Where to return

 　　Peach blossoms are meant to awaken in the warm spring; if the weather is bad, they shyly reveal their beauty in February or March. But I encountered peach blossoms in November. Are there peach blossoms this season? My father said it was a return to spring.

　　Looking up from the foot of the mountain, I only felt the greenery climbing upwards, but unexpectedly, halfway up, peach blossoms reached out to stop me. A startled feeling turned to joy. Looking closely, it was as if I had witnessed their awakening. Their slightly open eyelashes faintly held pale yellow pollen, like the pink blood flowing from a pear-white heart, or perhaps a vibrant rose-red. Two or three blossoms adorned the graceful green branches, making the peach trees appear much younger.

　　In the past, few people came here; only a few people made this mountain forest a true mountain forest. Some would climb barefoot like Taoist priests; some would sing in the wind, lost in their own world; some would fish by the water, oblivious to others. Back then, there were always some eccentric people, and they felt as if they were already in the mountains. Now, the hustle and bustle has inevitably climbed the steps, and the mountain, unable to resist the crowds, is becoming increasingly empty.

　　Reaching a charred spot, I asked my father why the tall trees had been abandoned. Following his pointing finger, I saw a frail plant newly planted. It was a peach tree, the reason many came from afar. Looking again at the dead, withered tree, it seemed filled with bewilderment, unsure of its origins or its demise. But I knew.

　　The mountain air was a pale blue. I continued onward, following a winding path, until I found myself surrounded by willows and blooming flowers. Before me, the tall trees stood lush and green, a sight that brought both comfort and unease. People eagerly anticipate something beautiful, expecting unexpected wonder, just as more and more peach trees have come here. I've always remembered these trees, growing innocently upwards before I left home, their weariness etched into their faces by the fierce winds that brought me here. I remember my father saying that in his time, one tree was the strongest and tallest, used as a roof beam, while another lived as a potted plant in the garden. I think, from my father's youth to my own, the trees have remained unchanged in people's eyes; their growth trajectory is known only to the birds and cicadas.

　　Climbing onto the rocks, feeling the solid, rough warmth beneath my feet and the ethereal vastness of the sky, I felt a sense of wholeness. In this boundless universe, I found a sense of self-affirmation, and it was as if I heard a plaintive song echoing in the deep valley. My most vivid memory is of unintentionally reaching the summit. The feeling of climbing still brings a wave of dizziness; I always remember swaying precariously, as if a fall would send me soaring through the air.

　　I cannot deny that the turbidity in my heart grew heavier and heavier. The longer I lived at the foot of the mountain, the less moved I became by the spring grass and the gentle chirping of birds. One must always go to the mountains, to hear the carefree leaping and humming of the streams, the rainbow after the rain brought by the sunlight—you become entranced, seemingly humming a song yourself, taking off your shoes, and shedding tears in the wind. And what I find most unbearable is the twilight turning its back on me, silent, disappearing from the direction from which the lights came. I always see twilight fading and aging as it awakens from the twinkling stars.