Jack Stewart saw the moon in the river, bright and dazzling. "Yes."
During their private chats in the past, they would often talk about the handso custor at the shop, comparing him to a cloud—leisurely, drifting, a wandering traveler who would never pause his steps.
Yet such a person, with his deep and tender deanor, could stir emotions in everyone.
"The girl you like is truly lucky." The young woman spoke with a touch of envy, moved by soone else’s love story.
Jack Stewart smiled. "It’s who’s lucky, to have t her."
The young woman didn’t linger. Before waving goodbye, she said, "I hope both you and the girl you like will be happy."
He replied, "Thank you."
Early the next morning, Jack Stewart left the Ruins and arrived at a place called Anty Tribe.
There lay expanses of mountain woods, with trees scattered unevenly. The snow-covered Mount Anty stood behind, its peaks glistening year-round. At its foot, however, spring lingered throughout the seasons, with sunlight above, as people herded livestock and cultivated their crops.
A life of leisure and freedom.
From afar, herds of cattle, horses, and sheep ca into view. The locals spoke in dialects and always carried a flask of milk wine. Simple, passionate, and hospitable.
There, he t a man traveling alone, just like him—around thirty years old, skin tanned from the sun, yet his eyes glead brightly, resembling the river moon of the Doka River, holding its glow and many untold stories.
Weathered and sorrowful, even his smile bore the sa undertone.
Perhaps because they ca from the sa place, they talked about many things.
"When I first got married, my wife often said she wanted to venture out and see the world. She didn’t want to live half a lifeti only to see nothing but the sa patch of sky when her eyes finally closed."
Stars filled the night sky, densely clustered together, as if soone had accidentally spilled a box of diamonds and pearls, dazzling in their brilliance.
Jack Stewart didn’t reply, rely listened quietly.
"They say that only after you wander and roam will you truly grasp the essence of what ho feels like."
Nostalgia intoxicates—it overflows with mories and rushes upon you like a tide when you gaze up at unfamiliar stars above.
Once you have soone to miss, you can’t travel far.
The man held onto the necklace hanging at his chest, smiling with a weathered longing, murmuring, "No more wandering, no more wandering. I’ve seen what you wished to see. From now on, we’ll live each day slowly. I’ll stand by you—stand by you for a lifeti."
In this world, there exists many depths of affection, whether for oneself, or for another.
If the heart is true, in the end it will return to the ordinary, willing to endure, to live out this life.
At dawn, the man bid farewell to Jack Stewart, pushing his already tattered bicycle slowly toward the snowy mountain.
He said that this was his final destination.
He wanted to pray for his wife there—not for them to et again in the next life, but simply to wish her well. In the next life, he would stand by her, from a distance, watching her happiness—that would be enough.
On Jack Stewart’s last night at Anty Tribe, it was the Lantern Burning Festival. Butter lamps were lit within the temple hall, burning day and night without ceasing.
A small flicker of fla could carry the weight of human emotions.
At dawn, he set off on a new journey with Little White.
Spring turned to sumr, then sumr transitioned to autumn. By the ti snow fell the next year, he returned once more to the Ruins.
At the foot of the mountain, devotees still traveled from faraway lands to make pilgrimages. The sky there remained clear, as though one could reach out and touch it.
The innkeeper Jackson still rembered Jack Stewart, and also Little White, and smiled while asking how long he planned to stay this ti.
He replied, "Just one night. I’m going back tomorrow."
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