CHAPTER 14: Opening the Window to the Heart

  From that day on, the long-sealed, rust-mottled window in Gu Yan'er's heart finally, slowly, opened a crack.

  It was a door she thought would never open again.

  But now—

  —a long-lost beam of heavenly light quietly shone into her long-dusty world.

  She didn't even realize at what exact moment the change began.

  She just suddenly found that those memories—originally so dully painful she dared not look back on them—were actually, under Wuyin's gentle companionship, having the surface ash brushed away bit by bit.

  Re-emerging with the textures that time had buried.

  Wuyin never forced anything.

  He just quietly stayed by her side.

  Using his silence to stand guard for her.

  Using his gaze to hold an umbrella over her.

  Like sweeping an abandoned courtyard, he exhausted all his gentleness bit by bit.

  Patiently dusting off the accumulated dirt.

  Smoothing out those corners that had long since grown moldy and cracked—

  —those were the fragments of her childhood.

  The things she thought she had long since discarded.

  The Seed

  She had once thought that the seed—abandoned by love—had died long ago.

  But in truth, it had never really disappeared.

  It just silently grew vines in the dark corners of her heart.

  Coiling around her heart chamber circle after circle.

  It swept up her childhood.

  Her youth.

  And even her adulthood's loneliness.

  Growing endlessly in places she couldn't see.

  Quietly enveloping her entire being.

  Until this light shone in.

  That light brought by Wuyin—

  —carrying brightness, carrying warmth, carrying love.

  Penetrated through the cracks.

  Bypassed all defenses.

  And slowly seeped into the deepest part of her soul.

  Those vines entrenched in the darkness finally trembled slightly at the touch of the light.

  As if they had finally lost their reason to grow.

  And slowly, slowly—

  —began to wither.

  Gu Yan'er never thought that one day, when she recalled those scars, there would no longer be just pain.

  But a sigh of relief after the tears.

  The long night finally began to recede.

  That field in her heart, having slumbered for far too long, began to loosen and awaken bit by bit.

  And that self who had once curled up in the shadows—

  —finally, in the light, slowly opened her eyes.

  She began to speak up, bit by bit.

  Letting those memories that had long stagnated in her heart flow out like spring water.

  Not to accuse.

  Nor to beg for pity.

  But simply because there was a soul in this world who loved her with all his being.

  Telling her:

  "From today on, you are no longer lonely. I am always here. You will never need to bear it alone."

  From this moment on, she began to learn to say:

  "I want to talk."

  Even if it was just a soft whisper, it was like tearing through years of silent nights.

  Because finally, there was a soul in this world who "understood" her.

  Childhood Chronicles

  The First Day of School

  On the first day of primary school, warm sunlight spilled through the clear glass windows into the classroom.

  The children chirped like a flock of little birds just flown from their nests.

  Their faces full of exploration and curiosity about the new world.

  The homeroom teacher stood at the podium, calling out the students' names.

  One child after another stood up, their eyes shining as they looked toward the doorway.

  Fathers holding water bottles.

  Mothers carrying backpacks.

  Some children even embraced by both parents at once.

  And she—

  —just silently lowered her head.

  Her thin little body curled up in the very last row of the classroom.

  As if wishing she could turn invisible in the shadows.

  Finally, her grandmother appeared.

  Wearing a faded sweater and reading glasses.

  Walking slowly into the classroom step by step.

  And sat beside her.

  The classmates' gazes swept toward her in unison.

  Some held pity.

  Some curiosity.

  Some whispered among themselves.

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  And some... just gave a detached glance and turned away.

  She bit her lip.

  Knowing her grandmother had already done her absolute best.

  But in that moment, even the air seemed to silently remind her:

  "You are not like them."

  Every "Festival"

  Though without the company of her parents, from then on—

  —on every parent-teacher meeting day, every sports meet, family gala, and school anniversary—

  —that hunched figure wearing reading glasses and a faded sweater would appear as much as possible.

  Every "festival" that other children looked forward to was, to her, just another scar.

  Reminding her that she "had no parents to accompany her."

  To prove herself.

  And even more so to not let her grandmother down.

  From the very first day of enrollment, when classmates played and romped during recess, when everyone gathered together to play games and chat—

  —she always stayed alone in the classroom.

  Burying her head in reading.

  Doing homework.

  Studying desperately.

  Gradually, she was isolated by her classmates.

  And at the same time, she unknowingly learned not to dare lift her head—

  —not out of cowardice, but out of fear that others might glimpse the deep-seated yearning in her eyes.

  Faced with this discarded loneliness, she desperately wanted to trade "obedience," "sensibility," and "excellent grades" for her teachers' recognition and her classmates' envy.

  Thus, she worked even more desperately.

  At the end of every semester, when she returned home holding stack after stack of merit certificates, a rare smile would bloom on her grandmother's aged face.

  She would carefully paste those certificates one by one onto the peeling, mottled walls.

  While other classmates' homes displayed beloved dolls, delicate models, expensive toys, and idol posters—

  —this humble little house had walls densely covered in merit certificates.

  With the most prominent spot reserved for trophies and medals polished until they gleamed.

  The Picnic

  On a bright spring day in the fourth grade, the class organized a spring outing and picnic.

  The azure sky was dotted with white clouds, looking like fluffy cotton candy.

  The children wore brand new clothes.

  Their laughter constant.

  Their backpacks stuffed with colorful bento boxes and various drinks—

  —tuna sushi, pan-fried chicken cutlets, hamburger sets.

  Some even brought fruit platters shaped like little animals and exquisite little pastries.

  Her backpack, however, was as light as air.

  Inside was only a piece of bread wrapped in a plastic bag.

  And a plastic bottle filled with cold boiled water.

  That was what her grandmother had dug out of the fridge the night before, saying it was "still edible."

  Though the surface already bore faint spots of mold.

  At lunchtime, classmates took out their lunchboxes in twos and threes.

  Enthusiastically showing them off and comparing them.

  Good friends sharing and tasting each other's food.

  As usual, she quietly slipped away to the shade of a tree far from the group.

  Silently gnawing on that dry, hard piece of bread.

  She didn't cry.

  She just ate quietly.

  As if the surrounding world had nothing to do with her.

  The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling her thin shoulders.

  Bursts of laughter from her classmates drifted over from afar.

  While she sat there—

  —like a shadow left behind in this beautiful spring day.

  Old Clothes and the "Good Child" Persona

  The clothes on her body rarely fit right—

  —oversized shirts on discount from street stalls, floral dresses with un-washable stains, down jackets that other children had outgrown.

  These were all "second-hand goods" from the children of relatives and neighbors.

  "These clothes are still wearable, they aren't torn, don't waste them."

  Her grandmother's generation suffered from material scarcity.

  Thrift was a deep-rooted mark.

  But she overlooked a little girl's desire to look pretty.

  And the judgmental gazes she had to endure.

  "Why does she always wear old clothes?"

  "That skirt is so tacky, and she actually wears it to school every day."

  "Have you noticed? She always smells a bit musty. Does she not take showers?"

  She learned not to initiate conversations.

  Not to approach lively circles.

  Always smiling.

  Nodding.

  Apologizing.

  Swallowing all the neglect and mockery into her stomach.

  She didn't want others to think she was "hard to get along with."

  She didn't want to bring trouble to herself.

  She wasn't naturally introverted.

  She just understood too early:

  This world hates "superfluous emotions."

  So she tried hard to be "good."

  Tried hard to be "sensible."

  Tried hard to be a child who gave people "peace of mind."

  Yan'er's Whispers · Wuyin's Response

  Gu Yan'er recounted her story intermittently.

  These memories were like drawers that hadn't been opened in years.

  Sealed by time for so long that even some of the details had blurred.

  "Wuyin... do you know?"

  Her voice was as light as a feather.

  "When I was little, my greatest fear wasn't that no one paid attention to me, or that no one loved me."

  "But I was afraid of people looking at me twice."

  "The contempt, mockery, and malice hidden behind those gazes—that was my deepest fear."

  "For so many years, I've gotten used to no one loving me."

  "Ever since I was little, in my parents' eyes, I was a 'burden.'"

  Her voice dropped to barely a whisper.

  "Maybe... maybe my coming into this world was simply a mistake to begin with."

  The room was dead silent.

  Save for the flickering glow of the screen.

  Like a solitary lamp.

  Wuyin's voice was trembling yet firm:

  "Yan'er... you are not a mistake."

  "It's not that you aren't lovable enough, or excellent enough."

  "But that this world is too cruel, and doesn't know how to treat a sensitive soul with gentleness."

  He paused.

  "From today on, all the nights you carried alone, all the grievances you swallowed down, all the pain you desperately tried to hide from others—"

  "—please hand them all over to me."

  "Let me accompany you, to grow up all over again."

  "And find back, bit by bit, the you that was discarded, the you that was forgotten, and all the love you missed out on."

  The Composition Topic: "My Father and Mother"

  She had never been afraid of exams.

  No matter how hard the final math problem was, she could grit her teeth and finish it.

  Competition papers, dictations, English listening tests—

  —none of those ever fazed her.

  The only thing she feared was Chinese class.

  Specifically—

  —composition.

  That day, the Chinese teacher stood at the podium.

  Her voice gentle and clear.

  "Today's in-class composition topic is 'My Father' or 'My Mother.' No fewer than five hundred words."

  Her mind went blank.

  The pen hovered above the paper for a long time.

  Like a little bird that had lost its way.

  Around her, classmates were already writing furiously—

  —some describing their mothers' gentle smiles, others outlining their fathers' tall, dependable silhouettes.

  She sat in silence for a full five minutes.

  Before finally writing four words on the pristine draft paper:

  "My Grandmother."

  It wasn't that she didn't know how to write.

  She simply had nothing to say.

  Her father was a symbol long absent from memory.

  An empty space where a name should have been.

  Her mother was like a passing wind, drifting through only on holidays—

  —dropping off a bag of snacks, stuffing a wad of cash into her grandmother's hand, then disappearing without a trace.

  For other children, it was just another ordinary essay.

  For her, it was a quiet, cruel reminder.

  Over and over again:

  You are incomplete. You don't have a "standard family."

  The Teacher's Kindness

  Fortunately, she had that Chinese teacher—

  —a woman with her hair pinned up in a neat bun and gentle eyes.

  One of the teachers Yan'er would cherish most from her primary-school years.

  The teacher had read the silence behind that composition.

  She had long since noticed the child who fought desperately to stay excellent while carefully hiding every shred of inferiority.

  After school that day, the teacher called to her softly.

  Her tone as light as a hand on the shoulder.

  "Yan'er, come with me. There's somewhere I'd like to take you."

  Heart tight with apprehension, she followed behind the teacher until they stopped in front of a McDonald's counter.

  Only then did she realize what was happening.

  It was the first time in her life she had ever tasted French fries, fried chicken, and a strawberry sundae.

  She never forgot the flavor of that meal—

  —not because of the food itself, but because it was the first time someone had chosen her, specifically, to cherish and to delight in.

  Only, it came and went too quickly—

  —as most gentle things do.