The Third Book by Mulang Mifeng

The first time I saw her, she stood before me with a small suitcase in hand. It was July, and the lake had just been struck by rain, leaving a hint of coolness in the air. She stood there obediently, gazing straight at me with eyes as tender as water. I had never experienced such tenderness so directly. When I asked her to come closer, she took my hand with a trace of shyness. Perhaps the night was simply too enchanting, but I felt a little stir in my heart. In that small, dimly lit room, we talked about Kafka and Dazai Osamu, Tagore and Van Gogh. Tenderness swept over us like a rising tide. I wished that moment could last forever, and even more, that she could belong to me forever. She was a fresh, beautiful white flower. I touched her beauty with my own hands, yet couldn't gather up her broken pieces. I thought she must be free, that nothing in the world could bind her. I only felt sorry for the life she'd been dealt. In the prime of her youth, she already carried heavy responsibilities: a gambling father to support and a baby brother not yet a year old. None of this should have been hers to bear. I wanted to take her away, far from this place, to somewhere without worry or pain, where there would be only us and happiness. But I underestimated her stubbornness. In the hazy night, she refused my offer. Only then did I belatedly realize that she was a flower planted in a pot by someone else. Whether it bloomed or withered was never something an idle breeze could decide. Only then did I realize that I wasn't washing her feet, but the mud she'd gathered walking through this world. The only thing I could do was leave a faint, insignificant stroke in the story of her life, while she was still in the bloom of her youth.