Toward the Horizon

#2026-0317

Toward the Horizon

A story from Between Old and New

Early one winter morning, Mr. Sun and his wife, Ms. Sun, arrived at the train station in Hualien with their grandson James.

The station was already lively. Travelers moved in small groups across the platform, carrying suitcases and bags filled with gifts for the coming Lunar New Year. Some people held bright boxes of cakes and fruit; others carried carefully wrapped packages tied with red ribbons.

Children followed their parents closely, their eyes full of excitement about the holiday journey.

Above the entrance hung bright red decorations celebrating the Year of the Horse. One poster showed a strong horse running freely across an open plain, its mane flying in the wind.

James noticed it and smiled.

“Grandpa,” he said, pointing upward, “this year is supposed to be lucky for people who run fast.”

Mr. Sun chuckled softly. “Then perhaps it will also be a good year for trains.”

Soon the three of them boarded the southbound train—the modern and spacious EMU3000 New Tze-Chiang.

Compared with the older trains Mr. Sun had taken many years earlier, the train car felt bright and comfortable. Wide windows stretched along the sides, and the seats were arranged neatly in rows. The air inside was quiet and cool, and the soft lighting gave the cabin a calm, welcoming feeling.

Mr. Sun and Ms. Sun had sometimes taken the swift Puyuma Express on another journey. Yet this train felt newer and more spacious, and its smooth interior made the trip seem even more pleasant.

James settled beside the window. Mr. Sun and Ms. Sun sat beside him.

When the doors closed with a gentle sound, the train began to move—slowly at first, then steadily faster. Soon it left the station behind and glided out of the city.

Before long, the Pacific Ocean appeared outside the window.

Morning sunlight spread across the water, and gentle waves rolled toward the distant shore. The light changed constantly as the train moved, turning the surface of the sea into shifting patterns of silver and blue.

On the other side of the train rose dark green mountains. Their slopes were steep and quiet, and from time to time the railway entered tunnels that pierced the rock like narrow gateways.

Between the mountains and the sea, the railway followed a narrow path, like a long ribbon laid carefully along the edge of the island.

James leaned a little closer to the glass.

“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

Mr. Sun nodded.

He had seen this scenery many times before, yet it never seemed to grow old. The railway along Taiwan’s eastern coast always felt like a quiet conversation between sea and mountain—one speaking with endless waves, the other answering with silent peaks.

From time to time the train entered a tunnel. The bright landscape disappeared into darkness, and the windows briefly reflected the passengers inside the car.

Then the train burst out again into sunlight, and the ocean returned beside them.

Watching the waves glide past the window, Mr. Sun suddenly remembered something from long ago.

He had been born in a small mountain village in central Taiwan. In those days the village was surrounded by forests and hills, but there was no sea nearby. As a child, he had heard stories about the ocean, yet he had never seen it with his own eyes.

Nor had he ever ridden a train.

It was not until he finished junior high school and left his hometown for the first time that he finally saw the wide blue sea—and heard the powerful rumble of a train moving along its tracks.

The memory made him smile quietly.

Life, he thought, sometimes begins with very small steps that later become long journeys.

As the train continued southward, James took a small notebook from his backpack.

“Studying already?” Mr. Sun asked gently.

James smiled, a little shyly.

“The high school entrance exams are coming soon.”

Mr. Sun remembered what it felt like to be young and standing before an important turning point. The world ahead seemed wide and uncertain, yet full of promise.

“Just do your best,” he said. “Life has many paths.”

The train ran smoothly along the coast, and occasionally small fishing villages appeared beside the water. White waves broke against rocky shores. Far out at sea, a few boats moved slowly across the shining surface.

By afternoon they arrived in Kaohsiung, where their son and his family welcomed them warmly.

That evening the whole family gathered around the dinner table. Plates of steaming dishes filled the room with comforting aromas.

James and his younger cousin John sat side by side.

“So,” John said with a playful grin, “are you going to study during the holiday too?”

James laughed.

“Maybe a little.”

“A little?” John shook his head, grinning. “That sounds dangerous.”

The two boys laughed together.

Across the table, Ms. Sun watched them quietly. Seeing the boys talking and smiling side by side filled her heart with a gentle happiness.

For Mr. Sun and Ms. Sun, the reunion was simple but precious. Watching the family gathered under one roof, they felt the quiet warmth that only such moments could bring.

The days passed quickly, filled with conversation, laughter, and the peaceful rhythm of the holiday.

Soon the week came to an end, and it was time to return north.

Once again they boarded the train, traveling back along the eastern coast. The journey felt calmer now. The excitement of the New Year celebrations had settled into a peaceful afterglow.

James sat beside the window again, occasionally glancing at his notebook.

John had stayed behind with his parents in Kaohsiung, yet his cheerful voice still seemed to echo in Mr. Sun’s memory.

Outside, the sea stretched endlessly toward the horizon.

As the train moved forward, Mr. Sun thought about the many journeys he had taken during his life. When he was young, trains had been slower and more crowded. Stations had been smaller.

Yet the same railway had quietly carried generations of travelers across the island.

Beside him, James was gradually growing into adulthood, preparing to begin his own path.

The train entered another long tunnel.

For a moment everything outside disappeared. The windows turned into mirrors, reflecting the passengers inside the car—their faces calm, their thoughts traveling in different directions.

Then, suddenly, the train emerged again.

Sunlight spread across the ocean, and the distant horizon shone like a thin silver line where sea and sky met.

James looked up from his notebook and gazed out the window.

Mr. Sun followed his eyes.

The train continued running steadily along the coast, its path stretching forward through sunlight and shadow, through mountains and tunnels, toward places still unseen.

For a long while neither of them spoke.

Yet in that quiet moment, Mr. Sun felt a gentle understanding settle in his heart.

Every person, young or old, travels a path through life. Some journeys are slow, some fast, but each moves forward in its own time.

For a while, families travel together.

Then the younger travelers continue onward toward their own futures.

Outside the window, the Pacific shimmered beneath the afternoon sky.

Far ahead, the horizon glimmered—like a promise of journeys still to come.

And the train carried them forward, steadily and calmly, toward the horizon.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇：Across the Years     (2026)

2)  首　篇：Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

3)  Brush and Screen     (2026)

4)  Twilight Walk     (2026)

5)  The Old Photograph     (2026)

Across the Years

#2026-0315

Across the Years

A story from Between Old and New

One evening in early autumn, Mr. Wang received a message from a former student.

It was an invitation to a class reunion.

The message was simple, but it stirred many memories in his mind. The class that invited him had been one of the first classes he taught after becoming an English teacher at a commercial vocational school many years earlier.

It had been an unusual class.

More than half of the students belonged to what the school then called a “sports class.” Many of them had been admitted not because of strong academic scores but because they had performed well in athletics during junior high school. Some were excellent runners. Others could jump high or throw the javelin farther than most students of their age.

But inside the classroom, things were sometimes quite different.

English grammar and vocabulary did not always come easily to them.

When Mr. Wang began teaching the class, there were forty-five students. By the time they graduated three years later, only twenty-six remained. The others had left school for different reasons.

Yet the years with that class remained vivid in Mr. Wang’s memory.

He still remembered one particular English examination.

To prevent students from copying each other’s answers, he had prepared two versions of the same test—Form A and Form B. The questions were identical, but the order of the multiple-choice answers had been rearranged.

When he distributed the papers, he explained calmly, “If you copy your neighbor’s answers, you may end up choosing the wrong ones.”

A boy sitting near the middle of the classroom glanced toward the paper beside him. Mr. Wang noticed and repeated his warning.

Suddenly the boy stood up, tore his test paper into pieces, and walked straight out of the classroom.

Mr. Wang was surprised, but he did not lose his temper. He only told the class that the student’s behavior had been somewhat impolite, and that he should come and speak with him later.

The boy did not appear for two days. When Mr. Wang finally found him, the student explained quietly that he had felt too embarrassed to face his teacher.

Years later, that same student would send Mr. Wang a small card every Teachers’ Day, thanking him for his guidance.

But another student from that class often came to Mr. Wang’s mind as well.

His surname was Liu.

Liu was tall and handsome, and he was known among his classmates as a strong athlete. In the classroom, however, his English test scores were usually quite low.

That was why Mr. Wang felt puzzled one day when Liu suddenly scored ninety points on an exam.

It seemed almost impossible.

Mr. Wang suspected that Liu might have copied answers from someone nearby. Liu insisted that he had not cheated. He said he had studied especially hard before that test.

Still, Mr. Wang found it difficult to believe him.

Looking back now, he sometimes wondered whether he had judged the student too quickly.

Near the end of their final year, the class took a graduation trip to southern Taiwan.

One afternoon they visited Xizi Bay. The sea was bright under the afternoon sun, and the students were excited at the chance to swim near the beach.

Before they entered the water, Mr. Wang gave them a simple warning.

“I must tell you honestly,” he said, “that I am a very poor swimmer. If someone gets into trouble, the only thing I can do is blow this whistle.”

He held up the whistle that hung from a cord around his neck.

The students laughed and ran happily toward the water.

At first everything seemed safe. Small groups of boys swam and splashed near the shore. But Liu gradually swam farther out than the others.

From the beach, Mr. Wang could see him moving strongly through the water.

Then, after some time, Liu suddenly began waving his arms.

A few students nearby laughed. They thought Liu was only pretending to be in trouble.

But the waving continued, and soon it became clear that something was wrong.

Mr. Wang felt his heart tighten. He raised the whistle and blew it sharply.

High above the beach, a lifeguard was sitting on a tall chair, watching the swimmers. At the sound of the whistle and the movement in the water, he quickly grabbed a rescue buoy and ran toward the sea.

Within seconds he was swimming powerfully toward Liu.

From the shore, the distance looked frighteningly long.

For a moment Mr. Wang feared that they might be too late.

But at last the lifeguard reached Liu, who was struggling weakly in the water. With the buoy supporting him, Liu was slowly brought back toward the beach.

When he reached the shore, his face was pale and his body trembled.

Later Liu explained that he had suddenly suffered a severe leg cramp while swimming.

For several moments, he had truly believed he might drown.

Years passed.

The boys from that class became men, each following his own path in life.

When Mr. Wang arrived at their reunion many years later, he found them sitting together around several tables, laughing and talking like old friends.

Among them was Liu.

He was still tall, but now he wore the uniform of a police officer.

Later in the evening, as some of the former students shared a few cans of beer, Liu came to sit beside Mr. Wang.

After a moment of conversation, Liu spoke quietly.

“Teacher, do you remember that English test when I got ninety points?”

Mr. Wang nodded.

“I really did study hard for that one,” Liu said. “I followed the advice you gave us. But when you didn’t believe me, I felt very disappointed.”

Mr. Wang remained silent for a moment.

Then he said sincerely, “Liu, I’m sorry. I should have trusted you more.”

Liu smiled gently and shook his head.

“It’s all right, Teacher,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

As the evening grew late, Mr. Wang prepared to leave.

Walking slowly away from the gathering, he suddenly remembered the bright afternoon at Xizi Bay—the waves, the whistle in his hand, and the young boy struggling far out in the sea.

Now that boy had become a man who protected others.

Time had carried them both far from that beach.

Yet somewhere between those years—between misunderstanding and forgiveness—something quiet and lasting had remained, like a small bridge between the past and the present.

And Mr. Wang realized that sometimes the true meaning of a teacher’s life only becomes clear many years later.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇：The Old Photograph     (2026)

2)  下一篇：Toward the Horizon     (2026)

3)  首　篇：Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

4)  Brush and Screen     (2026)

5)  An Exciting Visit to My Former "Leader"     (2015)

The Old Photograph

#2026-0313

The Old Photograph

A story from Between Old and New

One quiet afternoon, Mr. Chen sat alone in the study of his apartment and opened a wooden drawer in his desk.

He had opened that drawer many times before. Inside were old letters, several notebooks from earlier years, and a few photographs that the family had kept for a long time.

Among them was a photograph that always caught his attention.

It stood in a small wooden frame near the back of the drawer.

Mr. Chen lifted it carefully and placed it on the desk beside the window.

The frame was simple but beautifully made, with smooth dark wood and a faint scent that still remained after many years. It had been a gift from a cousin long ago.

His cousin had explained the story when he handed it to Mr. Chen.

The photograph had originally belonged to Mr. Chen’s eldest aunt—his mother’s older sister. She had kept the old picture for many years in her home. But the original photograph had become fragile with time, and the image had begun to fade.

So her son—Mr. Chen’s cousin—had taken the photograph to a studio and made a careful copy of it. Then he placed the copy in the wooden frame and gave it to several members of the family so the picture would not be lost. He had said with a smile that old photographs deserved a better place than the bottom of a drawer.

Mr. Chen had accepted the gift with quiet gratitude.

The photograph showed a man seated formally in a chair.

The man was Mr. Chen’s grandfather—his mother’s father.

Yet Mr. Chen had never met him.

His grandfather had died many years before Mr. Chen’s mother married and long before Mr. Chen himself was born.

For that reason, the photograph had always held a special kind of mystery.

Mr. Chen studied the image again now.

The man in the picture sat upright, his posture calm and dignified. His clothing looked like something from another age. He wore long traditional robes, and his hair was arranged in a style that seemed to belong to the late Qing dynasty.

Mr. Chen had always found that detail curious.

The Qing dynasty had ended in 1911. But by that time Taiwan had already been under Japanese rule for many years.

Yet the photograph seemed to show a man dressed like an official or scholar from the old imperial era.

When exactly had the photograph been taken?

No one in the family seemed to know.

Perhaps it had been taken before the Qing dynasty ended. Or perhaps it had been taken later, during the Japanese colonial period, in one of the photography studios that had appeared in towns and cities at that time.

Mr. Chen could only guess.

It was even possible that the studio had provided traditional clothing for portraits, allowing people to present themselves in a dignified style connected to the past.

Or perhaps his grandfather had chosen those clothes himself.

The photograph did not answer the question.

But somehow that uncertainty made the picture even more interesting.

Mr. Chen leaned back in his chair and looked at the image again.

The man in the photograph appeared calm and confident, as if he belonged fully to the world in which he lived.

And yet that world had disappeared long ago.

Mr. Chen himself was already an old man now.

Sometimes he thought about how many changes had taken place within just a few generations.

His grandfather had lived during a time when emperors still ruled China.

His parents had grown up during the years of Japanese rule in Taiwan.

Then came the decades of modern development, new schools, new technologies, new ways of living.

And now his grandchildren were growing up in a world filled with computers, smartphones, and things that Mr. Chen himself had never imagined when he was young.

Three or four generations—and the world had changed again and again.

Yet here, in this quiet photograph, one moment had remained still.

Mr. Chen lifted the frame gently and held it closer.

He wondered what kind of person his grandfather had been.

Had he been serious? Patient? Strict? Kind?

No one had told many stories about him. Perhaps the memories had faded as older relatives passed away.

All that remained clearly was the photograph.

The afternoon sunlight moved slowly across the desk.

Outside the window, a few children were playing in the small courtyard of the apartment building. Their voices rose and fell in bright laughter.

Mr. Chen listened for a moment.

Then he placed the photograph back on the desk.

It occurred to him suddenly that the man in the picture might once have wondered about the future too.

Perhaps his grandfather had sat in that studio chair, facing the large camera, and thought briefly about the years ahead.

He could never have imagined that a grandson he would never meet would one day sit quietly in another century, looking at the same image.

Time had carried the photograph forward, passing it gently from one generation to the next.

First it had been kept by Mr. Chen’s aunt.

Then it had been copied and framed by his cousin.

Now it rested here in Mr. Chen’s study.

One day, perhaps, it would belong to someone else.

Maybe one of his grandchildren would take it home and place it on another desk or shelf.

And that child might look at the picture with the same quiet curiosity.

The man in the photograph would still be sitting calmly in his chair, dressed in the style of a long-vanished dynasty, his expression patient and composed.

Mr. Chen closed the drawer slowly but left the photograph on the desk for a while longer.

The room was quiet, and the afternoon light was fading.

Somewhere between the past and the present, between one generation and another, the old photograph continued to keep its silent place in the world.

And in its quiet way, it reminded him that every life stands for a brief moment between what has already passed and what has not yet arrived—before becoming, in time, a memory for someone else to discover.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇：Twilight Walk     (2026)

2)  下一篇：Across the Years     (2026)

3)  首　篇：Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

4)  A Precious Picture: 外公的照片     (2021)

5)  First Part of My Family Tale     (2010)

Twilight Walk

#2026-0311

Twilight Walk

A story from Between Old and New

The evening air was cool and gentle when Mr. Zhao stepped out of his apartment building.

The sun had already begun to sink behind the distant buildings, and the sky carried the soft colors of early twilight—pale gold fading slowly into light blue.

Mr. Zhao liked this hour of the day.

During the daytime the streets were full of noise: cars passing, people hurrying, phones ringing, delivery scooters rushing from one corner to another. But in the evening, the city seemed to breathe more slowly.

Across the street there was a small park.

Mr. Zhao walked there almost every evening.

He was a retired schoolteacher now, his hair thin and white, and these quiet walks had become part of his daily routine.

The park was not large, but it had a winding path, several tall trees, and a small pond where ducks sometimes floated quietly.

As Mr. Zhao entered the park that evening, he noticed a young woman sitting alone on one of the benches.

She looked thoughtful, perhaps even a little worried.

A notebook lay open beside her, but she was not writing. Instead, she stared at the blank page as if the words she wanted could not quite find their way there.

Mr. Zhao walked past her slowly.

Then he made one quiet circle around the pond.

The water reflected the fading colors of the sky, and the ducks drifted calmly across its surface. A few children ran near the trees, chasing one another and laughing loudly before their parents called them back.

When Mr. Zhao returned to the same bench, the young woman was still there, looking at the same empty page.

He paused politely.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked in a gentle voice.

The young woman looked up, slightly surprised, but she smiled.

“No,” she said. “I’m just thinking.”

Mr. Zhao nodded.

“Sometimes thinking becomes easier when we walk,” he said with a small smile.

The young woman laughed softly.

“You might be right.”

She closed the notebook and stood up.

They began walking slowly along the narrow path that circled the pond.

“My name is Mei,” she said after a moment.

“Mr. Zhao,” he replied.

For a while they walked quietly. The air carried the faint smell of grass and evening flowers. There was something gentle about the old man’s voice that reminded Mei a little of her grandfather, and she found herself feeling unexpectedly at ease.

After a few steps Mei spoke again.

“I just graduated from university,” she said. “Everyone keeps asking what I plan to do next.”

“And you don’t know?” Mr. Zhao asked.

“I thought I knew,” Mei replied. “But now I’m not so sure.”

They passed the children again, who were now sitting on the grass, tired from running. Their laughter had grown softer.

Mr. Zhao smiled at the sound.

“When I was your age,” he said, “I believed my future was very clear.”

“What did you want to become?” Mei asked.

“A teacher.”

“Did you become one?”

“Yes,” Mr. Zhao said with a quiet laugh. “But the path was not as simple as I imagined.”

They stopped beside the pond. The water had grown darker now, reflecting the deepening sky.

“When I was twenty-two,” he continued, “I arrived at my first school in a small village. I was very nervous on my first day.”

“You?” Mei said, surprised.

Mr. Zhao nodded.

“I believed that a teacher must know everything,” he said. “I was afraid the students would ask questions I could not answer.”

Mei smiled.

“And did they?”

“Of course,” Mr. Zhao said, laughing softly. “Children ask the most unexpected questions.”

The ducks drifted slowly across the water.

“At first,” he continued, “I tried very hard to appear confident. But gradually I discovered something important.”

“What was that?” Mei asked.

“A teacher does not need to know everything,” Mr. Zhao said. “A teacher only needs to continue learning.”

They began walking again.

By now the evening light had faded further, and the park lamps flickered on one by one, casting gentle circles of light along the path.

“I feel as if everyone expects me to have a perfect plan,” Mei said quietly.

Mr. Zhao shook his head.

“Life rarely follows perfect plans,” he said.

They passed a large tree whose leaves rustled softly in the evening breeze.

“When you are young,” Mr. Zhao continued, “the future feels like a long road that must be carefully chosen.”

“And when you are older?” Mei asked.

“Then you realize the road has many turns,” he said. “And sometimes the most unexpected paths become the most meaningful.”

Mei was quiet for a while.

“Do you regret anything?” she asked suddenly.

Mr. Zhao thought for a moment.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I regret worrying too much when I was young.”

Mei laughed softly.

“That sounds exactly like me.”

They reached the park entrance together.

The sky was now a deep blue, and the first stars had begun to appear above the dark outlines of the trees.

“Thank you for the walk,” Mei said.

Mr. Zhao nodded.

“Sometimes a conversation at twilight is enough to clear the mind.”

Mei slipped her notebook into her bag.

“I think I will write something tonight after all,” she said.

As she walked away, her steps seemed lighter, as if the quiet evening had gently lifted something from her shoulders.

Mr. Zhao stood for a moment beside the park gate.

Above him the sky was calm and wide.

For a brief moment he remembered the young teacher he had once been—nervous, hopeful, and full of questions about the future.

Perhaps, he thought, every generation must walk through the same uncertain twilight before finding its own path.

Then he turned and walked slowly home through the quiet streets.

And somewhere between youth and age, between uncertainty and memory, twilight continued to spread its gentle light.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇：Brush and Screen     (2026)

2)  下一篇：The Old Photograph     (2026)

3)  首　篇：Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

4)  Twilight at Meilun Creek: A Story of Change     (2025)

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Brush and Screen

#2026-0309

Brush and Screen

A story from Between Old and New

After Mr. Liu retired from teaching, his days became very quiet.

For more than forty years he had lived by the rhythm of school life. Every morning began with the ringing of a bell and the sound of children arriving at the classroom door. Their footsteps, their laughter, and sometimes their arguments filled the school building like birds filling a tree.

Now the bells were gone.

Mr. Liu lived in a small apartment in the city. From the balcony he could see rows of buildings, a narrow street, and a small park where elderly people walked slowly in the morning sunlight.

Sometimes he missed the mountain village where he had once taught.

In that village school, the classrooms had wooden windows that opened toward the hills. On windy days the curtains moved gently, and the voices of students floated out across the fields.

Those memories were like old songs that stayed quietly in his heart.

Not long after his retirement, his grandson came to live with him.

The boy’s name was Kevin. He was fourteen years old, tall for his age, and he carried a phone with him almost everywhere he went.

Kevin belonged to a different world.

His world lived inside digital screens.

Every morning he woke up and immediately checked messages. His fingers moved quickly across the phone, typing short sentences that appeared and disappeared like tiny flashes of light.

Sometimes he watched short videos and laughed softly to himself.

Sometimes he spoke through earphones to friends who were far away.

Mr. Liu often wondered where those friends were. Some might live in the same city. Others might live hundreds or even thousands of kilometers away.

One afternoon he asked gently, “Kevin, who are you talking to?”

“My friends,” Kevin replied without looking up.

“Where do they live?”

Kevin shrugged. “Everywhere.”

The answer puzzled Mr. Liu.

When he was young, friends lived nearby—in the same classroom, on the same village road, or beside the river where children played after school.

But Kevin’s world seemed much larger and much faster.

At first, the two generations did not quite understand each other.

Mr. Liu liked quiet evenings. After dinner he often sat beside the window and listened to old songs on a small radio. The music was slow and calm.

Kevin preferred music that came from his phone—fast, rhythmic, and energetic.

Mr. Liu also practiced calligraphy at a wooden table. He dipped a brush into black ink and slowly wrote Chinese characters on white rice paper. The brush moved carefully, forming each stroke with patience.

One evening Kevin watched him writing.

“Grandpa,” he said, “your handwriting looks like art.”

Mr. Liu smiled.

“Calligraphy is a kind of slow art,” he said.

Kevin leaned closer to examine the paper.

“These characters look like pictures.”

“In a way they are,” Mr. Liu replied. “Each one carries history.”

Kevin nodded thoughtfully, but a moment later his phone buzzed again and his attention returned to the screen.

For several weeks their lives moved quietly side by side, like two rivers flowing in different directions.

Then one evening something changed.

Kevin was sitting on the sofa, holding his phone.

“Grandpa,” he said suddenly, “do you know how to send a voice message?”

Mr. Liu shook his head.

Kevin stood up and walked over.

“It’s easy,” he explained. “You press this button and talk. Then the message goes to another person.”

He demonstrated by sending a short message to a friend.

Then he handed the phone to his grandfather.

“Try.”

Mr. Liu pressed the button and spoke. But when he finished, the message had disappeared.

Kevin laughed.

“You released the button too soon.”

They tried again.

This time Mr. Liu spoke so softly that the recording sounded like a distant whisper.

Kevin laughed again—but kindly.

“Speak a little louder.”

On the third attempt Mr. Liu succeeded.

“Good evening,” he said carefully into the phone. “This is your grandfather speaking.”

Kevin played the message back. Both of them laughed.

“You see?” Kevin said. “Now you can send messages anytime.”

Mr. Liu felt quietly pleased with the small success.

But an even more important change happened a few days later.

One night Kevin was preparing to go to bed when Mr. Liu said, “When I was teaching in a village school long ago, something interesting happened.”

Kevin paused.

“What happened?”

“There was a boy who once brought a baby bird to school,” Mr. Liu began.

The boy had found the bird after a storm. Its nest had fallen from a tree beside the road.

The children placed the tiny bird in a small paper box and tried to feed it rice grains and drops of water.

For several days the bird lived on the teacher’s desk.

Every morning the students gathered around the box to check on it.

But one day the classroom window was open.

The bird was gone.

“It flew away,” Kevin said.

“Yes,” Mr. Liu replied gently. “The children were a little sad. But I told them that flying away was exactly what the bird was meant to do.”

Kevin sat quietly for a moment.

“That’s a good story,” he said.

After that night, storytelling became part of their evenings.

Mr. Liu told simple stories in English so Kevin could practice listening.

Some stories were about students who walked long distances to school in the rain.

Some were about funny mistakes in spelling tests.

Some were about festivals in the village, when lanterns glowed along narrow streets.

Kevin listened with growing curiosity. The stories felt very different from the fast videos he watched online. They moved slowly, like rivers rather than lightning.

In return, Kevin continued teaching his grandfather new skills—how to send photos, how to record a voice message, and how to use a small microphone icon that could turn spoken words into written sentences.

One evening Kevin suddenly had an idea.

“Grandpa,” he said, “why don’t we record your stories?”

“For what?” Mr. Liu asked.

“So other people can hear them.”

Mr. Liu laughed softly.

“Who would want to hear stories from an old village teacher?”

Kevin smiled.

“Lots of people.”

So they recorded the next story.

Mr. Liu spoke slowly and clearly. When the story ended, Kevin uploaded the recording.

“Now your story is traveling,” he said.

“Traveling where?” Mr. Liu asked.

“Through the internet,” Kevin replied. “People everywhere can listen.”

Later that night Mr. Liu stepped onto the balcony.

The city lights shimmered like small stars on the ground. Cars moved quietly along the distant street.

Inside the apartment, Kevin’s phone made a soft sound.

A notification had arrived.

Someone had listened to the story.

Mr. Liu felt a quiet warmth in his heart.

For many years his stories had lived only in classrooms and memories.

Now, through a small glowing screen and the help of his grandson, those stories could travel far beyond the hills where they first began.

And somewhere between the brush and the screen, between memory and discovery, a small bridge had quietly appeared.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇：Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

2)  下一篇：Twilight Walk     (2026)

3)  Lanterns and Ripples     (2025)

4)  人本自然～Chatting during Lunch!     (2024)

5)  The Mirror in the Attic (Chpaters 1~2)     (2025)

Happy Birthday to You—and Me!

#2026-0308

It is wonderful to have a birthday celebration at church. Our church—St. Luke's Episcopal Church in Hualien—celebrates our birthdays month by month. For example, those who were born in February were celebrated on February 22, the First Sunday in Lent; and those born in March were celebrated on March 8, that is, today, the Third Sunday in Lent.

Both Jean and I were born in March. However, she is currently in Taichung for a short stay, so only I had the opportunity to join this wonderful church event today, along with a couple of other members of the congregation. We sang “Happy Birthday to You” in both Mandarin and English in cheerful, loud voices. Many thanks to our pastor, the Rev. Minglong Wu, for his heartfelt prayer and blessing!

Note: The first few photos below were taken on February 22, while the others were taken today, just before lunch. Besides these pictures, I also cherish the video that our good friend Ms. Xiaojing Zhang recorded.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  塗灰禮儀     (2026)

2)  Birthday Celebration?     (2025)

3)  Happy Birthday 2019     (2019)

花蓮聖路加堂

2026 二三月份慶生

剪輯短片 (如下)

https://youtu.be/0CHflqHAIUs

以上為 2/22 二月份慶生

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以下為 3/08 三月份慶生

Echoes in the Courtyard

#2026-0307

Echoes in the Courtyard

A Story from Between Old and New

The gate creaked softly when Mr. Lin pushed it open.

He had not visited the house for almost ten years. The narrow street looked smaller than he remembered, and several neighboring houses had changed. Some had new metal doors. One had already become a tall gray apartment building.

But his family house was still there.

The tiled roof sagged slightly, and moss grew along its edges. The wooden door was faded by years of sun and rain, yet it stood quietly, as if it had been waiting for him.

Mr. Lin stepped inside.

The air smelled of dust and old wood. He paused in the small kitchen. The window above the stove was still there, though the glass had grown cloudy with age.

For a moment, he could almost see his mother standing there.

In the early mornings she used to rise before everyone else. The soft tapping of the knife on the wooden board, the gentle steam rising from the pot, the warm smell of ginger and soy sauce—those were the sounds and scents of his childhood mornings.

He remembered sitting at the table with sleepy eyes while she placed a bowl of hot noodles in front of him.

“Eat before it gets cold,” she would say.

The kitchen now was empty and silent.

Mr. Lin touched the edge of the old wooden table and slowly walked toward the courtyard.

Sunlight poured into the open square. Weeds had grown between the bricks, but the courtyard was still the same shape.

This was where the children used to play.

His younger sister had jumped rope here every afternoon. His brother had drawn chalk circles on the ground for marbles. On summer evenings, their father placed bamboo chairs outside, and the whole family sat beneath the sky, listening to the steady chorus of insects.

For a moment, Mr. Lin almost heard their laughter again.

But the courtyard soon returned to silence. A small bird hopped across the bricks before flying away.

He walked along the wall and noticed the long crack running from the corner window down toward the ground.

He remembered exactly when it appeared.

It was the year of the great storm.

The wind had roared like a wild animal through the town. Rain slashed against the roof, and the tiles rattled all night. The whole family stayed in the main room with candles burning, listening to the storm rage outside.

In the morning, when they stepped into the courtyard, they saw the crack in the wall.

His father had studied it quietly for a long moment. Then he said in his calm voice, “The house is still standing. That is enough.”

Mr. Lin ran his fingers gently along the crack. The wall felt cool and rough beneath his hand.

Last month his children had called him again.

“Dad,” his daughter had said gently, “the house is too old. It isn’t safe anymore.”

His son added, “If we sell the land now, the developer will build a new apartment building. You could have an elevator, security, even a convenience store downstairs. And the hospital is only three blocks away.”

They spoke with good intentions.

They wanted him to live somewhere comfortable. Somewhere modern and safe.

Mr. Lin understood.

He walked back to the courtyard and sat on the low stone step near the door. The afternoon light stretched long shadows across the bricks.

This house had held so many years.

Birthdays. Arguments. Rainy afternoons. Quiet evenings when his parents grew older and spoke less, yet still sat side by side in peaceful silence.

All of it had taken place within these walls.

Yet he also knew something else.

Even if the house remained forever, the past would not return.

His mother would not appear again in the kitchen. The children’s laughter would not fill the courtyard the way it once had.

The house had sheltered those memories, but it was never the memories themselves.

A light breeze moved through the open gate.

Mr. Lin stood and slowly looked around once more. The kitchen, the courtyard, the cracked wall—they were all still here.

But what mattered most had already traveled elsewhere.

Into the quiet stories he carried within him.

He stepped outside and closed the gate gently behind him.

The old house rested in the soft afternoon light. The courtyard lay silent, yet in its stillness lingered the faint echoes of children’s laughter—echoes that would travel with him long after the house was gone.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  下一篇：Brush and Screen     (2026)

2)  Echoes of a Distant Melody     (2025)

3)  In the Pupal Stage     (2010; originally, 2000)

4)  年初五 (之三)： "神秘之境"     (2021)

5)  Life Is like Reading a Novel     (2023)

《駐花蓮》

#2026-0302

下面這首七言絕句，也算是一篇 Long Stay 生活紀實吧，寫成並分享於丙午年 (馬年) 元宵節前夕~~~

《駐花蓮》

洄瀾景色太匆匆

蹓躂崙溪又始終

野草迎春添翠綠

虯枝戀舊掛殘紅

圖／文：Mookoo Liang

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  紅葉 (Scarlet Leaves)     (2025)

2)  《鳳凰詩》     (2025)

3)  葉子小夜曲     (2023)

4)  《寫於掃墓前》     (2025)

5)  The Gift of Colors     (2026)

The Gift of Colors

2026-0301

The pictures I’m sharing below were taken yesterday—February 28, the last day of the month. As you can see, they reveal something about Meilun Creek, especially the many colors I discovered in and around this scenic spot.

How many colors can you find in these pictures? Do you see blue, white, gray, red, yellow, and different shades of green?

Which color—or colors—catch your attention most? And what if there were only one color in this world? What if everything were simply black and white?

Perhaps then we would realize how precious this gift of colors truly is.

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相關文章 (See also)：

1)  《駐花蓮》     (2026)

2)  《鳳凰詩》     (2025)

3)  花 & 葉 (簡輯)     (2022)

4)  紅葉 (Scarlet Leaves)     (2025)

5)  漫步到對岸／繞一圈回來     (2025)

6)  河堤上的佳作     (2025)