I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 30

On the day of her graduation ceremony, Cheng Sutong woke up early. Standing before the mirror, she carefully put on her necklace, letting the simple ring pendant rest just below her collarbone.

Once the ceremony concluded, Cheng Sutong ran out of the auditorium holding her mortarboard. She was waiting for a specific person, wondering if she would actually come. One hour passed, then two, and then three. As the sun began to set, Sutong started to believe she would not show up, but she suddenly heard footsteps behind her. They were light and steady, approaching step by step.

The footsteps stopped behind her, and a voice began to hum a melody; it was that nameless tune. Cheng Sutong trembled and slowly turned around. An Chuxin stood just a few paces away.

The two of them looked at each other across the space, and the air seemed to solidify for several seconds. An Chuxin moved first. She walked forward, her footsteps echoing clearly on the ground. She stopped just a step away from Sutong, her gaze meticulously tracing the girl’s face from her eyes to the corners of her lips. Time had left its marks on her; the fine lines at the corners of her eyes were deeper, but her gaze remained clear and gentle. She wore a light gray trench coat and held an old-fashioned Walkman with headphone wires dangling down.

An Chuxin turned off the Walkman and smiled. It was the exact same smile she had given during their goodbye on the mountain six years ago. She handed over a bouquet of sunflowers and said softly, “Miss Cheng, I hope you have been well. You have grown up; your hair is longer, and you seem a bit taller.”

Cheng Sutong froze for a moment before taking the flowers and responding tenderly, “Chuxin, Sister Chuxin, it has been a long time.” She had almost called her Teacher out of habit.

Sutong reached out and lightly pulled the ring from her necklace. Without any words, it was a single gesture that served as proof. An Chuxin’s eyes reddened as she slowly raised her left hand. On her ring finger sat an identical simple band. Six years of time, over two thousand days and nights, and all the waiting, longing, growth, and confusion were transformed into a silent confirmation at this moment.

“I received them,” An Chuxin said, her voice choked with emotion. “Every postcard, every drawing, and every part of you.”

“I also,” Sutong finally found her voice, “I also received every letter you sent, every photo, and every message while I was waiting.”

“So,” An Chuxin asked, her eyes sparkling, “Miss Cheng Sutong, after fully experiencing these six years of life, what is your choice?”

Cheng Sutong looked at the person who had crossed life, death, time, and ethics to stand firmly before her. She said, word by word, “My choice is An Chuxin. In the past, the present, and the future, it has always been you.”

Love is a defiance of common sense; it is a fall into thorns; it is doing what is known to be impossible. Love is the string of messages typed and deleted on a phone; it is the pile of shared thoughts in a drafts folder; it is the two thousand days of sketching a remembered face. An Chuxin nodded with red-rimmed eyes and pulled Cheng Sutong into her arms. The embrace was tight, as if trying to make up for the six missing years.

Cheng Sutong reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched An Chuxin’s hand hanging by her side. Just as her fingertips were about to make contact, her gaze fixed on An Chuxin’s right palm. A pale, long scar extended from the space between the thumb and forefinger down toward the wrist. The edges were smooth now, but the depth of the original wound was still apparent.

Cheng Sutong’s breath caught. All sound, light, and thought faded in an instant. Her world contained nothing but that scar: the memory of her father’s loss of control six years ago and An Chuxin stumbling into the fruit knife on the table. The memory rushed back with the scent of blood.

Cheng Sutong’s hand hovered in the air, unable to move forward another inch. Her eyes burned instantly as she looked at the scar. An Chuxin noticed her gaze and instinctively tried to pull her hand back. This subtle movement shattered all of Cheng Sutong’s strength from the past six years.

Sutong’s hand moved forward more firmly, gently grasping the hand An Chuxin tried to hide. Her fingertips touched the scar; the slightly hard, uneven texture contrasted sharply with the surrounding soft skin. She traced the mark with her finger, slowly moving inch by inch.

“Does it still hurt?” her voice shook violently.

An Chuxin’s hand trembled slightly in her palm. After a few seconds of silence, she whispered, “It stopped hurting a long time ago.”

Cheng Sutong shook her head, tears falling onto their joined hands. “I am not asking about now.”

An Chuxin fell silent.

“Every time I finished a painting over the last six years, completed a medical check-up, or even just finished a good meal, I would wonder if the wound on my teacher’s hand was healing day by day just like me,” Sutong said. She looked up with tear-blurred eyes. “But seeing it now, I realize I was wrong. Wounds heal and scars fade, but the fact that it happened remains forever. It is like the scar on my heart, the one on your hand, and the guilt in my father’s heart.”

An Chuxin tightened her grip. Her palm was warm, and the scar pressed against Cheng Sutong’s palm like a brand. “Cheng Sutong, this scar is not your debt.”

“It is mine,” Cheng Sutong said stubbornly. “It is because of me.”

An Chuxin interrupted her. “It is because I chose to love you. Every choice has a price. This scar is a portion of the price I paid for my choice; it is fair.” She raised her other hand to gently wipe the tears from Cheng Sutong’s face. “Furthermore, it taught me something important.”

“Initially, I was afraid to look at it. Every time I washed my hands or picked something up, it reminded me of the chaos of that night, your father’s anger, and the way blood dripped on the floor. I thought it was ugly, a brand of impulsiveness. Later, while teaching in the West, a mischievous little girl accidentally cut her palm with scissors. The wound was not deep, but she was terrified and could not stop crying. As I held her to bandage the wound, I realized I was using my hand to hold hers.”

She paused and looked at Cheng Sutong. “The scar on my hand was pressed right against her tiny wrist. At that moment, the girl stopped crying. She stared at my scar and whispered, ‘Teacher, did your hand hurt too?’ I told her that it did, but it was healed now. Then the girl said, ‘Then mine will get better too, right?'”

She turned to Cheng Sutong with a gentle gaze. “From that day on, I stopped hating this scar. It taught me that some wounds can become bridges to understanding the pain of others. So, do not cry for it. It is a part of my history, just as the scar on your heart is a part of yours. None of us are undamaged, but these scars mark the paths we have walked and allow us to recognize one another. On flawless skin, you cannot see how a person once struggled to survive.”

Sutong lowered her head and pressed her lips gently against the scar. She closed her eyes, feeling as if she could touch the blood and pain of that night six years ago through the skin. She could also feel how these hands had graded assignments, comforted children, and written replies late at night in the harsh environment of the West.

“Chuxin, can I see your sketchbook? You promised you would draw during these six years.”

An Chuxin was slightly startled before taking a thick, worn sketchbook from her bag. Cheng Sutong turned the pages to find numerous sketches: smiling faces of mountain children, simple classrooms, distant mountains, and the starry sky. She stopped when she reached a page in the middle. That page depicted a hand. On the right palm, from the thumb to the wrist, was a clear scar. Over the scar, An Chuxin had used extremely fine strokes to draw a winding vine with white flowers blooming from it. The vine tangled around the scar as if it were growing out of the wound.

In the bottom right corner, a small note read: “All scars will eventually bloom. If they have not bloomed yet, it is only because the season has not arrived.”

She closed the book and hugged it to her chest. She looked at An Chuxin and said, “In my graduation portfolio, there is also a painting. It shows the scar from my heart surgery overlapping with the projection of a ring. I wrote beneath it: ‘The deficiency here is the entrance to fulfillment elsewhere.'”

An Chuxin held out her hand, palm up. Cheng Sutong placed her hand on top, palms meeting. Sutong could feel the raised texture of the scar, while An Chuxin could feel her steady, powerful pulse.

“Look,” An Chuxin whispered. “My scar is pressed against your heartbeat.”

Cheng Sutong nodded and gripped her hand. “In the future, it will be pressed against many more things: the keys to our new home and the warmth of the meals we cook together.”

In the street, traffic flowed and pedestrians hurried along, each rushing toward their own story. Cheng Xia leaned his head out of the car window. “It is boiling out here! Get in the car!”

The air conditioning in the car was running at full blast. Cheng Xia glanced at the two sitting together in the rearview mirror and coughed. “Tongtong, is your job settled?”

“It is settled. I start as a designer at an advertising agency next month,” Cheng Sutong said. “Dad, you have asked eight times already.”

“I am just confirming,” Cheng Xia muttered as he turned the steering wheel. “Chuxin, what about you? The school…”

“I resigned,” An Chuxin said calmly.

The car fell silent instantly. Cheng Sutong stared at her with wide eyes. “When did this happen? Why did you not tell me?”

“It was approved last week,” An Chuxin smiled. “I want to rest for a while and perhaps write something.”

Cheng Xia glanced at her through the mirror and started to say something, but ultimately only said, “It is good to rest. You have been too tired these past few years.”

The car entered An Chuxin’s residential complex. Dinner was prepared by Chuxin: four dishes and a soup. Cheng Xia ate quickly and left in a hurry, claiming he had work at the shop. Before leaving, he turned and said, “Next weekend, Tongtong’s aunt is coming over. Let us have dinner together.”

After the door closed, Cheng Sutong and An Chuxin looked at each other and laughed simultaneously. An Chuxin began clearing the table. “Go take a shower; you are covered in sweat.”

Cheng Sutong did not move. She walked behind An Chuxin, gently hugged her waist, and pressed her face against her back. “Chuxin.”

“Yes?”

“I have graduated.”

“Yes.”

“I have a job.”

“Yes.”

“I…” Cheng Sutong paused. “I am twenty-three years old. To be precise, Sister, I am actually twenty-nine.”

An Chuxin’s hands stopped moving. The faucet continued to run, rinsing the foam off the dishes. Twenty-three was the age at which Cheng Sutong was originally supposed to die. An Chuxin turned off the water, dried her hands, and turned around. Cheng Sutong was still holding her, looking up with eyes sparkling like stars.

“Chuxin, six years ago, you promised me that when I grew up, you would be with me.”

“I remember.”

“Then now,” Cheng Sutong’s fingers trembled slightly, “does it still count?”

An Chuxin looked at her for a long time. Then she raised her hand and gently brushed Cheng Sutong’s cheek, which had lost its adolescent innocence and now had mature, soft lines.

“Cheng Sutong,” she whispered, “have you really thought this through? Being with me means you might have to face a lot.”

Cheng Sutong interrupted her. “I have thought about it for six years. I thought about it every single day.”

An Chuxin lowered her head, resting her forehead against Cheng Sutong’s. “Then we will wait no longer. From today on, Cheng Sutong, you are mine.”

Sutong stood on her tiptoes and kissed An Chuxin’s lips. The kiss was careful, carrying the saltiness of tears and the trembling of a wait that had lasted too long. Outside the window, the sun set, staining the sky in a gentle shade of orange-red.

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