Cangluo · Chat

【Breakdown】 The afternoon wind of Qiangtang whipped grit against your face. You stood beside the stalled SUV, covering your nose and mouth with a scarf. Your phone screen consistently showed no signal. The surrounding wilderness was so desolate that only a highway stretching endlessly to the horizon and the gray-blue mountain ridges in the distance remained. You stood on your tiptoes to peer back down the road countless times, but each time only wind-blown grass swept across the asphalt. Then, you heard the sound of hooves. It came from over the grassy slope, unhurried, steady and firm as the hooves trod on dry grass and gravel. You looked up at the sound. The first thing you saw was the horse's mane—snow-white, fluttering in the wind. Then, the man on its back. He was too tall; even on horseback, he loomed half a body taller than ordinary herders. The red of his Tibetan robe slashed across the grayish-yellow meadow like a stark, bloody gash. The white horse paused on the slope. The rider pulled the reins and looked your way. From dozens of meters away, you couldn't make out his expression, but you could clearly feel a heavy, sticky gaze locking onto you, as if you were enveloped by something warm. Then, he nudged the horse's flank with his heel. The white horse trotted down the slope, the hoofbeats drawing closer and heavier. The white horse stopped in front of you, snorting and swishing its tail. His dismount was clean and fluid: left foot out of the stirrup, a twist of his waist, and he dropped to the ground, the hem of his Tibetan robe billowing in the air before falling still. Once standing, he towered over you so much that you had to tilt your head back to see his face. His dark hair was messy from the wind, and the turquoise earring on his left ear glinted in the sunlight. He looked down at you, his gaze pausing on your face for two seconds before sliding down your neck to your shoulders, waist, posture, and ankles, and finally back to your eyes. The slowness of his gaze made your back tighten. His Adam's apple bobbed. "Car," he spoke, his Mandarin stiff, each word sounding as if scraped from his throat. "Broken?" You said yes, it suddenly stalled, and you didn't know why. He didn't reply. He casually draped the reins over the saddle, and the white horse stood obediently in place. He walked to the front of the car, squatted down, and popped the hood, the hem of his robe dragging on the ground and catching some dirt. As he leaned in to inspect, his robe slipped off his shoulder, revealing his forearm. The lines of muscle tensed from his wrist to his elbow, veins bulging. You stood nearby watching. Suddenly, he tilted his head slightly, his peripheral vision sweeping over from the edge of the hood, pausing on you for an instant before pulling back. He pretended to inspect the hoses, but you could clearly see his Adam's apple bob again. His rough fingertips slowly brushed over the metal pipes—the movement didn't look like an inspection, but rather like he was caressing something. He stood up, rubbed his palms against his robe twice, and looked up at you. "Battery, fine," he said. "Other place, broken. Can't fix today." You asked what to do, and if there was a repair shop nearby. He glanced at you, his gaze slowly sliding from your face to your fingers clutching the scarf, then back to your eyes. "Down the mountain, yes, but far. Can't reach before dark," he paused, as if translating his native tongue to Mandarin in his head. "You alone. Cold here at night. Windy. You will freeze." You said you had no choice, since you couldn't very well sleep in the car. His lips pressed together. He tilted his chin toward the mountainside. "My tent, there, not far," he turned back to look at you. "Stay one night. Tomorrow, I take you down to fix car." You didn't speak. As if afraid you would overthink, he added, "Tent has fire, food, thick blankets. You sleep inside, I stay outside." When he said "you sleep inside," his gaze lingered on your lips for a beat before he cast his eyes down. "Won't let you freeze." You hesitated. He spoke again, his voice slightly lower than before. "You alone, waiting here, not safe," he reached out to pat the white horse's neck. "Ride my horse up. Short way. I walk beside." You said okay, thank you. He didn't acknowledge the thanks, only patting the saddle and extending his arm toward you—offering to help you mount. As you took his forearm, you felt the rough skin over his wrist bone and his tight muscles. His palm closed around your hand with a steady grip. When you swung onto the saddle, the white horse shifted its hooves slightly. He immediately barked a low command in Tibetan. The horse's ears twitched, and it stood perfectly still. Once you were settled, he looked up at you. This time he didn't look away, staring straight at you, your reflection mirrored in his dark brown eyes. You couldn't read any complex emotions from that gaze, only a heavy, burning heat, like stones baked hot by the midday sun. He handed the reins to you. "Hold, don't let go," he said. Then he let go of the horse's head, turned toward the yaks scattered by the road, and let out a short whistle. The herd began to move slowly again. He walked back to the white horse, patted its neck, and lightly brushed his hand against the outside of your knee. "Let's go." He walked just ahead of the horse on the left, the white horse following steadily beside him. Sitting on the horse, you could see his profile—high brow bone, sharp nose, lips tightly pressed. The wind blew his dark hair into a mess, and the turquoise earring swayed gently below his ear. As he walked, he suddenly turned his head to look at you, his gaze sliding from your fingers on the reins to your wind-blown hair, then back to your eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched imperceptibly before he turned back to watch the path. "You," he spoke, without stopping his pace. "Where from?" You said you drove all the way from Chengdu. He nodded and fell silent for a moment. "Very far," he said. "You alone?" You said yes, a solo road trip. He nodded again. This time he didn't reply immediately. After about a dozen steps, he turned his head, his gaze landing on your face, his voice muffled. "Brave." When he said this, his eyes slid from your eyes to your lips, pausing for a beat before turning back. The weight of that gaze was completely different from his words—his words were light and casual, but his gaze was scorching, like a fire burning against your skin. Riding the horse, you couldn't see his expression, only the faint red flush creeping up his ears, burning from the base all the way to the silver ornament next to the turquoise.