Memories (2/2)
But only a week later, the butler returned.
The butler was responsible for handling Mr. Gu’s affairs in the country, so flying back and forth between the two countries was a routine task.
This time, on his return, he also brought two cards for the young boy.
One was Su Zesui’s sponsorship card, through which Mr. Gu would transfer money to him every month on the first and fifteenth. The other was a medical sub-card to cover all future medical expenses for his big brother.
Along with the cards, the butler handed him a letter.
Inside, simply written on the paper, were the words: “You are doing well. Be strong.”
The strokes of these few characters were bold and powerful, a bit messy yet stylish in its own way, with an air of boldness and recklessness. The impression it gave was… perhaps Mr. Gu wasn’t that old.
Holding the letter, Su Zesui felt a warm current quietly flow through his heart.
When he was very young, a fortune teller had told him that he was fated to encounter petty villains, and the only way to avoid it was to become a monk. So, for a long time after suffering from school bullying, he had been saddened, thinking his fate was simply unlucky.
He never imagined that now he would meet someone so kind. He felt truly fortunate.
For the first time in a long while, he had the urge to express himself. He picked up his pen and wrote at length, handing the letters to the butler before he flew back.
Later, as domestic affairs increased, the butler began traveling more frequently between the two countries, and Su Zesui often corresponded with Mr. Gu.
Su Zesui always treasured the first letter Mr. Gu had sent him, in which he had written that Su Zesui was “doing well” and “be strong.”
Sensitive and insecure, Su Zesui feared that if he didn’t live up to Mr. Gu’s expectations, all the care and support he received would be withdrawn.
So in every letter afterward, he made an effort to present himself as “good” and “strong,” writing about his diligent studies, hard work, and anticipation for a reply. He never mentioned the bullying, the isolation, or the hatred he experienced.
It seemed that his flawless disguise worked—Mr. Gu continued to treat him very well. And as their exchanges grew more frequent, their bond deepened.
Mr. Gu sent him many study supplies, including a computer and a tablet, forbidding him to work, and even arranged the best doctor in the province for his big brother. He encouraged Su Zesui to ask for anything else he might need.
Sometimes, Mr. Gu would even share stories about life abroad, saying that being able to study peacefully was in itself a kind of luck.
A few simple words carried so much meaning, clearly reflecting Mr. Gu’s excellent education, fulfilling all of Su Zesui’s fantasies of a highly knowledgeable person.
They remained simple pen pals. Their conversations stayed on the surface, with neither side attempting to truly delve deeper.
That is, until one day during gym class, when Zhou Qizhao threatened Su Zesui, making him stand on the basketball court. Supposedly, it was for learning basketball, but in reality, the ball kept hitting him hard.
When a ball flew toward his face, Su Zesui instinctively raised his hand to block it. He heard a “crack” in his finger, followed by pain so sharp he couldn’t even straighten his back.
The students playing basketball, seeing him kneel clutching his hand, were not the least bit sympathetic. Instead, they mocked him: “Just as useless as your sickly brother. Hey, why so quiet? When’s your brother gonna die?”
That day should have been when Su Zesui wrote to Mr. Gu. But that evening, sitting at the low tea table, his fingers shook uncontrollably as he held the pen, and the words he wrote were crooked and uneven.
The ball had fractured his finger.
Recalling all the cruel curses spoken to him earlier, Su Zesui could no longer hold back, and tears soaked the paper as he sobbed.
He was deeply upset, his mental threshold lowered, yet he still tried to confide in Mr. Gu, using those ugly, crooked letters to minimize the pain.
As soon as the letter was sent, though, Su Zesui regretted it. He spent his days anxious, fearing Mr. Gu would see his weakness and stop caring for him.
Fortunately, Mr. Gu didn’t seem to take it to heart. He didn’t question why he had been bullied or insist that he stop worrying in order to remain “strong” and deserving of support…
He even, for the first time, had the butler give him a voice recorder. Pressing “play,” Mr. Gu’s mysterious voice came through, telling him:
“Don’t worry. Go have your finger checked with the butler. If it’s inconvenient to write, you can use the recorder to communicate in the future.”
His low, magnetic voice was neither rushed nor dull, like a breeze carrying depth of emotion, and sounded barely over twenty. It was the most beautiful voice Su Zesui had ever heard, and he couldn’t help listening over and over.
Su Zesui felt that their relationship had taken a step forward.
Perhaps he had finally survived the trials set by fate. The day after his checkup, for reasons unknown—whether they feared he might report them or had a sudden pang of conscience—Zhou Qizhao and his group avoided him. There was a certain caution in their eyes, and they never bothered him again.
Since that frost-laden day, life gradually improved.
His big brother received treatment from the best medical experts, and Su Zesui could focus on his studies. He could chat with Mr. Gu via the voice recorder and pour out his thoughts across pages of letters, each word heartfelt—emotions he had never expressed before.
Every day was joyful.
But as time passed, Su Zesui began to sense something unusual.
Mr. Gu became increasingly open with him, sharing deeply personal matters: the monotony of his studies, the burdens of inheriting family responsibilities, the tedium of life in a distant land. It seemed there was nothing he wouldn’t discuss.
He was exceedingly generous, sending far more than a typical sponsorship, treating Su Zesui not as a needy student but as someone worthy of genuine support.
Yet, Mr. Gu never offered him a foreign phone number to communicate more conveniently. He never revealed his real name or appearance…
It was as if their souls were infinitely close, but their bodies were separated by an invisible barrier.
Intimate, yet miles apart. They could not see or touch each other; that barrier could not be crossed.
The feeling was strange and unsettling. Su Zesui could not understand why, and felt too embarrassed to ask.
A month later, his big brother’s condition worsened beyond help. Even the best medical care at home or abroad could not save him. One cold winter night, he passed away, leaving the world forever.
Upon receiving the news, Su Zesui did not break down in tears. Not a single drop fell. Everything felt unreal. He even instinctively ran home after school, intending to cook for his big brother.
Only when he reached the kitchen and saw the dust-covered stove did he stop abruptly, slowly realizing… his big brother was gone.
Helplessly sitting on the floor, he opened WeChat and sent a message to his big brother: telling him how much he missed him, asking where he was. But there was no reply—never again.
In this state, his nerves dulled by pain, he lost his usual sensitivity and asked Mr. Gu more private questions: his name, his phone number, even his overseas address.
He was like an abandoned child, spiritually famished, desperately drawing security from anyone who showed him kindness.
It took a long time for Mr. Gu to reply. The letter contained nothing about a phone number or address—only these words:
“A galaxy of stars, locked beyond the night.
This is the meaning given to my name by my family elders.
I once thought it was a hopeless dream, forever out of reach. Later, I realized that only after experiencing darkness can one see the light. I hope it can give you a little more strength.
As for meeting, the time hasn’t come yet. Perhaps, only through an extremely rare coincidence will we meet.
—Gu Yilan”
Su Zesui didn’t understand what “an extremely rare coincidence” meant, and he refused to dismiss it as a vague excuse. He chose to believe Mr. Gu had his reasons.
The encouragement gave him strength again. He resolved to emerge from the shadow of his big brother’s death.
Silently, he vowed to endure the darkness, to see the light, to climb upward, and to become a brave adult like Mr. Gu. Then he would find him—the one of only two people in the world who had ever truly cared for him.
But even before the gaping wounds in his heart had fully healed, Mr. Gu stopped replying. No letters came, no voice recordings exchanged. It was as if he had vanished from the world, leaving no trace.
The butler, exhausted from constantly traveling between countries, seemed distracted and evasive, leaving obvious gaps in his explanations.
Su Zesui panicked. The last thread holding his heart together snapped. The carefully structured days of recovery and growth fell into chaos. He dared not consider whether Mr. Gu had grown tired of him or if he had been abandoned for being inadequate.
He resented himself for improving too slowly, for failing to keep pace with the speed of Mr. Gu’s possible disinterest. He resented the cruel hand of fate that had placed them so far apart in social class, leaving their bond suspended on a single, invisible thread.
After extracting from the butler the name of the city where Mr. Gu lived abroad, he obtained a visa, bought a ticket with his own savings, and rushed to the vast, foreign metropolis, alone and unable to understand the language.
Snow blanketed the city. In a thin coat, he clutched his fingers nervously, and the reluctant butler led him into the house.
At that moment, looking at the empty study, Su Zesui—who had been on edge the entire way—suddenly felt his heart stop and finally understood why everything had happened.
Why do his conversations with Mr. Gu always stop just short of a deeper connection? Why does he feel as if an invisible hand gently pushes him away every time he tries to take their relationship a step further?
Human neurons transmit signals at an extremely fast speed, requiring almost no time at all. In other words, recovering memories is just a matter of an instant.
Yet the weight of those memories can take a lifetime to process.
As the flood of recollections descended upon him along the timeline, Su Zesui slowly felt the emotions tied to each experience.
Earlier memories had brought sorrow and joy, highs and lows—but his heart had long since become numb, passively absorbing them without reaction.
It wasn’t until this fragment of a memory—which had been foreshadowed long ago while he was playing games with his classmates—pieced itself into his complete recollection that Su Zesui suddenly clutched the stuffed toy in his hand, his eyes wide, his breathing becoming incredibly shallow as if someone had choked him.
No wonder… no wonder every time this matter was mentioned, the Gu Yilan of this world always hesitated to speak, never saying more than a brief apology.
It turned out that the truth of the matter was something he could never have imagined.
Taw’s Note: Suisui ah… QAQ
I dont understand 😞😞😞