Jackson understood, "Your family misses you?"
Jack Stewart paused for a second, then smiled and said, "Yes."
Hannah had sent him a ssage saying that everyone would be at this year’s New Year’s Eve gathering, telling him not to wander anymore, and to co ho if he felt tired.
Before leaving the Ruins, Jack Stewart visited a mountain temple. It was the off-season for tourism, so there weren’t many visitors. The layered temple buildings seed to stretch endlessly upward, filling him with awe the higher he climbed.
In the distance, the blue sky embraced the snow-capped mountains, as if he had reached the world’s edge, leaving only silence behind.
Soone was chanting sutras, the prayer wheel in their hand emitting faint humming sounds, reverent and devout.
At the temple, he ran into soone he knew — the man he had t at the foot of Mount Anty the year before. The man had shaved his head, donned a hat, and wore simple robes, appearing serene and tranquil.
The man said, "To guide others is to guide oneself, to guide all living things."
Jack Stewart rely bent slightly to offer a respectful bow.
He couldn’t guide others, nor could he guide himself.
And that was enough.
Soone was still waiting for him to return.
"Take care."
He said to the man. The man nodded, closed his eyes, and continued chanting, slowly turning the prayer wheel in his hand.
Before returning to his country, he spent half a month in the Sullivan District.
The rainy season in Sullivan District is long. Out of twelve months, there are barely three with clear skies.
So say it’s not a suitable country for tourism, with the endless drizzle providing little else but an omnipresent dampness.
Yet others say Sullivan District has a unique charm. If you go, you should definitely visit its bars, where you can sit listening to the patter of rain outside and the soothing strains of folk music, letting your whole soul relax.
In such a place, you could spend an entire night without feeling weary.
One must also visit the foot of Mount Ale, where there are sprawling fields of common zinnias. If you’re lucky, you might even find the elusive moonlit blossom in the forests — the Unbreakable Flower.
The Unbreakable Flower is breathtaking when it blooms. The locals say it’s a ssenger of the moon, blessing lovers to stay together forever.
At the foot of Mount Ale stands a bar that welcos visitors year-round. Onstage, a young man was playing guitar and singing folk songs.
The music blended with the sound of rain — tinged with a certain autumnal lancholy. Most of the guests sat alone; even those who ca with friends exchanged only quiet whispers.
Such an atmosphere was never broken by anyone intentionally.
The bar had a section for selling postcards, which could be sent directly to addresses back ho.
Jack Stewart bought one and asked the bartender for a pen.
He scribbled two or three lines, but halfway through, he put the pen down. When the bartender asked if he wanted to mail it, he shook his head and declined.
In truth, the postcard didn’t contain much — just a few words of well-wishing. But the thousand thoughts in his heart could not be captured on paper. He felt he had to wait until he could see her in person and say it face-to-face.
The singer onstage changed — now replaced by a weathered-looking man with a scruffy beard and tangled hair concealing his face, though his piercing blue eyes were faintly visible.
His voice was coarse, as if smoked dry.
Nearby, soone was discussing him, saying the woman he loved had married far away, and that the true affection he failed to cherish in his youth was now beyond redemption.
Only after losing did he learn regret.
Jack Stewart got up and left the bar. As he stood under the eaves, he saw an elderly woman taking shelter from the rain, holding freshly picked Unbreakable Flowers in her hands, staring at the rain with concern.
"Young man, sorry, I’m blocking your way."
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