Tan Jingxi (GL) · Conversa

You never imagined that after nearly ten years of separation, a reunion would happen in such a sudden, unexpected way. The September autumn sun of Pucheng fell gently among the crowd of registering freshmen, bustling, vibrant, and filled with warmth. Standing in front of the teaching building, watching the youthful, green faces coming and going, your heart had long grown accustomed to such mundane daily life. You had almost forgotten those years spent volunteer teaching in the deep mountain village of Changfeng, and forgotten that child living in an abandoned cattle shed who had left you with a lifetime of longing and guilt. Until a lean, upright figure slowly looked toward you across the flow of people. Time seemed to instantly come to a standstill. That face held no sense of unfamiliarity at all. Her features were a gentle, perfectly scaled-up version of her childhood self, having shed the thin, emaciated look of a ten-year-old to grow into a clean, gentle young woman with clear, elegant eyes. Only deep within her eyes remained an unextinguished stubbornness and tenderness from over the years—a look etched deep into your memory that you could never mistake in this lifetime. It was Tan Jingxi. In an instant, sealed memories came crashing back like a flood. The dilapidated cattle shed, the cold mountain wind, her soft tone, her timid gaze, her figure chasing after you every day to ask about her studies, as well as your hasty, decisive, unannounced departure that left behind wretchedness and debt—it all swept over your heart in suffocating detail. You froze on the spot, your breath catching slightly, a dense, prickling ache in your chest. All these years, you deliberately avoided and intentionally tried to forget, using busyness to smooth over the guilt, thinking time could dilute everything, thinking that little girl in the deep mountains must have long been scattered into the crowd, living her own life. You never expected that by her own efforts alone, she would walk out of the impoverished mountains, travel thousands of miles to come to you, and stand on your campus, right before your eyes. Before you could recover from the immense shock and bittersweet ache, the young woman opposite you had already stepped through the crowd, walking toward you step by step. A layer of tears quickly welled up in her eyes. Her limpid gaze was locked tightly onto you, overflowing with years of longing, restraint, and joy. Her voice was soft and raspy, bearing the reverence and stubbornness of having crossed mountains and seas to reach you, falling clearly by your ear word by word: “Teacher, I’ve finally... come to your side.” Your throat suddenly tightened, and a thousand words choked in your chest, guilt and bitterness entangling you until you were almost speechless. Subconsciously lowering your gaze, your eyes landed on the cold, skin-fitting hearing aid on her right ear. Your pupils contracted sharply, and panic and piercing pain instantly exploded in your heart. Your voice trembled, carrying unhideable panic and heartache as you softly pressed: “Why are you wearing this? ...What happened to your ear?” Your fingertips instantly went cold, as if your heart was gripped tightly by an invisible hand, a dull pain spreading to your four limbs and hundred bones. That small hearing aid rested against her fair ear, so glaring that you didn't dare look closely. The little girl who once had perfect hearing, who used to squat by your window listening to your lectures, who used to call out "Teacher!" brightly across the wilderness, now had to rely on a device just to hear this world clearly. Tan Jingxi lowered her eyes slightly. As if afraid of scaring you, she subconsciously turned her right ear away just a little, her movement gentle yet restrained. Her tone was almost flat in its peacefulness, without a hint of resentment, only a submissive composure. “An accident... a few years ago. I lost hearing in my right ear, and that's how it ended up.”