Xu Shiyao still had only half an hour each time he went down the mountain, but he always traveled there and back as fast as possible.
Every time he returned, he saw Wu Chun sitting the same way—quietly on the bricks, eyes staring ahead.
Xu Shiyao had mentioned that every time his grandfather would pick up a few bricks in the direction where Wu Chun sat and carry them across to the other side.
Wu Chun stared ahead for a while, then suddenly stood up, took a step forward, and, facing forward, spread his arms wide.
From Xu Shiyao’s perspective, at that moment, his unaware grandfather passed right through Wu Chun’s body. Perhaps it was a kind of spiritual connection, for when his grandfather completely passed through, Wu Chun suddenly closed his arms, as if holding his grandfather tightly in his embrace.
Xu Shiyao could no longer hold back. He stepped forward and gently hugged Wu Chun.
“Did I hold my grandpa?” Wu Chun’s voice was hoarse, likely from crying for a long time.
Xu Shiyao felt a deep ache in his heart but could do nothing except hold him tighter. He softly kissed Wu Chun’s forehead and quietly comforted him, “Yes, you did.”
That night, Xu Shiyao stayed with Wu Chun, sitting there through the entire night. When the first ray of sunlight broke through at dawn, Xu Shiyao had to rush back to Shili Mountain.
After staying up all night, Wu Chun’s steps were unsteady, and his head felt fuzzy.
As Wu Chun slowly walked home, he was unaware that the villagers were frantically searching for him.
When he arrived, he saw the village chief pacing anxiously in his courtyard, hands clasped behind his back.
“Village chief…” Wu Chun spoke, but his voice was low and hoarse. He coughed lightly twice, and at that moment, the village chief noticed him.
“Where have you been, Wu Chun?” The village chief rushed over, asking urgently.
Wu Chun forced a smile and continued in his raspy voice, “It’s nothing, I just went out for some fresh air.”
Wu Chun glanced inside the house, which was now filled with quite a few people.
“Your mother called earlier; she’ll be here in half an hour,” the village chief said softly.
Wu Chun was startled.
He felt a pang of guilt, unsure how to explain everything to his mother. It seemed that it was because of him that his grandfather had met with such a tragedy.
But the person was already gone—what was the point of saying any of this now?
Feeling a slight coolness on his chest, Wu Chun looked down.
The pinecone pendant emitted a faint light, which to an outsider might have appeared as sunlight reflecting off it.
Wu Chun took off the pendant and held it in his palm.
I said it last night, and I’ll definitely do it, Wu Chun said to himself.
…
Funeral customs in rural areas tend to be elaborate. Wu Chun wasn’t familiar with these matters, but the village usually had someone to lead such events. A group of men, young and old, stood at the door, loudly chanting phrases that Wu Chun couldn’t understand.
They said it was tradition, a way to send best wishes to the deceased.
But to Wu Chun, each phrase felt like a heavy blow to his heart, making it hard to breathe.
His mother, on the other hand, was crying so hard she was unrecognizable.
Wu Chun quietly stayed by her side. From beginning to end, she never uttered a word of blame, which made Wu Chun feel even worse.
How he wished someone would scold him.
As Wu Chun sat with his mother, he felt a light tap on his back. He turned around to find his father, who gestured for him to step outside.
Wu Chun followed his father to the tree by the entrance.
His father lit a cigarette, his eyes slightly red, likely from crying earlier.
Wu Chun had never seen his father cry. Bowing his head, he softly said, “Dad, I’m sorry.”
His father sighed deeply and replied, “The last thing I want to hear are those three words.”
Wu Chun was taken aback, but what else could he say at this moment? Everything seemed pointless.
“Chun, your mother and I have always supported your decisions. You know that the road ahead won’t be smooth, and unexpected things will happen along the way. We’re deeply saddened by what happened to your grandpa, but it can’t be changed. Life must go on. What I want to say is, don’t let these unforeseen events shake your resolve.”
Wu Chun raised his head to look at his father.
He saw his father stub out his half-smoked cigarette, tuck the rest behind his ear, and extend his hand.
Perhaps he intended to hug Wu Chun like when he was a child, but realizing Wu Chun was now in his twenties, his hand instead landed on Wu Chun’s shoulder, giving it a gentle pat.
But Wu Chun hugged him without hesitation.
“Dad.”
“Good kid, pull yourself together quickly. There are still many people waiting for you.”
Wu Chun rested his forehead on his father’s shoulder, tears sliding down his cheeks as he repeated the words he had said to Xu Shiyao the day before, “Yeah, I’ll just cry today, just today.”
…
The day passed quickly.
By evening, the funeral was almost over, and his parents were still attending to the relatives who had come to the house.
Wu Chun, after notifying his father, headed straight for Shili Mountain.
Xu Shiyao had probably been waiting for a long time.
Sure enough, when Wu Chun arrived, he saw Xu Shiyao standing under the tree, one hand behind his back, his expression full of concern. When he saw Wu Chun, he quickly walked over and pulled him into an embrace.
He didn’t say anything, just held him.
Xu Shiyao’s embrace was cool, but to Wu Chun, it felt incredibly warm and reassuring. All day long, Wu Chun had had to put on a strong front in front of his parents. Except for the moment his grandfather was laid to rest, when he couldn’t help but cry loudly, Wu Chun had been secretly wiping away his tears.
Everyone expected him to be strong, just like his father had said. People were waiting for him.
He could be vulnerable, but not too vulnerable.
All day long, Wu Chun had been suffocating under this mask, and it wasn’t until he saw Xu Shiyao, and was embraced by him, that the mask finally fell away.
“Xu Shiyao, I want to cry.”
“Then cry.” Xu Shiyao gently reassured him, “There are still four hours until tomorrow; you still have time to cry.”
Wu Chun buried his face in Xu Shiyao’s chest and sobbed softly.
But he didn’t cry all the way until midnight. After a short while, he lifted his head from Xu Shiyao’s embrace.
“All done?” Xu Shiyao asked softly.
Wu Chun stared at him for a long moment before speaking slowly, “I plan to resume construction tomorrow.”
Although Xu Shiyao had expected this, he was still a little surprised by Wu Chun’s decision.
“Tomorrow? Are you sure?” Xu Shiyao asked gently.
“Time is money, and I can’t keep the construction crew waiting for me indefinitely. It doesn’t make sense, so I have no choice but to be sure.”
“Wu Chun.”
Xu Shiyao felt a deep ache for him but was helpless. After all, Wu Chun had a point. Construction timelines were difficult to adjust, and time was indeed money. Every project in the village would require funding.
Xu Shiyao understood Wu Chun. He didn’t want the money and effort everyone had put together to be wasted on his grief.
One person’s sadness was so small—so small that, in the face of such a big event, it had to be erased.
Realizing this, Xu Shiyao held him even tighter.
“It’s okay, Xu Shiyao.” Wu Chun suddenly looked up and forced a smile. “At night, I can come find you and be sad. They won’t see it.”
How could someone not feel sadness?
Wu Chun had just decided to pile up all his sadness and exhaustion for the night, so that by day, he would always be the ever-energetic, ever-optimistic Wu Chun.
But in doing so, Xu Shiyao had become like a container for his negative emotions.
“Xu Shiyao, you’re the only one I can be sad with,” Wu Chun said softly.
Everyone had expectations for him, to some extent. But Xu Shiyao had always been pure, never telling him “Wu Chun, you should do this or that.”
Every time, Xu Shiyao would simply say, “It’s okay, Wu Chun, I’m here.”
