Drizzle Beyond the Window

#2026-0408

Drizzle Beyond the Window

A story from Dreamlike Reality

Our school stood quietly in the mountainous countryside, as if it had grown from the earth itself. Surrounded by trees, shrubs, and narrow winding paths, it was both a place of learning and a small, self-contained world. Yet from time to time, nature reminded us of its greater power—especially during the typhoon season.

After a strong storm, the campus seemed almost transformed. Tall trees stood wounded, their branches torn and scattered across the ground. Flower beds in front of the classrooms lay flattened, their colors pressed into the mud. Shrubs leaned at odd angles or lay uprooted, as if bowing before an unseen force.

Strangely, as a child, I did not feel sorrow at such scenes. Instead, I felt a quiet excitement. The school, once so familiar, suddenly wore a different face. It became a place to rediscover. We had more work to do—sweeping fallen leaves, clearing broken branches, restoring the gardens—but even that carried a sense of purpose, almost of adventure. In those moments, disorder brought a kind of freshness, as though the world itself had been rearranged overnight.

It was in such a season of change that I entered my final year of elementary school.

Our new homeroom teacher was Mr. Yunxing Liao (廖運星老師), a young man who seemed full of life. He had recently graduated from Provincial Hualien Normal School, and there was something at once energetic and quietly reflective about him. His name, “Yunxing,” meant “lucky star,” yet he once told us, almost in passing, that he had used other names in his writing—“Han Xing (寒星),” the cold star, and “Gu Xing (孤星),” the solitary star. Only later did I learn that his mother had already passed away. At the time, I could not fully understand such loss, but I sensed a depth beneath his lively manner, something that made him different.

To us, he felt less like a distant authority and more like an older brother. During breaks, he would run and play with us, laughing as freely as any of the boys. He taught us games, including one he called Gaisen. On the dusty ground, we drew two square “countries,” each with narrow passages opening toward the other. Divided into teams, we became soldiers guarding our “king stone,” pushing and pulling our opponents across the boundary lines. A single misstep meant “death,” and we would wait, eager for the next round.

Those games rang with shouting and laughter, with the simple joy of movement. Yet Mr. Liao was not only playful; he was thoughtful in ways that quietly shaped us.

He rearranged our classroom into small groups, mixing boys and girls together. At first, the arrangement felt unfamiliar, even slightly awkward. In my group were several girls—Guiying, Xiuhua, and Xuemei among them. We sat closer than before, sharing space and tasks. Gradually, conversation became easier, and a sense of cooperation replaced the invisible boundaries that had once separated us.

He also believed in fairness in a broader sense. During the morning flag-raising ceremonies, each sixth-grade class took turns providing two students. When it was our turn, he always assigned one boy and one girl, saying that men and women should stand as equal citizens in any nation. Guiying and I were once chosen together, perhaps because we were of similar height. Standing on either side of the flagpole, we pulled the rope in steady rhythm, watching the flag rise into the open sky. In that quiet moment, I felt both a simple pride and a growing awareness of the principle he wished to teach us.

Beyond the classroom, he shared even more of himself. He played the violin, like our music teacher, and he knew an astonishing number of songs—more than one hundred and fifty, as he once told us. Under his guidance, our classroom often filled with music. We sang songs from many places: Words of the West Wind (西風的話), Santa Lucia (散塔蘆淇亞), Azalea (杜鵑花), How Could I Not Miss Her? (教我如何不想她), Kangding Love Song (康定情歌), The Girl from Hangzhou (杭州姑娘), and Mongolian Serenade (蒙古小夜曲). Even now, those melodies return to me from time to time, as if carried on a distant breeze.

There were also quieter moments—moments that seemed ordinary then, yet have since grown luminous in memory.

Near the edge of the school grounds stood a simple shelter classroom, built of bamboo, clay, and wooden posts. It stood slightly apart from the main buildings, modest and solitary. Not far from it lay the field where, years earlier, my classmates had found the remains of a dog—a memory that had once filled us with unease.

One day, during a light drizzle, I stood by the square window of that shelter with two of my good friends, Longsheng and Yizhen. The rain fell softly, slanting in the wind. Beyond the window, the mountains were veiled in mist, and across the gray sky, white egrets moved in quiet flight, their wings tracing slow arcs through the rain.

We said very little. We simply watched.

That moment, though brief, remained with me. Whenever I recalled it, a poem we had learned in our language class would rise naturally in my mind:

Before Xisai Mountain, white egrets glide in flight;

Peach blossoms drift on flowing streams where mandarin fish grow plump.

In a blue bamboo hat, in a green straw raincoat,

Through slanting wind and gentle rain, I need not go home. *NOTE

At that age, I could not fully explain why the poem touched me so deeply. Perhaps it was the harmony between nature and human life, or the quiet freedom suggested in its closing line. Whatever the reason, the image of the egrets in the drizzle seemed to dwell within those lines—and within me.

Life in our final year unfolded in small, memorable scenes. Once, during a picnic by the nearby Changliu Creek, we cooked our meal in groups—rice, vegetables, and a little meat. Simple as it was, the food tasted unusually good in the open air.

Part of that meat had been bought by a tall boy we called Kun-Bear, who had secretly taken money from his father. At the time, we accepted the food without question and ate with appetite. Only later did we hear that his father had punished him severely. The story spread quickly, and what had seemed like a simple act of sharing was suddenly shadowed by shame. Even now, I remember that incident as a quiet lesson—how easily enjoyment can be touched by wrongdoing.

As the year drew toward its close, Mr. Liao introduced an unusual task. With no calculators or computers available, he asked several of us who were good at arithmetic to help compute the total scores of each student from Grade One through Grade Six.

We stood at the blackboard in small groups, chalk in hand, listening as he read aloud long sequences of numbers. One by one, we wrote them down and added them carefully. If all of us reached the same result, the total was accepted; if not, we checked again.

It was a simple method, yet remarkably effective. And it gave us a sense of participation, as though we were briefly sharing in the teacher’s responsibility.

When the calculations were completed, I learned that my overall score ranked first in my class. A quiet satisfaction settled within me. There was still a final examination ahead, but at that moment, hope seemed close and within reach.

In those days, the top student in the entire school could enter the nearby junior high without taking an entrance examination. It was an opportunity both practical and honorable, and for a time, I believed it might be mine.

Yet life, as I was beginning to understand, does not always follow the paths we imagine.

After the final examination, the results were not publicly announced. They were added quietly by the teacher. When everything was settled, it was not me but Shuilin who was recommended for direct admission.

There was no dramatic shock, no outward disappointment. Only a quiet realization took shape within me. The place I had thought secure had shifted—just enough to lie beyond my reach.

In the end, I sat for the entrance examination and continued my studies along another path. Life moved forward, as it always does.

But when I look back across the years, it is not the rankings or outcomes that return most vividly.

It is that small shelter classroom, the square window, and the gentle drizzle.

It is the sight of white egrets crossing the mist-veiled mountains.

It is the echo of a poem, carried softly through time.

And in that memory, untouched by success or failure, I remain for a moment—

a boy standing quietly at the window, watching the world drift by.

= = =

*NOTE:  This poem was written by the Tang dynasty poet Zhang Zhihe (張志和). Entitled Yugezi (漁歌子), its original Chinese lines read:

西塞山前白鷺飛，桃花流水鱖魚肥；

青箬笠，綠蓑衣；

斜風細雨不須歸。

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Previous Story)： Cheerful and Shameful Moments     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Next Story)： [working title] The Narrow Gate Ahead     (2026)

3)  首　篇 (First Story)： Small Hands     (2026)

4)  The Master of Many Ways     (2026)

5)  情長紙短 huà 詩詞 (Part 1 of 2)     (2020)

Cheerful and Shameful Moments

#2026-0406

Cheerful and Shameful Moment

A story from Dearmlike Reality

When I was a student in the middle grades of elementary school, I was once elected as the “township chief” of the school—a title that also meant I was chosen as the model student of the entire school, not just of my class. At that time, I felt quietly proud of myself. It was not a loud or boastful pride, but a warm sense of being recognized.

I knew, however, that I owed much of this honor to my teacher, Mr. Naiqin Zhang. He had guided me, encouraged me, and even helped prepare the speech that allowed me to stand before others with confidence. To him, I felt deeply grateful.

Around that same period, I experienced another cheerful moment—one that came not from recognition, but from laughter.

When I was in Grade Three, our class was chosen to participate in a school performance. A temporary stage was set up in the playground, and the villagers were invited to watch on a breezy early summer evening. The whole school seemed alive with excitement. There were songs, dances, and short plays prepared by different classes.

Our class presented two performances. A group of girls performed a graceful musical dance, while four boys—including myself—put on a silent comedy titled A Clever Fool. I played the main character.

My role required me to act in a serious manner, never smiling, while doing foolish things that would make the audience laugh. At the time, I did not know whether I was doing well. But the next day, a villager who had attended the performance met my mother on the road and said, “Your son was very funny last night. He never smiled, but he made everyone laugh.”

Hearing this, I felt a quiet joy. Perhaps, without realizing it, I had learned how to stand before people, to express myself naturally, and to connect with others. That experience stayed with me in later years.

Yet life, even in those early days, was never made of cheerful moments alone.

In Grade Five, I encountered something that shook my confidence deeply. Arithmetic had always been my best subject since Grade One. I had thought of it as something simple, almost effortless. But when the results of our first midterm examination were announced, a strange and discouraging truth emerged—none of the students in Grade Five had passed the Arithmetic test.

Even I, who had scored the highest in the class, received only a little over fifty points.

I remember the feeling clearly: confusion at first, then disappointment. How could something that had once seemed so easy suddenly become so difficult? It seemed that the lessons had leaped too far ahead, leaving all of us struggling behind. For the first time, I realized that confidence could be fragile.

But what truly left a mark on my heart was not this academic failure—it was a moment of public embarrassment.

One morning, during the flag-raising ceremony, all the students stood assembled in the playground. The national flag fluttered gently above us. It was a usual scene, calm and orderly.

Then, names began to be called.

One by one, several students—including myself—were called forward to stand on the square wooden platform near the flagpole. There were about fifteen of us. We stood there in silence, facing the entire school.

The reason was simple: we had not yet paid the Parents’ Association fee.

The fee was only ten NT dollars per family. But for my family, even such a small amount could not always be paid on time. My younger sisters also attended the same school, yet I, as the eldest, was expected to hand in the fee. Usually, we paid other necessary expenses first, leaving this one until later, when our parents could manage it.

Standing there in front of everyone, I felt a deep sense of embarrassment. Was this a reminder? A form of pressure? Or a kind of punishment? At that age, I could not fully understand. I only knew that I wished I were not standing there.

Looking back now, I understand more about the circumstances. But the feeling of that moment—of being exposed before others for something beyond my control—remains vivid even today.

Fortunately, not all such moments ended in discomfort.

That same year, our teacher was again Mr. Xincheng Cheng, who had taught us in Grade Two. He seemed more approachable now, and he worked hard to guide our large class.

During the summer vacation, he organized extra lessons to help students prepare for the entrance examinations for junior high school. Many students paid to attend these sessions, but I could not afford the fee.

Yet Mr. Cheng allowed me to join the class without charge. He even asked me to serve as the class leader, as I had done before. His kindness gave me both relief and encouragement.

One morning during those lessons, I tried to bring him a glass of tea. I did not realize how hot the tea in the pot was. As I poured it into the glass, the heat burned my fingers, and I could not hold it steadily. The glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor.

I stood there, shocked and ashamed.

To my surprise, Mr. Cheng did not scold me. He simply said, “Never mind,” and calmly went to fetch a ceramic cup instead. His gentle response eased my embarrassment more than any words could have done.

When I entered Grade Six, we were led by a new teacher, Mr. Yunxing Liao. He was young, energetic, and full of life. He played with us during breaks, spoke to us like an older brother, and often brought creativity into the classroom.

Under his guidance, we experienced many new things. Among them, one small moment remains especially meaningful to me.

One day, our class went on a hiking trip in the nearby mountains. Each student was expected to bring a lunch box. That morning, however, my parents had already left for work, and there was nothing suitable at home for me to bring.

I felt embarrassed and hesitant. I did not know what to do.

When I mentioned this quietly, Mr. Liao turned to the class and asked if anyone could help. After a brief pause, a few students offered. Finally, he asked a girl named Xiuhua, whose home was not far away.

About twenty minutes later, she returned, carrying a lunch box for me.

I can still remember that moment clearly—the simple kindness, the quiet understanding. I was deeply moved, though I could hardly find the words to express my gratitude.

Another unforgettable experience came near the end of our final year.

Mr. Liao had prepared a thank-you speech for the graduation ceremony and asked two of us—Shuilin and me—to memorize it. He gave us a curious instruction: the first one who could recite the speech perfectly would be allowed to rest, while the second would have to continue practicing—and would be the one to deliver the speech on stage.

We were both surprised. Normally, one would expect the better or faster student to be chosen for such a role.

We went to memorize the speech. As it turned out, Shuilin completed it first, while I was slower.

And so, according to Mr. Liao’s rule, I was the one assigned to stand on the stage and deliver the speech at the graduation ceremony.

At the time, I did not fully understand his intention. Why did he choose the slower learner? Why give such responsibility to someone less prepared?

Years later, I began to see a possible answer. Perhaps he wanted to give the quieter or less confident student a chance to grow. Perhaps he understood that sometimes what we need is not reward, but challenge.

In the end, however, life took another turn. When our final results were settled, it was not I but Shuilin who became the top graduate. He was admitted to junior high school without taking the entrance examination, while I had to go through the test to continue my studies.

Looking back, I find that my memories of those years are filled with both cheerful and shameful moments.

There was pride in achievement, and joy in laughter. There was also embarrassment, disappointment, and confusion. Yet, between these moments, there were acts of kindness, patience, and quiet encouragement—from teachers and classmates alike.

Now, after so many years, I realize that these experiences cannot be simply divided into joy or shame. Often, they are closely intertwined. A moment of shame may lead to growth, while a moment of success may carry hidden uncertainty.

Life, even in its earliest stages, teaches us in such subtle ways.

And perhaps it is through these cheerful and shameful moments together that we gradually come to understand ourselves—and others—a little better.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Nest Story)： The Master of Many Ways     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Previous Story)： Drizzle Beyond the Window     (2026)

3)  首　篇 (First Story)： Small Hands     (2026)

4)  First Sounds     (2026)

5)  Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

The Master of Many Ways

#2026-0403

The Master of Many Ways

A story from Dreamlike Reality

When I think of my years in Grades Three and Four, one figure rises above the rest—not because he spoke loudly, but because everything he did seemed to carry a quiet power.

His was Mr. Naiqin Zhang (張迺勤老師).

He came from Shandong Province, following the government to Taiwan in earlier years. In my eyes, he looked almost like a soldier—upright, steady, and composed. He spoke clear and standard Mandarin, the kind we were only beginning to learn. There was something in his bearing that made him seem both approachable and quietly commanding.

By that time, school was no longer new to me. I could read, write, and follow lessons without much difficulty. But it was under Mr. Zhang that learning began to feel different—not just something to complete, but something to experience.

It began, perhaps, with drawing.

In those years, the school offered what we called “extra curriculum” activities. Students from Grades Three to Six could choose a group according to their interests. Without much hesitation, I joined the Drawing and Painting group.

That was where Mr. Zhang led us.

One afternoon, he placed a portrait on the front table—a picture of Yue Fei (岳飛), a historical hero. We were asked to copy it using pencils and colored crayons. One by one, we bent over our papers, trying to follow the lines, the shapes, the colors as carefully as we could.

When we finished, we submitted our work and gathered around him as he began to look through the drawings.

When my picture appeared before him, I spoke without thinking.

“This one is not good enough,” I said.

I meant my own drawing. I thought I was being modest.

Mr. Zhang turned to me and said gently, “Don’t be so critical of your classmates’ work. This one is not too bad, is it?”

I was startled. For a moment, I could not speak.

Only later did I begin to understand that he had not simply misunderstood me. He had used that moment to teach something else—that learning was not only about skill, but also about how we looked at others, and perhaps at ourselves.

Under his guidance, drawing became more than copying lines. It became a way of seeing.

But Mr. Zhang’s influence did not remain within the classroom.

One year, the school organized an election. It was meant to teach us the idea of democracy. Each class selected a “model student,” and from among them, one would be chosen as the “township chief” of the school.

To my surprise, I became one of the candidates.

I did not know how to speak, nor how to persuade others. But Mr. Zhang helped me. He wrote a campaign speech for me and arranged for me to read it through the loudspeaker in the teachers’ office.

That was not all.

On the day of the campaign, some classmates formed what they called a “horse” by placing their hands on each other’s shoulders. I sat above them, lifted slightly higher than usual, as we moved from classroom to classroom.

“Please give me your precious votes,” I repeated, again and again.

From that small height, I felt both excited and uncertain.

When the results were announced, I was chosen as the “township chief.”

I was only in Grade Four.

Some older students laughed at me afterward. They played with words, making light of my title, as if to remind me that I was still younger than they were. At the time, I felt a little embarrassed, but not deeply hurt.

What remained stronger in my mind was something else—the feeling of being supported, of being lifted, quite literally, by those around me.

And behind it all, I knew, was Mr. Zhang.

His way of teaching was never limited to one method.

One morning, he brought steamed bread he had made at home. He broke it into small pieces and gave one to each of us.

“Do not swallow it too quickly,” he said. “Chew it slowly. What do you taste?”

We followed his instructions.

“It’s a little sweet, isn’t it?” he continued. “That is the starch. When you chew it, it becomes sugar.”

It was a simple lesson, but I remember it clearly even now—not because of the explanation, but because of the experience itself.

Another time, he took us to the playground and arranged us in rows of four. We stood in formation, as if preparing for a march. But instead of marching, he asked us to pose—lifting one leg, stretching our arms.

Then he took photographs from different angles.

When the pictures were later displayed, they showed a perfect procession, as if we had been moving in complete unity.

We had not been marching at all.

Yet through his camera, we saw something we could not see while standing still.

Even in the classroom, he found ways to make things come alive.

Once, during a teaching demonstration for other teachers, he told a story using a series of drawings. The pictures were arranged in layers at the top of the blackboard. As the story unfolded, he moved them one by one, revealing each scene in order.

It was like watching something appear and disappear at the same time.

We followed every movement, every image, as if we were part of the story ourselves.

There were also moments when he was strict.

Before one examination, he set different expectations for different students. For me, he expected a score of ninety-five.

When the results came, I had scored ninety.

According to his rule, I received five strikes of the bamboo stick.

Yet even then, I could feel that he did not strike with full force. There was discipline, but there was also restraint.

He demanded effort, but not without understanding.

Under his guidance, I began to feel that learning was not only about knowledge, but about becoming something more than I had been before.

Then, not long after I graduated from the school, he left.

He moved to a distant place to continue teaching.

I did not expect how much I would miss him.

One day, while I was already in junior high school, I saw a jeep passing by near Changliu. On its side was a round plate with the character “勤” (qin).

My heart suddenly stirred.

Perhaps it was his bearing—always a little like that of a soldier—that made the thought come to me so quickly.

That was the same character as in his given name—迺勤 (Naiqin).

Without thinking, I began to run after the jeep.

I thought he had returned.

The vehicle moved quickly along the road, and I ran as fast as I could, trying to catch up. When I could no longer see it clearly, I turned toward the place where he used to live.

I ran all the way to his dormitory.

But when I arrived, there was no jeep.

The courtyard was empty.

Only then did I realize that I had been mistaken.

Years later, I understood that the character “勤” on the vehicle referred to military logistics, not to a person’s name.

But at that moment, standing there and catching my breath, I felt something I had not expected.

A quiet emptiness.

And beneath it, something else—something that had begun long before, in those classrooms, in those drawings, in those carefully guided moments.

Even now, when I think of those years, I do not remember only what I learned.

I remember how I was led—sometimes gently, sometimes firmly—to see more, to try more, and to believe, even for a while, that I could become more.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Previous Story)： First Sounds     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Next Story)： Cheerful and Shameful Moments     (2026)

3)  首篇 (The First Story)： Small Hands     (2026)

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

5)  I Remember You, Mr. T. P. Lu     (2016)

First Sounds

#2026-0402

First Sounds

A story from Dreamlike Reality

In those early school days, I first learned how to make sounds.

Not just any sounds, but the careful, deliberate sounds of bo, po, mo, fo—the beginning of language as it was given to us. At the time, I did not know that these small symbols would stay with me for the rest of my life. To us, they were only something to repeat, something to finish as quickly as possible.

When I entered Changliu Elementary School in September 1961, I was placed in Jia Ban—Class A. There were three classes in each grade: Jia, Yi, and Bing. I remained in Jia Ban throughout my six years there, though at the time, it was simply where I belonged, without question.

In the first few weeks, we had a teacher whose name I can no longer recall. He introduced us to the basic system of pronunciation—the thirty-seven symbols that formed the foundation of spoken Mandarin. We repeated them again and again, until we believed we had learned them well.

Then, several weeks later, a new teacher came.

His name was Mr. Yanshu Jian.

One day, after listening to us for a while, he asked the whole class to read the symbols together, from beginning to end. We did so smoothly, almost proudly, our voices rising and falling in what we thought was a perfect rhythm.

When we finished, he did not smile.

Instead, he shook his head.

Our pronunciation, he said, was mostly wrong.

The room became quiet.

We had not expected that. In our minds, we had already learned something important. But Mr. Jian asked us to slow down—to pronounce each sound carefully, clearly, one by one. He demonstrated, listened, corrected, and then asked us to try again.

There was no impatience in his voice, but there was firmness.

From that day on, the sounds were no longer something to rush through. They became something to attend to, something that required care.

Looking back now, I know how much that mattered. Without his patience, I might have carried those early mistakes much farther than I should have.

To us, he was a handsome and gentle teacher. But he was also strict when it was necessary.

I learned that one day in a way I did not forget.

A classmate of mine, Jinbao, took a toy I had made and broke it. It was a simple thing—a long, thin plastic tube that had once held juice, now filled with tiny grains of dry sand. To me, it was something I had made with care.

I told him it was mine. He did not listen.

Anger rose quickly in me. Before I could think, I kicked him hard. He cried out in pain.

When Mr. Jian heard what had happened, he called both of us forward. He struck my palms with a short plastic ruler. The pain was sharp, and I felt a sense of injustice rise within me. Jinbao had started it—why should I be punished as well?

But Mr. Jian spoke calmly. He told me that I should not answer harm with harm. He spoke to Jinbao differently, teaching him another lesson.

At that time, I did not fully accept what he said. I only remembered how it felt.

Yet that moment stayed with me, just as the sounds had stayed with me—something not fully understood, but not forgotten.

There was another memory from that year, quieter, but perhaps more lasting.

Our school was in a remote mountain village, and most families were poor. One day, Mr. Jian suggested that we take a group photograph. Those who wished to be included would need to pay for their own copies.

Only a few students agreed.

I was one of them.

I do not remember how I made that decision. Perhaps it was curiosity, or perhaps something else. I only remember standing there, among seven students and our teacher, facing the camera.

It was the first photograph I had ever taken in my life.

Years later, when our family moved, that photograph was lost.

But the moment of standing there has never entirely disappeared.

By the time I entered Grade Two, our teacher changed.

Mr. Xincheng Cheng came from Guangxi, a place that, to me, was distant and almost unimaginable. At home, most of us spoke Taiwanese or Hakka, and we had only just begun learning Mandarin in school. Mr. Cheng spoke Mandarin with a different accent—one that sounded unfamiliar to us, though we could still understand him. He taught as other teachers did, yet there was something in his voice that made him seem slightly apart, as if he had come from a place not only far away, but somehow beyond our small world.

Life in the classroom continued in its usual rhythm. We studied Mandarin, mathematics, and a subject called Common Sense, which included both nature and society. But something in me had begun to change.

I found that I liked certain things more than others. I enjoyed singing. I enjoyed drawing. Even when these were not required, I practiced them quietly, as if they belonged to me in a different way.

Outside the classroom, we played freely. The school had no fence, and the fields beyond were open to us. We ran, chased one another, and imagined battles, calling out who had been “killed,” only to begin again moments later.

The world seemed wide then, even within the small space of the school.

One day, Mr. Cheng asked if anyone had a puppy that could be given to him. A few days later, Jinbao brought a small dog to school.

For a time, nothing seemed unusual.

Then, months later, some classmates found what they believed to be the remains of a dog in a nearby field. There were whispers, guesses, and rumors. Some said it was the same dog. Some said our teacher had eaten it.

At that age, we did not know what to believe. The story passed quietly from one to another, changing slightly each time. For a while, we avoided that part of the field.

Looking back now, I think it was not the truth of the story that mattered, but the feeling it left behind—a sense that the world was larger, and not always easy to understand.

Amid all this learning, there was also a quieter awareness—one that came without words.

In my class, there was a girl named Yuqin Wu.

Her father owned a Chinese medicine shop. She dressed neatly, often in a blouse and skirt, and carried herself with a quiet confidence. When I glanced at her, I felt something I could not explain.

It was not friendship, and not something I could name.

I only knew that she seemed different—something I could feel, but not yet speak.

Then, when we moved on to Grade Three, she was no longer there. I was told that she had transferred to another school in Puli.

She did not return.

Many years later, she came to visit my home with some former classmates. By then, she had grown into a woman, and her name had changed to something I could no longer remember clearly. Yet in my mind, I still preferred the name I had first known.

Some things change. Some things remain.

The sounds of bo, po, mo, fo had long since become part of my speech.

The photograph had been lost.

The stories about teachers had faded into uncertainty.

But certain impressions remained—clear, quiet, and unchanging.

Even now, when I think back to those early school days, I sometimes feel that I am still sitting in that classroom, listening carefully, learning how to speak—not only with my voice, but slowly, without knowing it, learning how to understand the world around me.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  前一篇 (Previous Story)：Small Hands     (2026)

2)  下一篇 (Next Story)： The Master of Many Ways     (2026)

3)  Puppy Love     (2010; originally, 2003)

4)  Notes on Peace: From Lantern to Creek     (2025)

5)  (中譯版) 人本自然～Chatting during Lunch!     (2024)

Small Hands

#2026-0401

Small Hands

A story from Dreamlike Reality

In my memory, the mornings of that time were always quiet.

Before the sun had fully risen above the hills, my parents would already be preparing to leave. My father moved with few words, gathering his tools; my mother checked things one more time—water, fire, the small things that kept a home alive. Beyond the door, the mountain paths waited, and the rice paddies lay somewhere farther down, hidden in the pale mist.

Inside the house, three children remained.

I was five years old. My two younger sisters were three and one. At that age, I did not think of it as responsibility. It was simply the way things were. When the door closed behind our parents, the house became very still, as if it, too, were listening.

Our home was not a single solid structure, but a few simple spaces arranged around a small courtyard. On the northern side stood the living room and a bedroom; along the eastern side were the kitchen and another bedroom. On the western side stood a simple toilet beside the pig pen, where we kept a few pigs that ate leftovers and chopped sweet potato leaves. The southern side was bordered by a hedge, planted to keep people from falling down the steep slope beyond. Some parts of the hedge were broken, and through those gaps the ground dropped sharply down the mountainside.

It was a modest place, built of bamboo, clay, and a few wooden posts, with a roof of dried straw. At the time, it was simply our home.

The youngest lay on the big bed in the bedroom. It was a wide wooden bed, built close to three walls, leaving only the front side open. To me, it felt like a small world of its own—safe on three sides, but uncertain on the fourth. I could not carry my baby sister for long; my arms were too weak. So I stayed near the edge of the bed, watching her carefully as she rolled, crawled, or waved her small hands in the air.

Sometimes she laughed at nothing I could see. Sometimes she made soft sounds, as if speaking to someone invisible. I did not understand her language, but I understood my task. If she came too close to the edge, I would gently push her back, or call her name, or simply stand there, alert and still.

Time in those mornings did not move quickly. It stretched, like a long breath that was never quite released.

Before leaving, my mother would give me a soft rice cake. It was made of rice powder and sugar, slightly sticky, and warm in my hand. She would say, “Feed your little sister later—around ten o’clock.” She had already divided the pieces for the three of us.

I always nodded. I believed I understood time.

The hours passed quietly. My elder sister played by herself, sometimes humming, sometimes talking to things only she could see. I stayed near the bed, guarding the smallest one. From time to time, I would look at the rice cake and wonder if it was time yet. The sunlight slowly shifted across the floor, but I had no clock to guide me—only a feeling that grew stronger as the morning went on.

When I finally decided it was time, I took a small piece and fed it to my baby sister. She accepted it, slowly and seriously, as if she knew it mattered. I watched her chew, feeling a quiet satisfaction that I had done something important.

In the evening, when my mother returned, she would ask, “Did you feed her?”

“Yes,” I always answered, without hesitation.

She would smile and say, “You are a good boy.”

That smile stayed with me longer than the taste of the rice cake.

When we grew a little older, the courtyard became our world. It was open, edged by the hedge on the southern side, and beyond it the slope fell away sharply. At the time, we did not think of danger in clear terms. We only knew the joy of movement.

Our father made a wooden board car for us. It had four wooden wheels and a flat board on top. One of us could sit, while another pushed from behind. We took turns, laughing as the car rolled forward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes with a sudden jerk.

One day, my youngest sister insisted on pushing the car by herself. There was no one sitting on it, but she pushed with all her strength, as if carrying an invisible passenger. She did not yet know how to guide it, how to turn left or right.

I remember watching her, perhaps a few steps away. The car moved faster than she expected. Then, before any of us could react, it went straight toward one of the broken gaps in the hedge.

There was a brief moment—so brief that it almost did not exist—when everything seemed to pause.

Then both she and the car disappeared over the edge.

We ran to the slope, our hearts beating wildly. Below, she was already trying to climb up, crying loudly. There was blood on her forehead, bright and shocking against her small face.

I do not remember whether we cried. I only remember the fear—sharp, unfamiliar, and deep.

After that day, we were more careful. Not because someone told us to be, but because something inside us had changed.

There were other moments that seemed to belong to a different kind of memory.

Once, when my parents were away, I tried to cook rice as my mother did. I had watched her often enough to believe I understood. I placed the pot on the clay stove, arranged the firewood, and waited as the flames grew stronger. The heat rose quickly, and the water began to boil. For a moment, I felt proud, almost like an adult.

Only later did I learn how worried my mother had been. The house could easily have caught fire. At the time, I did not think of such things. I only knew that I had tried.

And sometimes, along the path that led toward our home, a figure would appear.

We called her A-Moi-Jia—a Hakka way of saying “Sister A-Moi,” the name our parents used, and so did we.

She walked slowly, her clothes worn, one hand covering one eye. Whenever we saw her approaching, we would feel a sudden uneasiness. We hid behind the living room walls, or behind the bamboo rice storage, peering through small gaps to see how close she had come.

Curiosity always brought us back to look again.

One time, as I stepped quietly from behind the rice storage, trying to see through the cracks in the wall, I almost ran into her. She had already entered the house and was moving toward the bedroom.

I cried out in fear.

At the same moment, she seemed just as startled. She turned quickly and stepped back out of the living room, disappearing as suddenly as she had come.

For a while, none of us moved.

That moment stayed with me—not only the fear, but the strange closeness, as if two worlds had briefly touched and then pulled apart.

Now, many years later, when my own vision sometimes doubles and blurs, I think I understand her a little better. Perhaps she covered one eye to see more clearly. But at that time, she remained a quiet, uncertain presence at the edge of our small world.

When I look back on those days, I do not see them as difficult. We were too young to measure life in that way. What I remember instead is a kind of stillness—a space in which small hands learned, without knowing it, how to care, how to watch, how to act.

I could not hold my baby sister for long. My arms were too weak.

And yet, each morning, I stood at the edge of that bed, keeping her from falling.

Even now, I sometimes feel that those mornings have never entirely left me.

= = =

相關文章 (See also)：

1)  下一篇 (Next Story)： First Sounds     (2026)
2)  標題太長（五絕）     (2019)

3)  Echoes in the Courtyard     (2026)

4)  First Part of My Family Tale     (2010; originally, 2001)

5)  The 92 Coffee     (2020)

Toward the Horizon

#2026-0317

At a busy train station, a grandfather and his grandson begin a journey together. One carries memories of the past, while the other looks ahead to the open horizon.

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

Years pass, people change, and paths diverge. But sometimes a memory travels across time and reminds us how closely our lives were once connected.

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

A faded photograph captures a moment that time can never repeat. Yet when someone pauses to look closely, the past seems to breathe again.

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)