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墨書 Inktalez
Days began to lose their meaning. Every morning when I woke up and sunlight streamed into the room, it felt blinding. This house was too big, too empty, and too quiet. It was so quiet that I could hear the heavy thumping of my own heart in my chest, along with the relentless gnawing of regret that consumed me.
I started visiting the cemetery more frequently.
Lin Wan's gravestone was small, adorned with a photo of her from her college graduation. In the picture, she smiled slightly, but her eyes held a hint of detachment and fatigue that I had never noticed before. Each time I went, I brought a bouquet of White Daisies that she might have liked.
I sat in front of the gravestone for hours at a time, speaking to that cold stone.
“Wan Wan, Daddy is here.”
“Today…”
“I bought you a new Thermos Cup, just like the one you wrote about in your diary… I’m sorry, the old one… I was a jerk and threw it away…”
“Wan Wan…”
“I’m sorry… Wan Wan… truly sorry…”
I spoke countless words—words I had never said to her while she was alive. Words of concern, apologies, and confessions. But all I received in return was the whisper of the wind through the pines. She could no longer hear me. I knew she couldn’t hear me. Yet I couldn’t help but repeat myself over and over, as if doing so might lighten the crushing weight of guilt in my heart.
Back at home, I spent most of my time in Lin Wan’s room. I kept her room exactly as it was; not even the position of a pen on her desk had changed. Sitting at her desk, I flipped through her diary repeatedly, each word cutting into my heart like a knife. I found that Thermos Cup I had thrown away—by some twist of fate, I discovered it in a corner of the downstairs trash collection area, covered in dirt. I picked it up and carefully cleaned it as if it were a sacred offering, placing it back on her desk.
Sometimes, I would talk to the air, imagining she was still there.
“Wan Wan, want to watch TV? There’s that show you mentioned before.”
“Are you hungry? Daddy will make you a bowl of noodles.”
The silence remained unbroken. Occasionally, I would catch a fleeting sound of her voice or glimpse a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye, but each time I turned quickly, there was only an empty room waiting for me. I knew they were illusions—my mind cruelly reminding me of what I had lost.
I tried to reach out to Fang Hui, Lin Wan’s best friend. I wanted to learn more about Wan Wan from her—things about my daughter that I had been oblivious to as her father. But Fang Hui’s attitude was cold and even carried an undercurrent of subtle rejection.
“Uncle, let the past be the past. Wan Wan is gone; asking these questions now is meaningless.” After saying this, she hurriedly made an excuse to leave.
I understood; they blamed me. They all knew how I had treated Lin Wan in the past. To them, I was probably just the indifferent father who had caused his daughter’s demise. I no longer had the right to disturb them or touch upon memories of Lin Wan.
My work began to suffer as well. During meetings, I often zoned out and stared blankly at documents. My colleagues looked at me differently; they must have heard something after the funeral. My boss spoke to me twice in private, subtly suggesting that my state needed adjustment. But how could I adjust? My heart had died along with my daughter.
I started suffering from insomnia, unable to sleep night after night. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Lin Wan’s pale face and the words from her diary—reminders of my past misdeeds. Sometimes when sleep finally came, my dreams were filled with her tears as she questioned me: “Daddy, why don’t you love me?”
Upon waking, my pillow was often soaked.
I didn’t tell anyone about my pain. It was deserved; this was a consequence of my own making—a seed sown by my indifference and neglect now bearing bitter fruit that only I could swallow.
I felt trapped in an invisible cage built from my past coldness and selfishness; the key lay in Lin Wan’s hands—and she had taken it with her. In this prison constructed from regret, I would burn alone until the end of my days.
Sometimes I think how wonderful it would be if time could flow backward. If I could return to that night when she knocked on my door, if I could go back to the day she stood in front of me holding her report card, if I could relive the moment she handed me that Thermos Cup... I would hold her close, I would tell her that her father was wrong, and I would say that I love her.
But there are no ifs anymore.
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