更新时间：作者：小小条
1986年的冬天，雪下得特别大，像是要把整个世界都埋了。
我叫陈宇，十八岁，高中毕业就在街边的煤炭站混日子。
说好听点是帮我二叔看店，说难听点，就是个扛大包、送煤球的苦力。
那天下午，天阴得像一块脏了的铁板，眼看又一场大雪就要压下来。
二叔揣着手，哈着白气，从泛黄的记事本上撕下一页纸递给我。
“城南，槐树胡同，3号院，林老师。一百斤蜂窝煤，五十斤煤球。快去快回，天黑前必须送到。”
林老师。
我心里咯噔一下。
是她？
我高三的语文老师，林婉秋。
那个唯一没把我当混混，还夸过我作文写得有灵气的女老师。
毕业那天，所有人都忙着写同学录，或者哭，或者笑，只有我，一个人缩在角落里，像个多余的。
是她走过来，递给我一本《平凡的世界》。
她说：“陈宇，别放弃读书。你的路还长着呢。”
那本书，现在就压在我的枕头底下，崭新，一次都没翻开过。
不是不想，是不敢。
书里那个光明的世界，跟我现在这一身煤灰、满手老茧的日子，隔着一条银河。
“发什么愣！快去啊！”二叔一脚踢在我的三轮车上，铁皮发出“哐”的一声巨响。
我回过神，把那张皱巴巴的地址塞进口袋，感觉像揣着一块烙铁。
槐树胡同3号院。
这个地址我其实不用记。
我偷偷跟同学去过一次，就在高考前。
他们是去问问题，我就是想再看她一眼。
她家住在一个很安静的老式院落里，门口有两棵大槐树，夏天的时候，绿荫能遮住半个胡同。
现在，只剩下光秃秃的树杈，在寒风里像鬼爪子一样张牙舞爪。
一百斤蜂窝煤，五十斤煤球，不算最重的活儿，但路不好走。
雪积了半尺厚，三轮车蹬起来，车轮一个劲儿地打滑。
我几乎是半推半就，用整个身体的重量在跟这堆黑家伙搏斗。
风跟刀子似的，一刀一刀往我脖子里灌。
我那件洗得发白的旧棉袄，早就挡不住这点寒气了。
等我终于把车推到槐树胡同，已经是一个小时之后了。
浑身上下，除了眼睛，没一处是干净的。
汗水混着煤灰，在脸上冲出几道黑色的沟壑。
我把车停在3号院门口，整了整衣领，感觉自己这副尊容，实在不配敲响一个老师家的门。
可煤总得送进去。
我犹豫了半天，还是抬起冻得通红的手，在朱红色的木门上，轻轻叩了三下。
门“吱呀”一声开了。
开门的是林老师。
她穿着一件浅蓝色的毛衣，头发简单地挽在脑后，露出光洁的额头和秀气的脖颈。
她还是那么好看，跟在学校里一模一样。
不，比在学校里更好看。
少了几分老师的严肃，多了几分居家的温柔。
她看到我，愣了一下。
那双明亮的眼睛里，先是疑惑，然后是惊讶，最后，变成了一种我看不懂的复杂情绪，有点像……心疼？
“陈宇？”她试探着叫我的名字。
我的脸“刷”地一下就红了，红到了耳根。
我恨不得找个地缝钻进去。
我宁愿她是看到一个陌生的送煤工，而不是看到她曾经那个“有点灵气”的学生，现在这副鬼样子。
“林……林老师。”我低下头，声音小得像蚊子哼哼。
“你怎么……”她的话说到一半，看到了门口的三轮车和车上的煤，瞬间明白了。
她的眉头轻轻蹙了一下。
“快，快进来！外面多冷啊！”
她侧身让我进院。
院子不大，收拾得很干净。
雪地里只有一串小小的脚印，应该是她的。
“老师，煤……煤放哪儿？”我问。
“就放那儿吧。”她指了指东墙根下的一个小棚子。
我“嗯”了一声，就开始卸车。
我故意把动作弄得很大声，搬起一摞蜂窩煤，就往棚子里冲，想赶紧干完活赶紧走。
太丢人了。
真的太丢人了。
一摞，两摞，三摞……
我像一头蛮牛，只想着用力气来掩盖我的窘迫。
“慢点，陈宇，不着急。”林老师的声音从背后传来。
我没回头，继续搬。
五十斤的煤球口袋，我一把扛在肩上，一个踉跄，差点滑倒。
一双温暖的手扶住了我的胳膊。
是林老师。
她的手很小，隔着厚厚的棉袄，我依然能感觉到那份柔软和力量。
“小心点。”她说。
我的心跳得像打鼓。
“没……没事。”我赶紧站稳，把煤球扛进棚子。
来来回回十几趟，终于把所有的煤都搬完了。
我拍了拍手上的煤灰，其实根本拍不干净。
“林老师，煤送完了，我……我先走了。”
我不敢看她，转身就要往外走。
“等等！”她叫住我。
我停下脚步，背对着她。
“你看你这一头一脸的汗，还有这手……”她走到我面前，轻轻拿起我的手。
我的手又黑又糙，指甲缝里全是抠不掉的煤泥，还有几道新划的口子，往外渗着血珠。
跟她的手比起来，简直不像是一个世界的东西。
她的手，白皙，修长，是那种应该握着粉笔和钢笔的手。
我下意识地想抽回来。
她却握得更紧了。
“进来洗洗吧，屋里有热水。”
“不……不用了，老师，我回去洗就行。”我慌乱地拒绝。
“那怎么行！你看你冻的，脸都紫了。”她不由分说，拉着我就往屋里走。
我像个被牵线的木偶，稀里糊涂地被她拉进了门。
一股暖气夹杂着淡淡的饭菜香味，瞬间包裹了我。
屋里真暖和。
跟外面那个冰天雪地，完全是两个世界。
地上铺着干净的地砖，家具虽然简单，但擦得一尘不染。
一张书桌靠着窗户，上面整齐地码着一摞摞的书。
这就是老师的家。
一个我想象过无数次，却从未想过会以这种方式踏足的地方。
“去洗手间洗把脸，里面有毛巾和香皂。”林老师指了指左手边的一个小门。
我“哦”了一声，走进洗手间。
镜子里的人，让我自己都吓了一跳。
一张黑黢黢的脸，只有牙是白的，头发上沾着煤灰和草屑，像个刚从垃圾堆里爬出来的乞丐。
我拧开水龙头，热水哗哗地流出来。
我仔仔细細地洗了脸，又洗了手，用香皂搓了三遍，指甲缝里的黑泥才算淡了一点。
那香皂闻起来有股茉莉花的味道，真好闻。
等我出来的时候，林老师已经把一杯热气腾腾的茶放在了桌上。
“快，坐下喝口热茶，暖暖身子。”
我局促地站在原地，不知道该不该坐。
那椅子看起来那么干净。
“坐啊，傻站着干什么。”她笑了，像春天里的阳光。
我小心翼翼地把屁股挨在椅子边上。
双手捧起那杯茶，一股暖流从手心传遍全身。
茶是茉莉花茶，跟我刚才用的香皂一个味道。
我小口小口地喝着，眼睛不知道该往哪里放。
“毕业之后，就一直在帮你二叔？”林老师坐在我对面，也捧着一杯茶。
“嗯。”
“没想过……再试试考大学吗？”她问得很小心。
我的心被狠狠地刺了一下。
考大学。
多么遥远的一个词。
就像天上的月亮，看得见，摸不着。
“我……我不是那块料。”我自嘲地笑了笑，露出一口白牙，在还有些发黑的脸上，显得格外刺眼。
“别这么说。”林老师的眼神很认真，“我一直觉得你很聪明，特别是你的作文，你忘了？你写的那篇《我的理想》，还得过全校一等奖。”
我当然没忘。
那是我这辈子唯一一次，觉得自己不是个废物。
可那又怎么样呢？
理想是飞行员，现实是送煤工。
多讽刺。
“那都是过去的事了，老师。”我淡淡地说。
屋子里陷入了沉默。
只有墙上的老式挂钟，在“滴答滴答”地走着。
我感觉越来越坐立不安。
“老师，茶我喝完了，天也不早了，我得回去了。”我站起身。
“别急着走。”林老师也站了起来，“饭马上就好了，吃了饭再走。”
“啊？”我懵了。
留我吃饭？
“不不不，这怎么行！我……”
“有什么不行的？我一个人吃饭也闷得慌，正好你来了，陪我说说话。”她的语气不容拒绝。
她说着，就转身进了厨房。
厨房是开放式的，我能看到她系上围裙，在灶台前忙碌的背影。
切菜的声音，油下锅的“刺啦”声，很快，一股更浓郁的菜香味飘了出来。
我彻底傻了。
走也不是，留也不是。
我这辈子，除了在家里，还从没在别人家吃过饭。
更何况，是林老师家。
我感觉自己像个闯入者，跟这里的一切都格格不入。
我的衣服上还有煤灰的味道，我的鞋子踩在地板上会留下黑印，我的谈吐粗俗，我的思想贫乏。
我凭什么，坐在这里，等着吃林老师做的饭？
“陈宇，过来帮我个忙，把碗筷拿出去。”厨房里传来林老师的声音。
我像是接到了圣旨，赶紧跑过去。
两副碗筷，就放在橱柜里。
白色的瓷碗，上面印着蓝色的小花，很雅致。
我把碗筷摆在饭桌上。
一张不大的方桌，铺着一块淡蓝色的桌布。
很快，三菜一汤就端了上来。
一盘青椒炒肉丝，一盘麻婆豆腐，一盘清炒白菜，还有一碗紫菜蛋花汤。
都是最家常的菜。
但在我眼里，比国营饭店的大餐还要丰盛。
“我也不知道你喜欢吃什么，就随便做了点。”林老师解下围裙，给我盛了一大碗米饭。
“谢谢老师，太……太麻烦您了。”我的声音有点抖。
“快吃吧，尝尝我的手艺。”
她给我夹了一筷子肉丝。
我扒拉着碗里的米饭，感觉像在做梦。
肉丝很香，豆腐很嫩，白菜很甜，汤很鲜。
这是我这辈子，吃过的最好吃的一顿饭。
不是因为菜的味道，而是因为做饭的人，和陪我吃饭的人。
吃饭的时候，我们聊了很多。
她问我家里的情况，问我爸妈的身体，问我有没有谈对象。
我都一一答了。
我说我爸在工厂里上班，身体还行。我妈没工作，给人打点零工。我下面还有个妹妹，在上初中。
我说我没谈对象，我这样子，谁看得上我。
我说这话的时候，语气里带着自嘲和一点点不易察ucy的怨气。
林老师沉默了。
她只是静静地看着我，那眼神，像一汪深潭，让我看不透，却又忍不住想沉溺其中。
“陈宇，你别看不起自己。”她忽然说。
“你还年轻，未来有无限的可能。”
又是这句话。
“可能？”我苦笑了一下，“林老师，您是不知道我们这种人的生活。每天睁开眼，就是煤，就是钱。一分钱难倒英雄汉。什么理想，什么未来，都是虚的。能吃饱饭，能让家里人过得好一点，就不错了。”
我说的是实话。
是我这十八年来，用一身力气和一脸煤灰换来的生活真理。
“我知道不容易。”林ad-deng's tone became serious. "But life is not just about eating. People need to have some spiritual pursuits."
She pointed to the desk by the window.
“See those books? They can’t fill your stomach, but they can make your world bigger.”
I looked at the rows of books.
Literature, history, philosophy…
They were like silent soldiers, guarding a world I had never touched.
“I… I don’t understand those,” I said honestly.
“You can learn if you don’t understand,” she said. “Your foundation is good. You’re smart. As long as you’re willing to learn, it’s never too late.”
Her words, like a small spark, ignited a flame deep in my heart that I thought had long been extinguished.
Learn?
Can I still learn?
A guy who delivers coal, covered in dust, can he also hold a book and talk about a bigger world?
"Teacher Lin," I asked, my voice hoarse, "is it... is it really not too late?"
She smiled, a smile of affirmation and encouragement.
"It's not too late. The college entrance exam is held every year. You can take the self-study exam. As long as you have the determination, there is nothing you can't do."
Self-study exam.
I had heard of it.
It was a path for people like me, who had missed out on university, to change their destiny.
But it was said to be very, very difficult.
Much harder than the regular college entrance exam.
"Is it... useful?" I asked, lacking confidence.
"Of course it's useful." She looked at me, her eyes shining. "A diploma is a stepping stone. It can give you more choices, instead of being chosen by life."
More choices.
These four words hit me hard.
For eighteen years, I had never had a choice.
I didn't choose to be born into this family. I didn't choose to drop out of school. I didn't choose to deliver coal.
Everything was arranged by fate.
And now, she was telling me that I could choose.
I could choose a different path.
"But... but I have to work. I don't have time to study." This was my biggest problem.
"Time is like water in a sponge. If you squeeze it, you'll always find some," she said. "You can study at night. If there's anything you don't understand, you can come and ask me."
Come and ask her.
My heart suddenly beat faster.
This was an invitation.
An invitation from her to me.
"I... can I?"
"Of course you can. I'm your teacher. It's my job to teach and clear up confusion." She said it so naturally, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
But I knew it wasn't.
She could have completely ignored a student like me, who had already graduated and was at the bottom of society.
But she didn't.
She not only remembered me, but also encouraged me, and was willing to help me.
Why?
I couldn't figure it out.
Maybe it was just a teacher's instinct.
Maybe it was because she was a good person, a truly good person.
That night, we talked for a long time.
From literature to history, from the meaning of life to the ideals of society.
It was the first time in my life that I had had such a conversation.
Most of the time, she was talking and I was listening.
Her voice was gentle and her knowledge was vast. She opened a door for me to a brand new world.
A world that was bright, rich, and full of hope.
I was like a traveler dying of thirst in the desert, greedily absorbing every drop of water she gave me.
I completely forgot the time, forgot my identity, forgot the dust and grime on my body.
In that small, warm room, I felt for the first time that I was a person.
A person with a soul, not just a machine for carrying coal.
When I finally looked at the clock on the wall, it was already past nine.
"Oh! It's so late!" I jumped up from my chair. "Teacher, I... I have to go."
"It's snowing heavily outside. The road is slippery. Be careful," she said, walking me to the door.
She handed me a flashlight.
"Take this. It'll be easier to see the road."
Then, she did something that I would never forget for the rest of my life.
She took a book from the shelf and handed it to me.
It was a copy of "Les Misérables."
"Take this book and read it when you have time," she said softly. "The protagonist in it also came from a humble background, but he never gave up hope."
I took the book with trembling hands.
The cover was slightly worn, and I could feel the warmth from her hand still lingering on it.
"Teacher Lin... I..."
My throat was choked with emotion, and I couldn't say a word.
Thank you?
It was too light.
This single word was far from enough to express the gratitude and shock in my heart.
"Go on," she said with a gentle smile. "Remember what I said. If you have any questions, come and find me."
I nodded heavily.
I walked out of the courtyard and stepped back into the world of ice and snow.
But this time, I didn't feel cold at all.
My heart was on fire.
The flashlight in my hand cast a beam of light, illuminating the dark road ahead.
Just like her, illuminating the path of my life.
That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
The scenes from the evening replayed in my mind over and over again.
The warmth of her home, the aroma of her food, the gentleness of her voice, the encouragement in her eyes.
And that book, "Les Misérables," which I held tightly in my arms.
It was a turning point.
I knew, from that night on, my life would be different.
The next day, I woke up before dawn.
I didn't go to the coal station. Instead, I went to the Xinhua Bookstore.
I used the twenty yuan I had saved for a long time to buy a set of self-study textbooks for the Chinese language and literature major.
When I returned to the coal station with the stack of new books, my second uncle looked at me as if I were a monster.
“You’ve gone mad! Buying these useless things? Can they be eaten or drunk?”
He snatched a book and was about to tear it.
I grabbed it back, my eyes red. “Don’t touch my books!”
It was the first time I had ever talked back to him.
He was stunned.
From that day on, my life was split in two.
During the day, I was still the coal delivery boy, Chen宇, pedaling my tricycle through the streets and alleys, my body covered in sweat and dust.
At night, I became the student Chen宇, sitting under a dim 15-watt bulb, burying my head in books, greedily absorbing knowledge.
It was hard.
Incredibly hard.
After a long day of physical labor, my body felt like it was falling apart. My eyelids would fight each other as soon as I opened a book.
Many times, I would fall asleep on the table, drool wetting the pages.
But whenever I thought of Teacher Lin’s encouraging eyes, whenever I picked up “Les Misérables,” I would feel a surge of strength.
The protagonist, Jean Valjean, stole a loaf of bread and was imprisoned for nineteen years. After his release, he was met with prejudice and discrimination everywhere. But he never despaired. He always maintained his kindness and integrity, and eventually became a respected mayor.
What were my little struggles compared to his?
I gritted my teeth and persevered.
I used every spare moment to study.
When I was waiting for customers at the coal station, I would take out a book and read a few pages.
When I was eating, I would stick a few English words on the wall opposite me.
My second uncle thought I was possessed. My parents thought I was not doing honest work.
The neighbors pointed fingers at me.
“Look at the Chen family’s boy. He delivers coal during the day and pretends to be a scholar at night. He’s daydreaming!”
I ignored them all.
I lived in my own world.
A world with books, with hope, and with Teacher Lin.
Every two weeks, I would go to her house, under the pretext of asking questions.
In reality, I often had no questions. I had already figured them out by myself.
I just wanted to see her.
I wanted to sit in her warm study, drink a cup of her jasmine tea, and listen to her talk about literature and life.
She was always so patient.
No matter how stupid my questions were, she would explain them to me in detail.
She would also check my practice essays, pointing out my shortcomings and praising my progress sentence by sentence.
She was my guide, my mentor, my beacon in the dark.
In her presence, I felt respected and valued.
I felt that I was not a lowly coal delivery boy, but a scholar on the path of seeking knowledge.
Once, I went to her house and found that she had a cold. Her voice was hoarse and she looked pale.
I felt a pang in my heart.
“Teacher, you’re sick. You should rest. I’ll come back another day,” I said.
“It’s fine. A small cold.” She smiled weakly. “You came all this way. I can’t let you make a wasted trip.”
She insisted on explaining a difficult classical Chinese text to me.
As I listened, I looked at her pale face and dry lips, and an uncontrollable impulse surged within me.
I wanted to take care of her.
I wanted to cook a bowl of hot soup for her, just like she had cooked for me that snowy night.
After leaving her house, I didn't go home. Instead, I went to the market.
I bought a live chicken, some ginger, and some dates.
I went back to her house and knocked on the door.
When she saw me standing at the door with a chicken in my hand, she was completely stunned.
“Chen宇, you…”
“Teacher, you’re sick. You need to nourish your body. I’ll make you some chicken soup.”
Without waiting for her to refuse, I walked straight into her kitchen.
I was clumsy at first, but I had seen my mother do it many times. I plucked the chicken, cleaned it, and put it in a pot with the ginger and dates.
Soon, the aroma of chicken soup filled the small room.
I filled a bowl and brought it to her.
“Teacher, drink it while it’s hot.”
She looked at the bowl of soup, then at me. Her eyes turned red.
“You foolish child…” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
That day, for the first time, she told me about her family.
Her husband was a soldier, stationed at the border. They only got to see each other once every one or two years.
She lived alone in this big city, with no family around.
She was often lonely.
Especially when she was sick.
Listening to her, I finally understood the look in her eyes that snowy night.
It was not just pity for a student.
It was the empathy of one lonely soul for another.
From that day on, our relationship seemed to become closer.
I was no longer just her student. I was also her friend, her family.
I would go to her house every week, not just to ask questions, but also to help her with chores.
I would chop firewood for her, carry water for her, and repair her leaky roof.
And she would cook for me, mend my clothes, and tell me stories from her books.
Those were the happiest days of my life.
In that small courtyard in槐树胡同, I found a warmth and belonging I had never felt before.
My studies also progressed by leaps and bounds.
I finished all the courses for the self-study Chinese language and literature major in just one and a half years.
In the autumn of 1988, I took the final exam.
The day the results were announced, I was more nervous than I had been at my own birth.
I went to the education bureau with Teacher Lin.
When I saw my name on the list of graduates, and the words “Pass” next to it, I burst into tears.
I cried like a child.
I, Chen宇, a coal delivery boy, had actually done it.
I had earned a college diploma through my own efforts.
Teacher Lin stood beside me, her eyes also red.
She gently patted my back. “I knew you could do it.”
That night, she cooked a table full of dishes to celebrate for me.
She even opened a bottle of wine.
Her cheeks were flushed from the wine, making her look even more beautiful.
“Chen宇,” she said, looking at me with her bright eyes, “what are your plans for the future?”
“I… I want to be a teacher,” I said without hesitation. “Just like you.”
This was a thought that had been buried deep in my heart for a long time.
I wanted to pass on the warmth and hope she had given me to more people like me.
She smiled. “Good. That’s a great dream.”
Then, her expression became a little sad.
“I might be leaving this place soon,” she said softly.
My heart sank. “Leaving? Where are you going?”
“My husband is being transferred back from the border. He will be assigned to our hometown, a small city in the south. I’m going to go back with him.”
My mind went blank.
She was leaving?
This news was like a bolt from the blue.
I had never thought about her leaving.
I always thought she would be here, in this small courtyard, waiting for me.
“When… when are you leaving?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Probably after the new year.”
The joy of graduation was instantly replaced by an immense sense of loss.
I felt as if my world was about to collapse.
The meal became tasteless.
I don’t know how I finished it.
When I was leaving, she walked me to the door.
The moon was bright, and the autumn wind was cool.
We stood under the old locust tree, silent for a long time.
“Teacher…” I finally broke the silence.
“Can I… can I write to you?”
“Of course,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be waiting for your letters. I want to know if my student has become a great teacher.”
She suddenly stepped forward and gently tidied my collar.
“Take care of yourself,” she said softly.
Her fingers brushed against my neck, and a jolt of electricity shot through me.
I could smell the faint fragrance of jasmine on her body.
I wanted to reach out and hug her.
But I didn’t dare.
I was afraid that my rough, coal-stained hands would dirty her clean clothes.
I just stood there, greedily looking at her face, trying to engrave her every detail into my mind.
That was the last time I saw her that year.
After the new year, I went to her house again.
The door was locked.
A neighbor told me that she had left a few days ago.
She didn't tell me when she was leaving.
Perhaps she was afraid that I would be sad.
I stood alone in the empty courtyard for a long time, tears streaming down my face.
The place that had once brought me infinite warmth and hope was now empty.
My world was once again plunged into darkness.
But I knew I couldn't fall.
Because I had made a promise to her.
I wanted to be a teacher.
With my self-study diploma, I found a job as a substitute teacher at a primary school in the suburbs.
The conditions were poor, and the salary was low.
But I didn't care.
Standing on the podium for the first time, looking at the dozens of pairs of curious and innocent eyes below, I felt an unprecedented sense of responsibility and mission.
I saw myself in them.
I saw the confusion, the helplessness, and the thirst for knowledge.
I poured all my heart and soul into these children.
I taught them to read, to write, and to be a good person.
I told them stories from "Les Misérables" and "The Count of Monte Cristo."
I told them that no matter how humble their origins, they should never give up hope.
I wrote to Teacher Lin.
I told her about my work, my life, and my thoughts.
I sent the letters to the address she had left me.
But I never received a reply.
At first, I thought the letters had gotten lost.
Later, I thought maybe she was too busy.
But as time went on, I gradually understood.
Maybe she just wanted to quietly withdraw from my life.
She had already lit the lamp for me. The rest of the road was up to me.
Her departure was her final, and most profound, lesson for me.
She wanted me to learn to be independent, to learn to face the world alone.
Life is a long journey, and no one can accompany you forever.
People will come, and people will go.
What we have to do is to be grateful for the encounter, and then move forward with the warmth they have given us.
Years passed in the blink of an eye.
I went from being a substitute teacher to a regular teacher, and then to the principal of that primary school.
I used my own savings and raised funds from various sources to renovate the dilapidated school building and build a library.
I named the library "Wanju Library."
In memory of her.
In memory of that snowy night in 1986, the night that changed my life.
I never married.
It’s not that I didn’t meet any good women.
It’s just that in my heart, there was always a figure in a light blue sweater, with a gentle smile and eyes as bright as stars.
No one could replace her.
In 2016, thirty years had passed.
I was almost fifty.
My hair was graying at the temples.
One day, I received a letter.
The envelope was yellowed, and the handwriting was familiar yet strange.
It was from her.
She said she was very ill and might not have much time left.
She said she had received all my letters and was very proud of my achievements.
She said she had not replied because she didn't want to disturb my life.
She said her husband had passed away many years ago, and she was now living alone in her hometown.
At the end of the letter, she wrote an address and asked if I could go and see her.
For one last time.
I booked the earliest flight.
After more than ten hours of travel, I finally arrived at that small city in the south.
It was a quiet and beautiful place, with green trees and clear water.
I found the address she had given me.
It was a small house with a yard, full of flowers and plants.
I stood at the door, my heart pounding.
I hadn't seen her in thirty years.
What did she look like now?
I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
The door opened.
A woman with white hair and a thin face appeared before me.
Her face was covered in wrinkles, and her eyes were cloudy.
But I recognized her at a glance.
It was her.
My Teacher Lin.
She also recognized me.
Her lips trembled, and tears streamed down her face.
“Chen宇…”
“Teacher.”
My eyes blurred with tears.
We looked at each other, speechless for a long time.
Thousands of words were condensed in that one look.
I stayed with her for the last month of her life.
I took care of her, cooked for her, and read to her.
Just like I did thirty years ago.
She was very weak, and most of the time, she was in a drowsy state.
But whenever she was awake, she would hold my hand and tell me about her past.
She told me that she had actually fallen in love with me back then.
She was attracted to the stubbornness and unyielding spirit in my eyes.
She saw a different kind of vitality in me.
But she knew it was impossible between us.
The difference in our ages, our identities, our statuses…
It was a love that was destined to have no happy ending.
So, she chose to leave.
She chose to bury this love deep in her heart and turn it into a lifelong blessing for me.
Listening to her confession, I cried like a child.
It turned out that it wasn't unrequited love.
She had also loved me.
On the last day, she was very lucid.
She asked me to take out a wooden box from under her bed.
Inside the box were all the letters I had written to her over the years.
Hundreds of them.
Each one was neatly arranged in chronological order.
And under the letters, there was a book.
"The Catcher in the Rye."
It was a book I had mentioned in a letter that I wanted to read but couldn't find anywhere.
She had bought it for me.
And kept it for thirty years.
“Chen宇,” she said, her voice weak, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t walk with you to the end.”
I held her hand tightly. “Teacher, don’t say that. Without you, there would be no me today.”
She smiled, a peaceful and contented smile.
“Promise me, you must live well.”
I nodded, tears blurring my vision.
She slowly closed her eyes.
Her hand slipped from mine.
That year, I buried her on a sunny hillside.
I erected a tombstone for her, on which I carved a line of words:
“Here lies my beloved teacher, Lin Wanqiu, and my lifelong love.”
I know that this is a love that the world will not understand.
But I don't care.
Some love is not for showing to others.
It is for cherishing in one's own heart.
She used her life to light up my world.
And I will use my life to guard her memory.
Now, I am old.
I often sit in the "Wanju Library," looking at the rows of books, as if I can see her gentle smile.
I know she has never left me.
She has turned into a star in the sky, a book on the shelf, a breeze in my ear.
She is always with me, encouraging me to move forward.
The night of 1986 not only changed my life.
It also defined my life.
It made me understand what love is, what responsibility is, and what hope is.
It was the most precious gift God has ever given me.
I will carry this gift with me and walk firmly to the end of my life.
Every winter, when the snow falls, I seem to be back in that small courtyard in槐树胡同.
I see a young man covered in coal dust, and a gentle female teacher.
She said, "Come in, it's cold outside."
He said, "Thank you, Teacher."
The warmth of that moment has warmed my entire life.
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