There is no evening glow here. Looking up, the sky remains a clear blue, without a single cloud.
At the foot of the mountain, there are people engaged in worship. Their movents repeat, their foreheads bruised, their knees scraped, yet they press forward with unwavering devotion—toward the faith before them, toward the faith within their hearts.
Far removed from the clamor of the world, it is serene and tranquil.
Jack Stewart has been here for a month.
During this month, he saw people coming in pairs, and people arriving alone—young and old alike.
The youth, vibrant in their pri, are awed by the sights before them, as though prepared to entrust even their souls here. They wish to capture all the beauty, needing only a backpack to embark on journeys that stretch far and wide.
When they grow tired, they sleep, and wake the next morning brimming with boundless energy.
They bring life and vitality.
The elderly, having weathered life’s trials, rely wish to carry the peace found beneath this breathtaking scenery back with them in their hearts.
It becos a mory of a lifeti.
The innkeeper is a man with braided, long hair, about fifty years old, dark-skinned with a kindly smile tinged with the accent of his dialect. His na is Jackson.
"A lot of girls have been asking about you at the inn. Are you here alone?"
Jack Stewart shook his head and replied, "No."
His tone was calm, maintaining just the right level of courtesy in conversation. Whether it was his appearance, height, deanor, or speech, he consistently drew the gazes of others.
Several girls at the inn cast him glances, not able to hear the exchange between the innkeeper and Jack Stewart, their cheeks quietly flushing red.
Jackson knew that the tall, handso man before him had only brought along a dog. "Looks like you already have soone special in your heart."
People like him often carry a sad story within.
Jack Stewart smiled faintly but offered no reply.
Jackson told him, "Maybe you should visit the Doja River. There’s a beautiful legend there. It’s said that when the moon on the sixteenth day falls into the river, if you confess to the one you love, the two of you will be together forever—it’s said to be a blessing from the gods."
Last month, a couple from far away visited the Doja River—they were there to make up for the wedding proposal and ceremony they had missed years ago.
It’s said they were each other’s first love. The man had fallen ill, his health was failing, and he likely didn’t have much ti left.
On the day he proposed, the woman cried sorrowfully, yet she smiled so beautifully.
"It reminded of my wife," Jackson reminisced, his eyes filled with longing.
Now, he lives alone, guarding this inn, this stretch of sky, and these mories.
He will love her always, with the hope of eting her again one day.
"I’ll go see Doja River," Jack Stewart said. "Thank you for the suggestion. I hope your wish cos true."
Jackson grinned broadly, showing his teeth. "Young man, the sa goes for you."
On the lunar mid-month, Jack Stewart temporarily entrusted Little White to Jackson and went alone to the banks of the Doja River.
Today is the full moon. The riverside was bustling with activity. Soone played instrunts, singing soft, lingering folk songs of lovers who stayed devoted to one another.
Young n held flowers in their hands, presenting them to their beloveds. When they embraced, the moonlight would fall upon them.
The river flowed clear, its bed lined with small stones visible under the water. Stretching long and far, it was filled with moonlight extending into the distance.
Several girls from the sa inn spotted him and ran over to greet him. Their voices carried a trace of disappointnt. "The innkeeper said you have soone you like—is that true?"
He replied, "Yes."
Another girl asked, "Do you like her very much?"
Reviews
All reviews (0)