Years later, after a painful upbringing, Fang Yuan, like a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly, matured and became independent. Only then did she realize that there were many things about which she couldn't tell the truth. Life is inherently a process of deception and scheming. While there might occasionally be a hint of true love, it was never the mainstream, lost in a sea of desires. The law of nature is the survival of the fittest, and this principle also applies to social humans. But that's a story for another time.
At this moment, Fang Yuan firmly believed in her hearing. She was still a child, and her father's doting had made her stubborn and self-reliant.
Eighth Master's eldest son, furious, roared, "Little girl, what nonsense are you talking about? Have you seen a ghost? My father is dead! He's been dead for seven days!"
Eighth Master's youngest son also leaned over and said, "Yes, that kid must have seen a ghost. Today is the seventh day, the night of the father's return."
It is said that on the seventh night after a person's death, the deceased's ghost returns home, following the candlesticks and incense sticks, to fulfill their unfulfilled wishes. According to village legend, a returning ghost will appear in another form, such as a cold wind or a moth. Therefore, local custom requires the deceased's coffin to be displayed for seven days, with offerings of fruits, food, and other foods placed in front.
Fang Yuan, completely unaware of this, remained unconvinced. "I didn't see a ghost. I heard the Eighth Master's voice. He even spoke to me. If you don't believe me, open the coffin and take a look."
As soon as she finished speaking, a deathly silence fell over the room. A dozen people huddled together, staring at each other, no one speaking. Although Fang Yuan was only seven years old, she had always been a well-behaved village girl, never lying. Now, her stance was so resolute that no one could help but believe her. Could it really be the Eighth Master's ghost that had returned? What unfulfilled wishes had he held? Or perhaps he had come from hell, seeking to lure human souls into the afterlife?
Suddenly, the lights in the room dimmed, and a cold breeze blew in from outside, extinguishing the flickering candlelight. A strange "clucking" sound echoed from the house—the teeth of several timid villagers chattered.
It was Fang Yuan's father who broke the suffocating silence. He took Fang Yuan's hand and whispered, "Child, let's go."
The two of them slowly walked out of the mourning hall, their figures, one large and one small, melting into the vast darkness. The night wind was cold, and Fang Yuan held her father's hand tightly, her body still trembling.
"Dad, the Eighth Master really did speak to me. He spoke to me from inside the coffin."
"Dad heard it."
"Then why don't the villagers believe me?"
Fang Yuan heard her father sigh deeply, and his hand trembled slightly as he held hers. He stood in the shadows, speechless.
Fang Yuan didn't dare disturb her father.
After a long moment, her father lowered his head and leaned his face against Fang Yuan's. Fang Yuan could feel the hard beard on his face, and the warm liquid—his tears.
Little Fang Yuan seemed to understand something. Her father's heart was now even sadder than hers.
"Remember, Fang Yuan, no matter what your future holds, you must have a clear conscience."
A clear conscience!
These four words were her father's only wish for her.
Eighth Master's death was Fang Yuan's first true experience of the cruelty of death. Growing up, she often remembered his words: "There's nothing to fear, it's just returning to another home."
She stubbornly believed that her conversations with Eighth Master weren't hallucinations, or that his ghost had returned. After that, she never encountered a spirit return again, even if she had deliberately stood by the coffin on the night of the return. Another possibility remained—Eighth Master wasn't dead, and he was speaking to her from his coffin.
If that were the case, everything would be explained. Her father's tears and his warnings were all heartfelt. She didn't know whether Eighth Master's fake death was intentional or accidental, but it was an undeniable fact that her son lacked the courage to face his living self. She preferred to think positively of the incident. Eighth Master's faked death was unintentional. He was already dead, an old man who could have fallen asleep and never woken up. Later, he revived in his coffin. Knowing his plight, he didn't want to burden his sons any further, so he simply ended his life. She dared not assume the worst, and even the positive side of things left her restless. She couldn't escape the mysterious and terrifying word "death."
Seven years later, she faced the most difficult death of her life. Her father, her spiritual idol and life's support, passed away without warning. He was a village teacher. The school building had long been dilapidated and dangerous. He had submitted numerous requests for funding for repairs, but received no response. In a fierce storm, the trembling building finally collapsed. Her father had passed away like this. When his body was exhumed, it was found hiding a student beneath it—the student had been saved. This was his final act of devotion for his student.
The year after her father's death, Fang Yuan couldn't accept this harsh reality. She dreamed almost every day, dreaming of her father, caressing her head as he always did, smiling broadly at her. In her dream, she asked him, "Are you dead?" He replied, "No, I've always been by your side." Sweet moments always pass so quickly, and even the most beautiful dreams are shattered. Waking up, Fang Yuan savored the bittersweet taste of sorrow in the stillness of the night.
Thinking of her father, Fang Yuan's eyes welled up. "Father, I got into college, the Nanjiang Medical College you dreamed of. Did you see it? You said you'd always be by my side. If your spirit is there, have you seen all this? Are you rejoicing for me from the vast sky?"
"What's wrong, Fang Yuan?"
Xu Zhaodi noticed something was wrong with Fang Yuan and asked in a low voice. It was 5:40 p.m., and the two of them were having dinner in the fifth cafeteria of the medical school. The food in the cafeteria wasn't very tasty, but it was manageable for two girls from the countryside.
"It's okay," Fang Yuan wiped away a tear.
"You're not going to be moved to tears by a romantic drama like this?"
At that moment, the color TV hanging in the fifth cafeteria was playing Qiong Yao's latest masterpiece, "My Fair Princess." Ziwei solemnly said to Emperor Qianlong, "I've waited a lifetime, longed for a lifetime, resented a lifetime, and yearned for a lifetime, yet I still thank God for giving me this person to wait for, to hope for, to resent, and to yearn for. Otherwise, life would be like a dry well, devoid of interest!"
Fang Yuan nearly spit out her food with laughter. This dialogue was too contrived. A woman who pinned her entire life on a fantasy, and still thought she was deeply in love, should thank God. In reality, that was almost impossible, no matter how good the man was.