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墨書 Inktalez
I was just about to exchange a few pleasantries with her when a man, around 40 years old, came over and put his arm around her shoulder, saying, "Baby, let's go."
She seemed a bit embarrassed and appeared to want to say something more to me, but when the man next to her slightly changed his expression, she could only helplessly leave with him.
I waited until evening and saw the building below lit up brightly, with various colored lights outlining the vibrant pulse of the city. Yet sitting at the top of the building, I felt a twinge of fear.
"This life ultimately doesn't belong to me," I said to myself in self-mockery.
I slowly got up from the table to pay for my meals for the week. I knew my Publisher wouldn't come; there was no reason for them to inform someone as insignificant as me.
Just as I was contemplating how to get by next week, the waiter informed me that my meal had already been paid for by someone, who also left me a note.
Upon opening the note, a pure white peach blossom came into view, along with a phone number written on it.
In an instant, that innocent smile flashed through my mind, and I wondered what Peach Blossom had gone through to become like this.
When I got home that night, I added her on WeChat. However, she didn't reply until noon the next day.
"Teacher."
"Uh-huh, Peach Blossom, where did you appear yesterday?"
A moment of silence ensued. When I realized I might have asked the wrong question, she replied.
"That person invited me yesterday."
As I slowly rubbed my fingers over the keyboard, struggling with how to continue the conversation, she began sharing her experiences.
"When I was 8 years old, my grandfather would constantly scold me, 'Peach Blossom, you little brat, what are you doing? Go feed the pigs!'
His health had always been poor, yet he seemed to have endless strength when it came to scolding me.
I mechanically responded with actions. When that frail hand poured a full bucket of pig feed into the trough, I heard the pigs make happy sounds; at that moment, I doubted if even pigs were happier than I was.
When I turned 12, my classmates kept gossiping, 'Hey, have you seen Peach Blossom? Always dressed so dirty...'
Then looking down at my clothes, I knew I had no strength to refute them. Sometimes I wished I could scrub away those black spots on my clothes with my hands, but they felt like stains I was born with—impossible to erase.
So I hated school, hated the strange looks from my classmates, hated how teachers repeatedly labeled me as a "Left-behind Child."
I liked walking alone in the supermarket and feeling the breeze.
When a gentle wind brushed against my face, I'd imagine myself like Cinderella, wearing beautiful clothes and sparkling glass slippers, quietly waiting for my pumpkin carriage to arrive...
But the mocking laughter shattered all my fantasies! I opened my eyes; that faint sunlight felt somewhat blinding. Then quickly lowered my head again, not daring to look at those well-dressed classmates.
"Peach Blossom has no idea what's going on in that head of hers, sitting there with her eyes closed, blowing cold air like a fool. Hahaha..." I couldn't argue back; I could only clench my fists, trying not to let the tears fall.
On my 18th birthday, I finally gathered the courage to tell my grandfather, 'Grandpa, I'm not going to school anymore. I want to go work in Yang City.' Upon hearing this, my grandmother wiped away the tears at the corners of her eyes and immediately urged me, 'Peach Blossom, listen to Grandma and go back to school.'"
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