微雪的早晨 (Morning of Light Snow)

This man is no longer in this world. Yet the cause of his death remains unclear to this day.

His features were delicate, unlike a northerner's. When I first saw him in the classroom, I thought he must be a student from Jiangsu or Zhejiang. Later, hearing him speak with the teacher, I realized he was from Zhili Province. After sharing a dormitory with him for two months, meeting him many times in the library, and one Saturday afternoon, riding a mule together out of Xibianmen, I came to know that this man was as silent as the dead. And strangest of all was his response after riding the mule back.

That afternoon, the luggage in the dormitory had been packed. The school attendant had moved out our baskets and books. The two of us, along with many classmates, went to a mule-cart shop outside Xibianmen to hire mules. Outside Xibianmen, a broad road led straight to Lugou Bridge. While hiring mules at the shop, one of the classmates, smiling, said to Yaru:

"Yaru! Why don't the two of you ride one mule together?"

Upon hearing this, Yaru's face flushed crimson. He shook his head and said:

"No! No!"

Seeing his embarrassment, that classmate laughed even more and said:

"Then, you ride one, and I'll ride another. Let's see who's faster."

With that, he grabbed the mule's saddle and jumped on. Yaru, having no other choice, had to mount one as well. The two of them rode the mules for a stretch on the road and came back, his face still flushed crimson. All the classmates were laughing at him. Seeing him like this, I too felt very strange.

Later, after school was dismissed, as we returned to the dormitory together, he suddenly said to me:

"I was so embarrassed today!"

I asked him:

"Why were you so embarrassed?"

He said:

"What I fear most in life is riding mules. When I was in primary school, once I rode a mule to a relative's house outside the city. The mule ran too fast and threw me off. I hit my head and bled profusely. Ever since then, I've been afraid at the sight of a mule."

Hearing his words, I understood why his face had flushed crimson while riding the mule today.

After this incident, my interactions with him gradually became more frequent. On Saturdays and Sundays, we often went for walks outside the city or wandered to the Western Hills. During these strolls, he would often utter words tinged with sadness.

One Sunday afternoon, as we walked at the foot of the Western Hills, the sun was about to sink behind the mountains. Only a few red clouds floated in the sky. He suddenly stopped, gazing at the distant horizon, and said to me:

"How should one live their life in this world to make it meaningful?"

For a moment, I was stumped by his question and couldn't answer. He paused, then continued:

"Sometimes I wonder, what is the purpose of life? Since we must die, why be born at all? For wanderers like us, living in this world truly holds little meaning."

Hearing his words, I felt his thoughts were even more sorrowful than mine, so I only nodded, unable to say a word. We walked a distance in silence, and he had fallen behind. I turned to look, and he was still walking slowly with his head bowed.

Yaru's family consisted only of his mother and a younger sister. His father had died early. They had a few acres of poor land, and the annual rent was just enough for the family's sustenance. His school expenses were all covered by his own efforts outside. His mother and sister lived in a small county town not far from Beijing.

One summer vacation, he went home for two months. When he returned, his complexion was paler than before, and he had grown thinner. I asked him:

"Why did you end up so thin at home?"

He said:

"My mother's health hasn't been good lately. My sister is almost of marriageable age. The family's situation worsens year by year. Seeing this, how could I possibly stay at home with peace of mind?"

After the summer vacation, he studied even harder. Sometimes in the library, he would sit until midnight before returning to the dormitory. His face grew paler day by day. Classmates all said he was ill and advised him to rest, but he never listened.

By the spring of the following year, he suddenly stopped coming to school for a few days. I went to his dormitory to ask and learned that he was ill, lying in bed. When I visited him, he was feverish. Seeing me, he struggled to sit up and said:

"This illness isn't serious. I'll recover in a few days."

But his condition worsened day by day. The school doctor came several times but couldn't determine what illness it was. His mother, having received word, hurried to Beijing to see him.

He lay in bed for over a month. Later, although the fever subsided, his body was emaciated beyond recognition. The doctor said he had tuberculosis and needed proper recuperation.

His mother took him home to recuperate. A few classmates and I saw him off at the train. As the train began to move, he leaned out of the window and said to us:

"Study hard. I'll come back once I recover."

When he spoke, we could see his eyes were already red.

After he returned home, I often wrote to ask about his condition. His replies always said his illness was gradually improving and told us not to worry.

In the autumn, he suddenly sent a letter saying his illness was completely cured and he would soon return to Beijing. But after more than two months, he still hadn't come. I wrote again to ask, and he replied that due to some family matters, he couldn't come immediately.

The following spring, because I had graduated, I left Beijing for a job in the south. Before leaving, I wrote him a letter informing him of my plans. He replied with a letter wishing me future happiness.

From then on, we never corresponded again.

Time flies like an arrow. Unnoticed, another two years passed. One day, on a street in Shanghai, I suddenly met a friend who had studied with me in Beijing. I brought up Yaru's matter, and he said:

"Yaru is dead."

Hearing this, I was startled and hurriedly asked:

"What illness did he die from?"

That friend said:

"He didn't die from illness. He committed suicide."

I was even more shocked and asked:

"Why did he commit suicide?"

The friend said:

"I don't know the details. I only heard that after returning home, due to family disputes and dissatisfaction with marriage issues, he took his own life."

After parting with that friend, I felt depressed for several days. Yaru's face often appeared before my eyes.

A year later, due to some business, I went to Beijing again. One morning, with light snow falling, I went alone to a mule-cart shop outside Xibianmen, wanting to hire a mule for a leisurely ride to the foot of the Western Hills.

The owner of the mule-cart shop was an old man in his fifties. Seeing me come alone to hire a mule, he asked me:

"Sir, aren't you afraid to ride a mule alone?"

I said:

"I've ridden before. It's fine."

Hearing my words, he led out a mule. I mounted the mule and slowly made my way onto the main road.

The snow had stopped, but a thin layer still covered the ground. The sun broke through the clouds, shining on the snow, emitting a glittering light.

Riding the mule alone, I recalled the scene of riding with Yaru in the past, and I couldn't help but feel sorrowful.

When we reached a small bridge, the mule suddenly stopped and refused to go forward. I tried to whip it, but it wouldn't budge. Having no choice, I dismounted and led it by the reins.

Beyond the bridge was an empty field. In the middle of the field stood a solitary grave. The grave was already overgrown with wild grass, looking even more desolate in the morning of light snow.

Unconsciously, I walked to that grave and saw a stone tablet in front. Carved on it were the five characters: "Zhu Yaru's Tomb."

Standing before the grave, I stared blankly for a long time, tears streaming uncontrollably.

In the morning of light snow, the surroundings were utterly quiet. Only the cold wind rustled through the withered grass, making a soughing sound.