The people on the stone platform vanished into the darkness. In that final moment, their silhouettes blurred like shadows from a previous life.

But ahead, there was a thread of light.

Meng Qianzi walked toward that light amid the darkness. Her footsteps were steady, not stumbling. This darkness had no scent, no sound. The luggage in her hand felt heavy—this sensation of weight was, thus far, the only thing that felt real.

She wasn’t afraid. This was the path Jiang Lian had walked.

The light grew stronger. She finally reached the junction between darkness and brightness. The light was so intense that everywhere except where she had come from was a vast whiteness. Meng Qianzi closed her eyes to adjust, then opened them again.

This time, she saw shadowy figures, more than one, tall and short, fat and thin, all half-hidden in that vastness.

Every person was walking forward. Every person showed her only their back.

Meng Qianzi quickened her pace, hurrying toward the nearest figure. As she approached, her breathing suddenly became rapid.

She recognized this silhouette. It was Gao Jinghong.

Legend said this entrance was a passage to the next life. Death was the endpoint of one life and the starting point of another. Was Grand Aunt walking step by step into her next life from here?

She looked at other figures and recognized Shi Xiaohai, He Shengzhi, and others scattered about—people from her life who had already passed away.

Death was an eternal straight line, along which everyone would eventually find their position, whether early or late, far or near. What she saw were the people who had departed during her lifetime. What Grand Aunt saw must have been another group. Would Grandmother Duan be among them?

Where was Grandmother Duan? Would she see her early-years lover?

What would happen if she caught up? If caught up, would it mean their current life’s affection was unfinished, to be continued in the next life?

Who would you chase?

Meng Qianzi circled one person after another, always seeing only their backs. Each time she passed someone, they would instantly reappear ahead, as if stubbornly reminding her not to disrupt the order.

Finally, she saw Jiang Lian’s back.

Just like before—upright, lonely, but never dejected. Jiang Lian would never give anyone the impression of dejection.

Whose back would he be chasing? Kuang Tongsheng, or perhaps his mother?

Meng Qianzi reached out and gently touched his shoulder.

In that moment, everything changed dramatically. The world transformed abruptly. Her senses became clear again. Meng Qianzi felt a long-absent sensation of returning to the mortal world.

The mountain wind was cold, carrying the scent of withered leaves.

Meng Qianzi heard vicious cursing and crying.

She turned anxiously and saw a dilapidated mud-brick house. A lame man with fire tongs was chasing and beating a disheveled woman.

The woman just giggled, sometimes trying to grab the tongs, sometimes cowering with her hands over her head. Meng Qianzi was furious at the sight and was about to push the man away when her gaze fell on something that stunned her.

She saw Jiang Lian.

Very small, only two or three years old.

He wore a filthy, tattered cotton jacket and oversized puffy cotton shoes. Standing by the edge of the well platform, sucking his finger, he stared blankly at the chase.

Before long, the woman was beaten back into the house. The lame man cursed as he crossed the courtyard. Suddenly seeing Jiang Lian, he swore “little bastard” before delivering a kick to his bottom that sent him rolling.

Meng Qianzi’s mind went blank. She instinctively raised her hands to catch Jiang Lian, but caught nothing—Jiang Lian passed through her outstretched hands.

She could only witness these past events, unable to intervene.

The man limped away.

Meng Qianzi felt heartbroken. She crouched in front of Jiang Lian to look at him.

Jiang Lian lay motionless on the ground. Only when he saw the man was far away and wouldn’t return to beat him did he slowly rise from the ground and trudge out of the courtyard.

As he walked, he rubbed his bottom with his hand. His cotton pants had a hole that exposed his white buttocks.

Meng Qianzi’s eyes reddened, and she burst into laughter.

After a while, she supported herself up, picked up her luggage, and continued forward.

This time, as she walked, the sky darkened. The mountain path wound endlessly, seemingly without end. Night insects crooned, and mist shrouded everything.

Meng Qianzi heard running footsteps approaching from behind.

Just as she turned, she saw Jiang Lian fall in front of her. He was clutching a cloth bag from which cold steamed buns and candies rolled out.

Jiang Lian sniffled, sticking his bottom up as he picked up each item one by one.

Meng Qianzi wanted to help him collect them, but as before, she couldn’t.

She stared blankly at the hard fruit candy that she couldn’t touch.

A dirty little hand reached over and quickly seized the hard candy in its palm.

Meng Qianzi looked up and called to him: “Jiang Lian.”

Jiang Lian seemed to hear her, or perhaps coincidentally raised his head: his childish face still had traces of tears, his eyes empty and hazy.

Meng Qianzi said softly: “Don’t be afraid. Run forward, keep running forward. I will wait for you ahead.”

Jiang Lian tightened the cloth bag, hugged it, and started running again, like a gust of wind sweeping through the cool night. His small, thin silhouette wobbled on the mountain path and disappeared.

Meng Qianzi stood on the mountain path for a long time before continuing downward.

Forward. Both he and she had to move forward.

The next time she encountered Jiang Lian was under a bridge.

He had grown a bit older and was wrapping layers of newspaper around himself in the howling cold wind before curling up to lie down.

Meng Qianzi heard him mutter: “I want to eat fragrant pancakes with meat inside and sweet cream.”

It seemed Jiang Lian’s food appreciation skills were lacking—what an unappetizing combination. Meng Qianzi sat beside him, watching over him as he fell asleep. She made a motion as if stroking his face, whispering: “You will have it, you will have everything.”

…

Leaving the bridge, the path ahead remained long. Jiang Lian’s life unfolded like a slowly extending scroll, and she wandered through this scroll.

She felt fortunate: she had missed the first half of Jiang Lian’s life, yet hadn’t missed it at all.

She saw Kuang Tongsheng leading a clean and tidy Jiang Lian, while beside them, a nanny held little Kuang Meiying. Kuang Meiying was dressed like a little princess, with lovely embroidery on her collar and hem. She extended a chubby little finger, pointing at Jiang Lian, babbling indistinctly: “You, you.”

Jiang Lian kept his eyes straight ahead.

Kuang Tongsheng opened a door. This was a typical boy’s room, with a small bed, toys, soft pillows, and fluffy blankets.

Kuang Tongsheng pointed at the room and said to Jiang Lian, “From now on, you’ll live here. Everything is yours.”

Jiang Lian responded with an expressionless “mm.”

Meng Qianzi was surprised: was Jiang Lian so cool as a child? Impossible, he was a silly child who couldn’t maintain such coolness.

Kuang Tongsheng closed the door and left.

And she had guessed correctly.

Jiang Lian’s deliberately maintained coolness disappeared instantly. He smiled with curved lips, his eyes narrowing into two happy little fish. Then he jumped onto the bed, hugging the big down pillow, rolling back and forth, rubbing his face against the pillowcase. His face filled with satisfaction, he said: “So soft, the softest cotton pillow in the world.”

Meng Qianzi leaned against the door, smiling as she watched Jiang Lian bouncing around energetically. As she smiled, tears fell.

She thanked Kuang Tongsheng.

Of course, Kuang Tongsheng had chosen Jiang Lian with a purpose, but what did that matter?

Thank him for ending that period of Jiang Lian’s wandering childhood, allowing him to rest his head on the world’s softest cotton pillow, so happy.

She saw Jiang Lian grow up, becoming a vibrant young man. She watched him learn various things under Kuang Tongsheng’s urging, witnessed him treating Kuang Meiying with indifference, saw him deliberately smoking, going to dance halls, making questionable friends, then being hung up and beaten by Kuang Tongsheng, and bedridden for half a month.

She also saw him releasing a star from his palm in the night breeze. That tiny star rose from between his palms, trembling and faintly glowing—the hope he harbored that one day he would express to a girl.

…

Jiang Lian, Jiang Lian, every scene, every frame, was Jiang Lian.

Finally, she came to their meeting.

From then on, Jiang Lian’s life was filled with her.

Most of this she had experienced firsthand, but from an observer’s perspective, everything was different, with so much more sweetness, bitterness, and meaning.

It turned out that when she was half-dazed from the incense Bai Shuixiao had burned, she had pinched Jiang Lian’s face hard, stretching it out of shape.

It turned out that when Kuang Tongsheng was critically ill, on Jiang Lian’s hasty journey from Western Hunan, he had constantly checked his phone, looking for new messages or contact requests.

Kuang Meiying asked him: “What are you looking at?”

He just smiled and said, “Checking if the caregiver sent any messages about Master Gan.”

It turned out that in Guilin that time, he had chased after Meng Jinsong’s car until he was breathless. Those things she found difficult to speak of, he had known all along.

No wonder he would say, “I guarantee, all the problems you’re worried about won’t be problems at all.”

…

She walked and watched, laughing and crying. No matter how long the journey, it would eventually end.

On the stone platform, Jiang Lian kissed her one last time, saying: “Qianzi, I will love you forever.”

How far is forever? Unknown. But throughout history, there have always been people willing to carry boundless, deep affection with their finite lives.

Jiang Lian’s life ended here, with darkness at its conclusion.

The luggage was too heavy. Meng Qianzi’s wrist ached slightly. She switched hands and continued forward.

With a heart free from fear, nothing—neither the mortal world nor the Great Wilderness—could stop her steps now.

The wind grew stronger.

This time, it was a tangible wind.

Those shadowy images all disappeared—disappeared completely, with no trace of where they had come from. No entrance, no passage, as if they had never existed.

Before her lay emptiness, boundless in all directions, somewhat like a desert with shifting sands on the ground. Yet in the far, far distance, there seemed to be undulating mountain ridges.

What kind of world was this?

Meng Qianzi took two bewildered steps forward. Almost in a flash of insight, she suddenly understood.

They say when people die, their lives flash before their eyes like a revolving lantern. They also say the soul enters the Great Wilderness. Then, those who have reviewed their lives would naturally proceed to the next stage, right?

Mountains live such long lives. As the most intelligent of all beings, humans’ journey shouldn’t end so quickly. There should be a next stage, and another after that, experiencing all vicissitudes, seeing all rivers and mountains.

But she couldn’t go. She had entered the Great Wilderness while alive, before her time.

This place must be…

Call it a resting station or a place of confinement.

Throughout history, only Peng Yi, Jiang Lian, and she had entered the Great Wilderness alive.

Would there be others? She didn’t know. This world held too many mysteries. So many people writing, never just a few people’s story.

Meng Qianzi had no idea how long she had walked.

The path here wasn’t flat; it had rises and falls.

There was always wind, sometimes fierce, sometimes gentle. Meng Qianzi would occasionally become disoriented, feeling that these gusts of wind were like people, coming like clear dust and leaving like wind. Perhaps one day, a breeze passing by her would be someone she knew, having left the mortal world, passing through the Great Wilderness, greeting her.

There was also mist, hazy and ethereal, sometimes dispersing, accompanying her, like the thoughts in people’s hearts, unclear in origin, uncertain in destination.

Then, she encountered a grave.

Not large. From a distance, it looked like a steamed bun. Drawing closer, she saw a box in front of the tomb.

A stone-carved box with phoenix and bird flower patterns rested quietly beside the grave. This must be the decoy Peng Yi had used to confuse everyone.

Beside the box was a stone with knife-carved characters.

Peng Yi’s Tomb.

Peng Yi was a fake name. No one knew his real name. This name was simply invented by Shen Gun to facilitate telling the whole story.

Who would have buried Peng Yi? Only Jiang Lian. He had suffered greatly but still had a soft heart.

He would have done this.

Her luggage was too heavy. Meng Qianzi put down her bag here, caught her breath, and continued forward.

She wasn’t worried that someone would take her bag. In such a quiet, desolate place, the appearance of a thief would actually be a comforting thing.

However, as she walked on, it became less desolate.

She saw drawings—drawings on the ground. These were vast, accumulated compositions. The earliest ones she saw had been eroded by the wind, leaving only faint traces.

Everything in the drawings was familiar to her.

There was the little white monkey from Xuandan Peak Forest, staring with wide eyes, wearing a face mask.

There was Old Ga’s stilted house. Below the house were piled witch masks, wood shavings, and the coffin Old Ga had prepared for himself.

There was Shen Gun pushing his glasses up, looking as if he was about to launch into a lengthy discourse.

There was Jiang Qiaoqiao, swaying with adorable coquettishness, as vivid as in the past.

And of course, most were of her: her pleased moments, her tearful moments, and moments of her giggling.

…

These must be Jiang Lian’s memories.

She followed these drawings. The traces became deeper as she walked. The drawings extended up a long slope and then down the other side.

Meng Qianzi stood on the slope, tears suddenly rolling down.

She saw Jiang Lian.

He was alone, at the bottom of the slope, half-crouching, head lowered, seemingly drawing. The drawings here were all new, with deep engravings, like flowers blooming from the ground, silently defying the boundless loneliness of the Great Wilderness.

Meng Qianzi softened her steps, slowly approaching.

She walked behind Jiang Lian. He didn’t notice, still engraving. Beside him were many tools—wooden ones, stone-ground ones, and knives.

Meng Qianzi circled and crouched in front of Jiang Lian.

She understood. He was applying the Divine Eye.

He wasn’t wretched. To the best of his ability, even in such a place, he kept himself neat and clean. What he was drawing was still her—her using a walking stick when her legs were not yet healed.

She vaguely recalled how dissatisfied she had been that he hadn’t come to help her, poking the ground with her walking stick, saying: “You’re still sitting there? Don’t you know how to come give me a hand?”

Jiang Lian closed his eyes, and the corners of his lips curved in a smile. His hands continued to engrave, utterly focused, extremely careful.

Meng Qianzi remembered that Jiang Lian once said that applying the Divine Eye required timeliness; otherwise, forcing memory and drawing would be exhausting, even depleting oneself.

Were all these drawn using the Divine Eye?

These were the memories of his life, treasures of half a lifetime. He needed memories to live; he lived in memories, regardless of exhaustion or depletion, only wanting to draw them all out.

Jiang Lian stopped.

He put down his pen, then extended his hand, slowly feeling around for another.

Meng Qianzi only then noticed that all his tools were arranged in order. Here, with no one to assist his Divine Eye application, he had changed his habit—placing each tool back in its original position after use, then feeling for another.

Meng Qianzi looked at his hand. He was likely trying to find the stone pen with the pointed tip.

She moved first, picking up the pen.

Jiang Lian’s hand found nothing.

He paused, confusion flitting across his brow. His hand, neither retracted nor extended, hovered in midair, somewhat at a loss.

Meng Qianzi smiled, then placed the pen in his hand.

The moment his finger touched the pen, Jiang Lian’s body trembled. He froze for a moment, his hand tracing along the pen body until it touched her hand, where it hesitated briefly before suddenly gripping tightly, very tightly.

Meng Qianzi’s vision blurred. Through this blur, she saw beneath Jiang Lian’s closed eyelids, his eyes moving rapidly.

He wanted to wake up.

He wanted to wake up immediately.

Meng Qianzi moved closer to Jiang Lian, gently touching her forehead to his, whispering: “Jiang Lian, there’s no rush.”

Jiang Lian, there’s no rush.

We have a very, very long time.

A lifetime is so long.

No rush.

(The End)