Chapter Forty-Two: Heartfelt Words Beneath the Moon, the Vessel of Dreams

High school life seemed to be fast-forwarded, days flying by under the mounting pressure of academics. The red and black lists from mock exams were posted alternately in the most conspicuous spot in the academic buildings, silently urging each student onward. Lin Mo had become even busier. As a top student in the science class, his sights were set on the nation’s finest academy of architecture—a goal that meant he had to hack his way through the thickets of mathematics, physics, and chemistry. He spent less time on the basketball court and more time buried in the library. Sometimes after class, he would stay at school to study until late into the night.

That road they once walked together would, on occasion, see only Yi Yi’s solitary figure.

The townsfolk still made their good-natured jokes.

“Yi Yi, why haven’t we seen that Lin boy escorting you home lately?” Mrs. Zhang, the butcher’s wife, would call out with a smile as she picked vegetables at her door.

Yi Yi would simply smile and reply, “He’s busy with his studies.”

Her tone was calm, free of resentment or disappointment. She understood his ambitions and silently cheered him on. She would slip her own notes on ancient mortise-and-tenon architecture into his exercise books. When he fretted over a difficult problem, she would offer hints—seemingly whimsical, but piercing straight to the heart of the matter—with wisdom that seemed to transcend eras.

In her own quiet way, she supported him.

One night after study hall, under a bright, clear moon, Yi Yi too had stayed late to help a teacher organize materials. As she stepped out the school gates, she was surprised to see a familiar figure.

Lin Mo was leaning against the old locust tree by the gate, a book in hand, reading by the streetlight. Moonlight and lamplight mingled, casting a gentle glow around him.

“Why haven’t you gone home?” Yi Yi asked in surprise.

“I was waiting for you.” Lin Mo closed his book and naturally took the thick stack of papers from her arms. “I guessed you’d be late today.”

“How did you know?”

“Just a feeling.” He smiled, revealing two rows of white teeth. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

The two walked side by side down the silent street, their shadows stretched long by the moon, overlapping so that one could not tell them apart. The night breeze carried the fragrance of sweet osmanthus.

“Have you been... very tired lately?” Yi Yi asked softly.

“It’s not too bad,” Lin Mo replied, though a faint weariness crept into his voice. “It’s just that there never seems to be enough time. There’s so much I want to learn, and the score I need is so high.”

He slowed his steps, gazing up at the moon, his eyes filled with both hope for the future and a touch of uncertainty.

“Yi Yi, tell me—why do people build houses?” he suddenly asked, an odd question.

Yi Yi thought for a moment and answered, “To shelter from the wind and rain, to have a place to belong... to have a home.”

“Yes,” Lin Mo sighed, “but I think a house shouldn’t just be a shell. It should be alive, breathing with the people inside, sharing in the changing of the seasons. The houses I want to design someday will be like that. They’ll stand for a hundred years, even a thousand, witnessing all of life’s joys and sorrows, becoming history themselves.”

His eyes shone with the light of dreams.

Yi Yi listened quietly. She knew that mortal lives were brief, yet people always longed to create things that outlasted them—art, architecture, thought. Perhaps that was why, though fleeting, human life was still so magnificent.

“You will succeed,” she said, her voice firm.

“I’ll borrow your good wishes,” Lin Mo replied, looking at her serene and beautiful profile, bathed in moonlight. His heart stirred, and gathering his courage, he asked, “What about you, Yi Yi? What is your dream?”

His question startled her.

A dream?

She had lived for more than two thousand years. Her existence had always been about following in her father’s footsteps, cultivating herself, seeing all the world’s wonders. It seemed she had never had a “dream” in the worldly sense. She had never thought about who she wanted to become, or what she wanted to do.

Seeing her fall silent, Lin Mo worried he had been too forward. He hurried to explain, “I—I was just asking. You don’t have to…”

“I want to…” Yi Yi interrupted him. She looked up at the moon, unchanged from two thousand years ago, and spoke softly, “I want to be a doctor.”

The thought had never appeared so clearly in her mind before. Not because her father was a doctor, not because she was expected to follow in his footsteps. Rather, in all her years at Anhe Hall, she had witnessed countless instances of life and death: the butcher Zhang pulled back from the brink, his family wild with joy; the neighbor’s child, bouncing with health after a fever broke; the simple, heartfelt smiles on people’s faces when freed from pain.

For the first time, she realized how meaningful it was to use her knowledge to help others, to soothe suffering. That meaning gave her long and empty life a solid foundation.

“Like Uncle Jiang?” Lin Mo’s eyes lit up. “That would be wonderful! You’ll be an amazing doctor. Everyone in Andu Town will be grateful to you.”

“Yes.” Yi Yi nodded firmly, her heart clearer and more resolute than ever.

That night, under the osmanthus-scented moonlight, a young man clarified his dream of becoming an architect, and a girl who had lived two millennia found her purpose in this life. At that moment, their vessels of dreams seemed to find a shared course.

When she returned home, I was sitting under the lamp, reading an old medical tome.

“Father.” Yi Yi came to my side, her eyes bright.

“Have you made up your mind?” I set down my book and smiled at her.

“Yes.” She sat opposite me and said earnestly, “Father, I want to study medicine. Not the arts you’ve taught me—the ones that transcend the ordinary—but real medicine, the kind that heals the sick and saves lives.”

“Why?” I asked, though I already knew.

“Because I want to feel the warmth of life with my own hands. I want to see patients smile when they recover. I want Anhe Hall to become a beacon of hope for more people.” Her voice was soft, but every word was full of strength.

I looked at her with satisfaction. She had begun to have her own thoughts, her own pursuits, her own “dream.”

“Good.” I took a finely crafted wooden box from the bookshelf—one I had recently prepared for her—and placed it in front of her.