meal. It was a place filled with the ordinary spark of life, carrying their first cautious steps toward one another. It was a mundane yet precious starting point.

The next morning, Cheng Sutong did not go to the post office. Instead, she walked across half the city to the old mailbox across from that KFC. It was very weathered. Standing before the mailbox, she took one last look at the postcard in her hand. In the morning light, she saw her reflection in the shop window. She had long black hair and wore a simple white shirt and trousers. Her gaze was calm. She was no longer the pale, fragile girl from six years ago whose eyes were filled with confusion and dependence.

She lightly kissed the edge of the postcard. With a soft thud, it disappeared into the box.

She sat on a bench across the street for a while, watching the KFC staff pull up the shutters to begin a new day. She could almost see herself and An Chuxin from six years ago sitting by the window. One was nervously pinching a French fry, and the other was pretending to be calm while drinking coffee. Beneath that stiff, awkward conversation was a concern and a heartbeat they did not dare to voice.

Now, she could look back at that panic with peace. The outcome no longer mattered; what mattered was that she had given everything and had a clear conscience. After the postcard was sent, life seemed to go on as usual. She prepared for her graduation defense, organized her portfolio, and participated in the final school activities. Her tranquility surprised her roommate, Lin Wei.

“Tongtong, you seem especially steady lately. It is as if you have finally reached the top of the mountain and can stop to look at the view,” Lin Wei remarked.

Cheng Sutong simply smiled and offered no explanation. On the day of her graduation defense, after explaining the creative concept behind Seven Years, she gripped the ring on her chest and said, “This is to record a person who gave me a new life and a love that required time to prove.” The audience erupted in warm applause.

On the afternoon before her departure in the sixth year, An Chuxin did not pack her bags. She finished her last class just like any other day over the past six years. The children were exceptionally quiet. Even Tashi, the most mischievous of them all, rested his chin on his hands with his bright black eyes fixed on her.

When the bell rang, she did not immediately say, “Goodbye, students.” Instead, she stood at the podium and let her gaze slowly sweep across every familiar little face. She saw the rosy cheeks tanned by the plateau sun, the clear and slightly mature eyes, and the frayed collars and sleeves.

“You might one day forget the things I taught you, but please remember this. No matter where you go or how far you travel, you are people who grew from this land. The mountains taught you resilience, the wind taught you freedom, and the starry sky taught you to look up. That is enough.”

She bowed slightly and said, “Class dismissed.”

The children did not rush out of the classroom in a clamor as they usually did. They stood up slowly, saying in a mix of Tibetan and broken Mandarin, “Goodbye, Teacher,” and “Take care, Teacher.”

Zhuoma, the girl who had now been admitted to the county junior high school, ran over with red eyes. She thrust a small package carefully wrapped in old schoolwork paper into An Chuxin’s hands and then ran away quickly. An Chuxin held the small, warm package. She did not open it immediately but tucked it into her coat pocket.

In the evening, she finally began to tidy the dormitory she had lived in for six years. She did not have much. Most of her books and teaching aids had already been organized to be left for the school and the new teacher. Her personal belongings could fit into two suitcases. During the process of packing, time began to manifest in physical forms.

She dragged a dusty cardboard box from under the bed. It was filled with empty medicine boxes she had accumulated during her first two years while acclimating to the environment. From a corner of the wardrobe, she found a pack of compressed biscuits that had long since turned into stones. This was food she could not stomach when she first arrived but was too thrifty to throw away. In a crack in the windowsill, she found a rusty fountain pen. It was the one she used to grade her very first assignments, and its nib was worn down.

She sat on the floor and looked through each item. She picked up the sealed bag containing the dried white wildflower. The petals had long since crumbled into powder. Touching them through the plastic offered only a hollow sensation, yet the wind of Qingwu Mountain and the warmth of Cheng Sutong’s fingers felt as clear as yesterday.

She flipped through her teaching diary. The edges of the pages were slightly curled and yellowed. The first page was written the night she arrived. It said, “It is very dry here. The dust seems to swallow all sound, including my own.” The last page was written the night before. It said, “Leaving tomorrow. My luggage is light, but my heart is full.”

She saw the simple maps she had drawn: the mountain path to Zhuoma’s house and the creek she had to cross to reach Tashi’s. Every crooked line had been measured countless times by her own footsteps. At the very bottom lay the six postcards, ranging from “Falling leaves are like fragments of time” to “Request to fulfill the vow.” The paper had been rubbed smooth, but Cheng Sutong’s handwriting remained clear and strong. There was also the letter from Cheng Xia and various small items given by the children, such as colored stones, dried wildflowers, and crudely handmade blessing cards.

An Chuxin felt like she was reviewing an army of objects. Each piece was a medal of her battles, her life, and the roots she had planted in this land.

After nightfall, she climbed the hillside behind the school alone, as she often did. This was her secret place. She had cried here and broken down here. She had also been healed by the starry sky here, finding the strength to keep going. Tonight was cloudless. The vast galaxy hung low in the ink black sky like a waterfall, seemingly within reach. The distant mountains presented a deep blue silhouette under the moonlight, silent and solemn.

She sat on a stone that had been worn smooth by her presence and took out the small package Zhuoma had given her. Inside was a small handful of roasted highland barley and a folded note. On the paper, Zhuoma’s handwriting was childish but neat.

“Teacher An, highland barley is the strongest thing we have here. It is not afraid of wind or rain. Eat it, and wherever you go, it will be as if our strength is with you. Zhuoma.”

An Chuxin picked up a few grains of barley and chewed them slowly. They were coarse and slightly salty, possessing the essential fragrance of sunlight and earth. She finished them grain by grain, then looked up at the stars.

Six years had passed. When she first arrived, she thought the starry sky here was beautiful but cold. Billions of stars shone indifferently on human suffering. She had questioned them, wept at them, and felt her own insignificance and helplessness. Now, she looked at the same sky, but her feelings were entirely different. She no longer needed to demand answers or strength from the stars because a corresponding, stable universe had already grown within her.

This internal universe had its storm zones: the discomfort and struggle of her arrival. it had its habitable zones: the sincere bonds she built with the children. It also had its dark matter: the deeply buried longing for Cheng Sutong and the complex past carried by that scar.

Cheng Sutong had learned independence and wholeness through waiting, and An Chuxin had similarly learned independence and wholeness through the separation that granted that wait. This was not a sacrifice. It was a synchronized, two way maturation. Like two planets orbiting separately, they had been pulled by the same gravity throughout their long revolution, finally destined to reunite on a predetermined track.

On this final night, under the starry sky that had shone on her for six years, she slowly placed the ring on her own left ring finger. It fit perfectly. It was a vow and a confirmation of her growth over these six years, of her upcoming journey to fulfill the pact, and of the final meaning of the long wait between her and Cheng Sutong.

When she returned to the dormitory, it was near midnight. The stove fire had gone out, and the room was filled only with cold moonlight. She did not turn on the lamp. By the moonlight, she wrote her final entry in her diary.

“The last night. My luggage is packed in two suitcases. The extra weight compared to when I arrived is all invisible. I inspected the classroom, the playground, the vegetable patch, and the hillside, saying goodbye to each silent place. I ate the barley Zhuoma gave me and put on my ring. Sitting here now, my heart feels no sorrow of parting, only peace. It is like completing a long period of cultivation and finally reaching the time to descend the mountain. In these six years, I have lost some innocence and arrogance, but I have gained a coarse resilience and a vast understanding. What I taught the children might be limited, but what they gave me was another pair of eyes to see the world and myself anew. I am no longer the An Chuxin who fled six years ago, carrying trauma and confusion. I have been reshaped by this land, carrying its frost and starlight. I am still myself, about to return and complete another part of my life. Cheng Sutong, see you tomorrow.”

After writing, she closed the diary and placed it gently on top of the already packed book box. The moonlight moved to the windowsill, illuminating the Gesang flower she had tended for four years. In the bitter cold of the plateau, it usually looked wilted, but now, under the moonlight, it quietly bloomed with one last, small, pink and white flower.

An Chuxin watched it for a while. She had no intention of taking it with her because it belonged here. She lay on the bed, her fingers unconsciously turning the ring on her finger. Outside, all was silent, with only the occasional distant bark of a dog. She stared at the moving patches of moonlight on the ceiling. Memories of the coarseness of chalk dust, the scorching plateau sun, the calluses on the children’s palms, the pungent scent of herbal ointment, and the salty fragrance of highland barley flashed through her mind. All of these layers constituted the texture of her life over the past six years.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise as usual on this plateau, and she would catch the earliest bus out. At the other end of the road, the girl she had missed for six years, the one who had also grown for six years, was waiting at the appointed place to meet a completely new version of her. Thinking of this, An Chuxin’s eyes crinkled into a smile. She could finally move toward her future, complete and without burden.

Support