Chen Chuan

Many years later, Chen Chuan still remembered that shabby station beneath the gloomy sky, where only he and his father stood. The rice had already been harvested, and there were no rippling waves of grain in sight, only layer upon layer of bare terraced fields. The air was heavy with moisture and tinged with the earthy smell of soil.

Later, the train arrived. He boarded and looked out the window. His father’s figure grew smaller and smaller, until all he could see was the vast expanse of mountains and forests.

He turned his head. Ahead, a white stone road, shaped like a jade belt, stretched into the distance.