On the nineteenth, my former roommate pinged me on WeChat. They had arrived—could they come by that afternoon to pick up their various bags and boxes?

Sure thing, I replied quickly.

As I sorted through their belongings, a sudden wave of melancholy came over me.

On the evening of the seventeenth, I had just learned that the second-year senior I held in such respect had passed away in a hurry—leaving behind his heartbroken girlfriend, his parents who had been driven to destitution trying to pay for his treatment, and hundreds of careless promises like "next time, let's grab a meal together" that could never now be fulfilled. I curled up inside the cocoon of my blanket and closed my eyes to steady myself. I had meant to write some pointless piece to commemorate whatever it was that I, and so many others, had lost—but in the end I decided not to write anything at all. That's enough, I told myself. Stop indulging yourself; nobody cares. And yet lately my emotions have been running slightly off-kilter.

In the afternoon, expecting them to be a while yet, I sauntered out with my keys to buy some fruit from the supermarket as a stockpile—only to run into them in the elevator lobby. Well, plan canceled; help with the move first.

After several rounds of dawdling and hauling, everything was settled. And so the time came for one last goodbye.

On impulse, I called them over and, shamelessly, asked: could they leave behind some ink marks, as a keepsake? Sensing their hesitation, I quickly added that it was no big deal if they didn't want to.

They said they simply hadn't thought of what to say for a moment. A couple of lines—no problem.

After some thought, they decided they wanted to write those famous lines:

We were classmates in our youth, in the prime of life

Scholars' spirit, commanding with ease

But when the pen finally touched the paper, they wrote:

A scholar in his youth, brimming with spirit

On the way back, they suddenly remembered the original text and groaned in dismay. I said this was exactly what I had hoped for—just like Google's naming. There's something more interesting about it not being quite right, somehow.

October's fracture, suddenly hitting the ground. Lucky, to be conscious—lost in the wonder of one's own story. Unlucky, to be conscious—forgetting again and again that one is no immortal, merely a thinking reed.

In so many fairy tales there are no incurable diseases, no words left unspoken, no inevitable partings, no problems without solutions. In the end, they are only fairy tales.

Even if one is stingy with every emotion, even if one has long since—however pretendedly—braced fully for every kind of farewell. Still, I suppose, it is hard in the end to take it all in stride.

Su Zi said: "Do you understand the water and the moon, my friend?

What passes is like this river, yet it never truly flows away; what waxes and wanes is like that moon, yet it never truly grows or shrinks.

Viewed from the perspective of change, heaven and earth cannot last even a single instant; viewed from the perspective of constancy, all things and I alike are without end.

So what is there to envy?

Moreover, between heaven and earth, each thing has its rightful owner. If it is not mine, not even a hair's breadth will I take.

Only the clear breeze on the river and the bright moon between the mountains—received by the ear, they become sound; met by the eye, they become color.

To take them is forbidden by no one; to use them, they never run out. This is the inexhaustible treasure of the Creator!

And it is yours and mine to share and enjoy."

I tucked that little notebook away carefully.

There is nothing I can do.

Let me scoop up a handful of clear breeze and say: farewell.