By third grade, Yu Mian had started shooting up.
Children that age grew like spring willow branches — a whole stretch appearing before anyone noticed. When Pei Songxi returned from two weeks of business travel and saw her, she was momentarily dazed. “How are you taller again?”
But Yu Mian only sighed mournfully and held out her palm. “Auntie Pei. I have so, so many wrinkles now.”
Pei Songxi blinked. “Hm?”
Yu Mian pointed at the lines in her palm, her little face scrunched. “Aren’t these wrinkles? Am I getting old?”
Pei Songxi laughed despite herself and stroked her cheek, finding her adorable. “No, they’re not.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Pei Songxi spread open her own palm and held it before her. “Look. Mine has them too.”
Yu Mian nodded doubtfully. “Okay.”
Pei Songxi thought the topic was closed.
But the next evening, Yu Mian came running in through the front gate crying. She wasn’t a child who cried easily, yet now she was sobbing her heart out. Pei Songxi’s heart plummeted; she pulled her into her arms at once. “Mianmian, what’s wrong?”
Yu Mian sobbed so hard she could barely speak. Pei Songxi lifted her onto her lap, wiped her tears with a tissue, anxiously pushing up her sleeves. “Were you bullied by classmates? Does something hurt? Mianmian?”
“I…”
Yu Mian hiccupped, sitting on her lap, looking up at her. “Am I going to die?”
“Huh?”
Yu Mian sniffled. “Am I going to die? Are you going to die… Auntie Pei. I’m so scared. I’m scared of dying.”
Only now did Pei Songxi slowly release the breath she’d been holding. “Everyone dies eventually. But Mianmian, you’re so little — why are you afraid of dying?”
Yu Mian looked at her through her tears. “I just am… I just am.”
Pei Songxi rubbed her back to soothe her. “What are you afraid of, Mianmian? Great-Grandmother is almost eighty. Her health is poor, but she hasn’t died, has she? You’re only a few years old. Why would you be afraid?”
Yu Mian drew a shaky breath, hopped off her lap, fetched her Chinese textbook, and flipped to a passage, her voice thick with sniffles. “Look at this.”
Pei Songxi took the little textbook. The title of the text was Racing Against Time.
She paused slightly… she seemed to have studied this same text, years ago.
She vaguely remembered it was about the author’s grandmother passing away when he was young, how he couldn’t accept it, until he came to understand the unstoppable passage of time…
A passage in the textbook had been circled in red pen:
“Nothing in time ever comes back. Once your yesterday is gone, it becomes yesterday forever, and you can never return to it.”
“One day you will grow up, and you will grow old like Grandmother. One day, when you have used up all your time, you too will be gone like her, never to return.”
“Though tomorrow there will be a new sun, there will never be today’s sun again.”
Pei Songxi froze.
So even a child this small would come face to face with such cold, hard reality.
She exhaled softly and gathered Yu Mian into her arms. “Mianmian. Don’t be afraid anymore.”
Yu Mian blinked, two crystal tears still clinging to her lashes. “Auntie Pei…”
Pei Songxi lowered her head, her lips curving into a lovely arc. “I will always be by your side, watching you grow up. So don’t be afraid, okay?”
“And after I grow up?”
“When you’ve grown up, you’ll have to keep me company while I grow old.”
Yu Mian frowned and tugged at her collar. “No! You’re not allowed to get old!”
She was always lively and bright, full of spirit — this was the first time she’d shown such rare little temper and willfulness, repeating earnestly, “You’re not allowed to get old!”
Pei Songxi looked at her, her heart aching, and a little sour.
This child had seen the impermanence of the world too early, and so she never made demands, never spoke in this tone. So she nodded gently. “All right. I won’t get old. No more crying, okay?”
Yu Mian nodded, then, uncharacteristically, indulged in a bit of spoiled wheedling. “I’m sleeping in your room tonight, okay?”
Pei Songxi was affectionate with her but not clingy, and had always made a point of cultivating her independence — giving her her own room and study nook, letting her find her own hobbies: comics, picture books, plants…
She had picked up a seed, but had no intention of interfering with the direction of its growth. She only gave it ample sunlight and rich soil, letting it grow into what its nature intended — something warm and bright.
She wiped the tear tracks from Yu Mian’s face with her fingertip and nodded. “All right.”
Yu Mian’s tears turned to laughter as she hugged her. “Yay!”
Pei Songxi’s room was somewhat bare. The curtains were half-drawn, light and shadow drifting.
A thin snow-gauze shawl lay casually over the sofa. A candle on the nightstand still held a faint cool fragrance; beside it sat an open hardcover book — and a small white bottle.
Yu Mian wriggled free of her arms, ran over, picked up the little bottle, and asked, “Auntie Pei, what medicine is this?”
She had asked this question before, and Pei Songxi had told her it helped with sleep. But the same explanation, repeated too often, no longer seemed to convince her; she kept asking — perhaps hoping that one day she’d hear the real answer.
So small, and yet so stubborn at heart.
This time Pei Songxi didn’t repeat the old excuse. She simply pulled open the drawer, put all the little bottles inside, locked it with a small brass lock, and handed her the key. “From now on, the key stays with Mianmian, okay?”
She had put away all the medication… sleeping pills, melatonin… even the ones that steadied her emotions.
Perhaps she could keep her company a little longer. That was what she had promised her.
Yu Mian clutched the little key and immediately backed up a step. “You’re giving it to me? What’s given is mine! I’m never giving it back!”
Pei Songxi smiled. “Good.”
In truth, she hadn’t needed sleeping pills to fall asleep in a long time.
Sometimes, when work left her exhausted, she would stop by Yu Mian’s room when she got home and watch her sleeping sweetly, and feel a quiet peace in her heart. Sometimes, when she came home early, she would pick her up; Yu Mian drank her soy milk, and she would have a cup of hot milk too. One cup of rich, fragrant milk, and it seemed she never lay sleepless again.
The next day was Sunday. Pei Songxi woke early to the sound of knocking at her door.
She opened it to find Yu Mian in blue sweatpants. “Auntie Pei! Let’s go running, okay?”
Pei Songxi had no idea what was going on in that little head, but she indulged her. “All right.”
On their way out they passed the photo wall in the living room, already hung with quite a few pictures: the first parent-teacher meeting, the two of them beneath the ginkgo tree picking up a little fan-shaped leaf; autumn arriving, the loquat they had planted bearing fruit, Yu Mian holding up the sweet fruit to share with her; the Children’s Day performance, the camera capturing a star…
Yu Mian looked at the photos and gripped Pei Songxi’s hand tighter. “Auntie Pei, from now on we have to run every day, okay? Teacher said exercise helps you live to a hundred.”
So that was it.
Pei Songxi lowered her eyes, her expression gentle and serene. “All right. I know. Don’t you worry about me, okay?”
Yu Mian tilted her head up to look at her and nodded obediently.
But she seemed to work even harder than before.
After winning awards at the math olympiad competition, Teacher Qin had even asked whether she wanted to skip a grade. Pei Songxi’s opinion was no — and she didn’t want to either. There were too many things she wanted to do, and she needed a great deal of time for all of them.
Reading comics was a hobby… math olympiad was a hobby, painting too. The things she liked were many and scattered; studying them cost enormous time and energy, and it was hard work — but she simply loved it.
Like a plant of unusually vigorous, ardent vitality, growing lush and thriving, forever reaching upward, embracing the sunlight.
Time was as elusive as the wind.
She always carried a sense of urgency — as if, were she not to work hard, every flower in the garden would wither.
The more urgent it felt, the faster time slipped by.
Time — gone in the blink of an eye.
