Life is never as it was at first sight.

     I always have a poor memory of time and events; when I do recall them, they are just fragmented pieces. It seems like a long time ago I visited Xi'an. I didn't really like it there; it was shrouded in gloom, and you had to constantly be wary of strange looks from those around you in the streets and alleys. It's like being near the Hangzhou train station, clutching my bag tightly, carefully avoiding anyone who gets too close. Yet, Xi'an is a city with an incredibly rich cultural heritage. Although it's one of the four ancient capitals along with Hangzhou, its Qin Shi Huang Mausoleum rivals the scenic beauty and vast expanse of West Lake. But, like life, when the dust is cleared and sunlight shines through, much beauty begins to vanish. If it remained buried underground, it might live on forever, but human history would be missing a significant chapter. It's like the human heart: "Old friends change easily, yet people say it's the old friend's heart that's fickle." If everything were only as it was at the beginning, would we truly be content? No. Who isn't moving forward, pursuing the future?

    I actually miss the times I spent traveling by train. It was like a moving world, playing a vital role in the bleak years before I was born, carrying all sorts of weary, wandering lives, silently and without complaint.

    The lower-class berths were filled with the pervasive stench of fish, heavy breathing, and the mingled sounds of arguments and curses among the toiling crowds struggling to make a living, growing louder and louder with the rumble of the train. Everything seemed like a thick, bubbling pot of soup, yet each person crammed into the berth possessed a clearly defined life trajectory. These are some memories left behind on trains by the lower classes of a certain era.

    Its length and waiting, its distance and anticipation, its mundane and helpless nature, its passersby and their conversations, all linger endlessly on the long train tracks.

    I remember when I was very young, trains often passed near my home. We couldn't get on, so a group of children would lie on the grass under the tracks, counting the number of carriages, and then arguing endlessly about whether the locomotive should be included. I don't understand why I was so persistent back then, and even now, I sometimes stop to watch a passing train, carefully counting the carriages until the end disappears from sight, before reluctantly leaving. I always thought it was an instinct in human nature—like looking up to count wild geese flying by, or counting stars on a summer night—a kind of romance and a pastime. Perhaps it's because I can't grasp the tail of time, and therefore I'm particularly fond of the feeling of counting the moments.

    After boarding the train, I liked to look for a fleeting glimpse of the rear of the train at every bend, making sure to look at every bend. When I got tired, I would order my parents to stand guard for me while I fell into a deep sleep. Was this just another way of lingering over the tail of time?

    It turns out everything is so similar to life; everyone cherishes and longs for things that have passed and are about to pass, forgetting the bittersweet, joyful and sorrowful life before them. It wasn't until much later that I understood that the world inside the train carriage was far more exciting and meaningful than the world outside. But so what? I still don't care. Even if I'm no longer chasing the tail end of time, what about the scenery outside the boat? What about those fleeting landscapes that don't belong to me? I want to take them all in.

    The fast pace of the times has turned the exchange of money and time into a naked, blatant transaction. For those rushing about for money, airplanes are their best mode of transportation, while trains are either abandoned in some unknown corner or labeled as "failures." But why, after leaving these busy worldly affairs, do they choose to come to a rural town amidst the weeds and bustle, away from supermarkets and shopping malls, to stroll with their loved ones by the lakeside at sunset? Occasionally, when a train rushes by, they hold their grandchildren and carefully count the carriages. These are all moments that have passed, and they haven't forgotten them at all.

    When I graduated from university, I made a special promise with my classmates to climb Mount Putuo again. I'm not a Buddhist, and when I used to accompany my parents on pilgrimages, I would just make random wishes. Seeing the thriving incense, I still prefer to sit alone in a quiet corridor, counting the passing time. But upon graduation, a nameless lingering attachment suddenly arose in my heart. If I didn't leave something behind, it felt like I'd lost a sense of purpose. So, we devoutly carried red incense sticks and walked through all the temples of Putuo Mountain, offering them with smiles to any small Buddha statues we encountered. Along the way, we often saw elderly people walking briskly, and groups of believers kneeling from the foot of the mountain all the way to the summit; we believed they were the ones favored by Buddha. I remember the first time I went to Putuo Island, I borrowed my senior classmate Xiao Xie's entry card. Because we looked quite similar, I managed to get through. Later, I looked at her photos from Putuo and unconsciously saw my own reflection in them. I realized that when she was devoutly worshipping, there was a faint sadness in her eyes.

    I never imagined that this sadness would stay with her to this day. A few days ago at work, I suddenly received a notification that my senior classmate Xiao Xie had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor, and the entire school was now launching a fundraising campaign. The moment I received the text message, just like when I learned about the Wenchuan earthquake, I thought someone had played a cruel joke on me. Only after it was confirmed did my heart ache beyond measure. At that moment, I truly wished life could be like our first meeting, freezing all the beauty in those four years of university. Unfortunately, fate was like her belief: "Life is a spiral, there will always be twists and turns, but there is only one goal: to move forward. Every loving person pursues and transmits something touching—that is love. No matter how bumpy the road, I will choose to keep moving forward!"

    Thinking about it carefully, I've always been like a passerby, experiencing the lives of others but forgetting to leave a trace. In high school, someone told me my junior high classmate had passed away; upon graduation, someone told me a talented senior who had passed the national civil service exam had been in a car accident and was still in a coma; on some day, I felt the hardships of others' lives through their writings, and what about me? It seems I've always lived a happy life, sometimes experiencing small joys and sorrows, sometimes feeling lonely and isolated, always finding it difficult to integrate into groups. Perhaps once, when we lost something for the first time, we longed for life to be like the first encounter. But only after truly leaving the pain do we realize we have no regrets, and even if we could start over, it would be the same. Returning to Banshan Town, I see the vanished tree-lined avenues; one day they will flourish again. I see the rooftops and eaves gone; perhaps we can often reminisce about our summer gatherings under the starlight. I see the elderly sitting in the twilight of their lives, surrounded by the happiness of their children and grandchildren.

    This summer, I visited my brother in Xiamen. I've been to his hometown, a very remote mountain village in Sishui, Shandong. When we sped past on our tricycles across the yellow earth, the old yellow oxen would greet us warmly. The stream was filled with glittering stones. On the path leading to the cemetery, weasels would occasionally dart out, their appearance quite cute, completely unlike the evil of fairy tales. After dinner, I would grab my brother and jump into the rabbit hutch to watch the rabbits. For me, everything was new and interesting; for him, it was the impoverished home where he had grown up for over twenty years. Despite his poverty, his ambition remained undiminished; he is now a PhD from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. On Xiamen, this island of outstanding people and beautiful scenery, I unexpectedly met my sister-in-law. The future is full of surprises, but the past has laid traps to prepare for these surprises. Whether to move forward or retreat is up to the individual.

    Half a year ago, I met Xiaoyu. His appearance reminded me of an old friend. That friend once wrote me a sentence: "On the shoulders of fate, we have all missed many things, right or wrong. There is no reason for regret, nor is there a path to retreat. The only thing we can do is open our hearts to life; the inner beauty is dazzling." Xiaoyu, a child raised in hardship, has always embraced life with the widest of open arms. Sometimes, though we are too far apart, I can't reach the depths of his soul. The two of us, each with a sword, are engaged in an invisible battle. I don't know if this is his true nature or a mask he wears in life. But it's good this way; at least when Xiaoyu is around, I smile.

    It reminds me of a saying: "The scenery brought you here, but you took away the heart of the one who saw the scenery." Is life like a play, or is a play like life? A play can be remade, can be erased; but what about life? Life is never the same as when we first met; if I had stayed, how could I have met you?