What Should I Do If I Time-Traveled Forty Years Later and My Lover Has Become an Old Man? - MLFYL: 32

“Is the teacher really sick? Do you need a hand?”

Yu Yao shot back a response, her fingers flying across the terminal, “Nah, he’s just running a fever and catching some sleep. I’ve got this covered. Actually, I was wondering if you knew who was taking care of him when he was in the hospital for a bit last year?”

The response was radio silence for a solid ten minutes, her eyes fixed on Jiang Zhonglin’s peaceful face as the minutes ticked by. Finally, a new message popped up.

The other person filled her in, “Guo Tong and I were in a different city, pretty far from the teacher, and we were slammed with work at the time. We only managed to visit him once while he was in the hospital. When we did, some junior I didn’t know was taking care of him. He was still a student at the Hainan University last year, so he should be graduating this year. Unfortunately, I didn’t have his contact info. After asking around, it seemed like this junior only helped out for a few days, and other students in the area took turns pitching in to care for him.”

She exchanged a few more messages with Luo Rong, but the conversation didn’t yield anything useful, so she wrapped it up.

As she sat beside the bed, watching Jiang Zhonglin sleep, a random comment he’d made in passing suddenly popped into her head. He’d mentioned being sick the previous year, and then quitting his job.

Yu Yao’s curiosity was piqued—what had he been sick with, and what had gone down?

As she dug deeper, querying a handful of students from Jiang Zhonglin’s group, they all seemed just as perplexed as Luo Rong, their expressions a mask of uncertainty. Even when she managed to track down a student who had spent a couple of days caring for Jiang Zhonglin, the response was eerily similar—they claimed they were only temporarily enlisted by a senior to lend a hand, and their duties were limited to buying a few meals for him, with no further involvement or insight into the nature of his illness.

A flicker of suspicion danced in Yu Yao’s mind, wondering if Jiang Zhonglin had perhaps pre-emptively sworn these students to secrecy, but as she pondered this, it seemed an unnecessary precaution—what could possibly be worth hiding in a situation like this?

Initially, her inquiry had been driven by mere curiosity, but the frustrating lack of answers had ignited a spark of concern within her. Her fingers drummed against her chin as her thoughts spiralled, hypothesizing that if Jiang Zhonglin’s condition was indeed severe, there might be a diagnosis or medical records lurking at home, perhaps accompanied by relevant examination forms.

As these thoughts swirled, she found herself increasingly restless, her gaze drifting towards Jiang Zhonglin, who slumbered peacefully, oblivious to her growing unease.

With a quiet resolve, she rose from her seat and slipped into the adjacent study, her intuition guiding her towards the heart of the mystery. If Jiang Zhonglin had indeed stored any sensitive information, it would likely be here, hidden among the dusty tomes and forgotten manuscripts.

Her eyes scanned the room, bypassing the open bookcase as her attention settled on the closed cabinets and drawers, a testament to Jiang Zhonglin’s reputation as a man who wore his heart on his sleeve—a ‘gentleman is open and aboveboard’.

The cabinets, predictably, were unlocked, and with a gentle tug, Yu Yao swung them open, revealing a treasure trove of old books, yellowed reports, and mysterious manuscripts that meant little to her, alongside an assortment of souvenirs and mementos, each one whispering secrets of a life she was only just beginning to unravel.

As she rummaged through the old items, her initial intention of uncovering some imaginary diagnosis was quickly overshadowed by her fascination with the antiquated treasures that lay before her.

Her gaze landed on a mysterious box tucked away at the bottom of a cabinet, and upon opening it, she discovered a small box of strawberries that had long since lost their vibrant hue. Curiosity got the better of her, and she plucked one out, only to find it had hardened with time.

The discovery suddenly jogged her memory, and she recalled the time Jiang Zhonglin had shared a humorous anecdote about Guo Tong playing a prank on him by sending a box of clay strawberries during his student days.

It seemed he still held onto that quirky memento.

Yu Yao’s fingers danced across the pages of an old photo album, a relic from a bygone era.

In this digital age, where terminals boasted vast storage capacities and electronic photos had become the norm, she was surprised to find that Jiang Zhonglin still clung to this tangible collection of memories. As she delved into the album, she was met with a sea of unfamiliar faces, all of whom were once students of Jiang Zhonglin. The faded captions, “Group Photo of Teachers and Students of a Certain Session,” served as a poignant reminder of the countless lives he had touched.

Amidst the array of individual photos, Jiang Zhonglin’s own presence was conspicuous by its rarity, leaving her to wonder about the stories behind each captured moment. The diverse backdrops and varying school settings only added to the intrigue, hinting at a career that had spanned multiple institutions.

With each turn of the page, Yu Yao found herself drawn to the faces of the students, their smiles frozen in time, exuding a faint whisper of the past. The scenery surrounding them, the school buildings, and the backdrop of their lives were all slowly evolving, a testament to the passage of time. And yet, it was Jiang Zhonglin’s presence in these photos that truly captivated her—the way he had aged, almost imperceptibly, as the years went by, his temples gradually graying, a subtle reminder of the relentless march of time.

It was as if the weight of his years had accelerated, leaving her to ponder the mysteries that lay behind the gentle wisps of gray that now framed his face.

As she slid the photo album back into its place, her gaze fell upon a plethora of certificates of honor, each one telling a story of Jiang Zhonglin’s accomplishments. There was the certificate of merit that hailed him as an outstanding teacher, awards from literary competitions that showcased his writing prowess, and even a pennant, carefully rolled up and tied with a silk ribbon, that spoke of his triumphs in school magic competitions.

These tangible tokens represented the passage of time in Jiang Zhonglin’s life, a testament to the memories and experiences he had accumulated over the years, like pebbles collected from the river of life.

After scouring the cabinets, Yu Yao finally made her way to the desk that Jiang Zhonglin often occupied, a worn, old piece of furniture with scratches etched into its surface and a small, blackened patch that looked like it had been singed by fire. A sheet of glass covered the top, with a few yellowed newspapers tucked underneath.

She had never really noticed them before, but as she glanced at the content, she realized it was all about mundane current events from the time, nothing that really caught her attention or resonated with her own knowledge.

But then, as if fate had intervened, her eyes landed on a small, unassuming notice in the corner of the newspaper—a missing person announcement that made her heart skip a beat. The newspaper itself was a relic from years past, and the desk, too, had borne witness to the passage of time.

Yu Yao settled into the chair, her curiosity getting the better of her, and pulled open the drawer beneath the desk. Inside, she found a treasure trove of writing tools: white paper, notebooks, and old fountain pens that Jiang Zhonglin had apparently been unable to part with, even after they had broken from years of use. The rest of the drawer was filled with contact books, telephone books, and address books, which she flipped through with a mixture of curiosity and nonchalance before putting them back in their place.

As she finally spotted the small cabinet tucked away under the right side of the desk, her curiosity was piqued. She gave it a casual tug, but to her surprise, it refused to budge.

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks—it was locked. What could Teacher Jiang be hiding that was so important it needed to be locked away? The old-fashioned lock that came with the desk was child’s play, though—all it took was a bit of pressure on the reed to spring it open.

She had a history with this kind of lock, having spent her high school days sneaking into the teacher’s office to catch a glimpse of the test papers.

Her interest was now fixated on the lone locked cabinet, and it didn’t take her long to coax it open.

Inside, she found a stash of black leather notebooks and mysterious packages wrapped in red oil paper bags. The first thing she reached for was the red oil paper bag, and as she opened it, her eyes widened in astonishment.

Nestled inside the bag was an old mobile phone with a dark blue case—a phone that looked eerily familiar. It was hers, the same one she had forgotten at home when she went out to buy groceries. The phone was dead, its surface gray and worn, but the case was a dead giveaway. If it weren’t for that distinctive case, she might not have recognized it.

Alongside the phone were her ID card, her marriage certificate to Jiang Zhonglin, and a love letter penned by Jiang Zhonglin himself. What struck her as unusual was that this love letter wasn’t written during their courtship, but after they were already married.

It was more of an explanatory letter, really, one that Jiang Zhonglin had written after they’d had a fight, and Yu Yao had given him the cold shoulder for a day.

She remembered coming home from work that evening, slipping off her shoes, and finding the letter waiting for her, placed neatly on her slippers.

“As I sit here, pouring my heart out, I’m left with a singular longing—to grow old with you, and only you. I make a vow to myself, and to you, that my affection will forever be reserved for you alone. I know, I know, a lifetime is a daunting stretch, and you might not buy into my eternal devotion, but I’m at a loss for words to convince you otherwise.”

This letter, a heartfelt plea, was a desperate attempt to reassure, to calm the tempests that had been brewing.

It all started when Yu Yao witnessed a young girl confess her undying love to Jiang Zhonglin. Though he didn’t encourage her, didn’t even flinch, he politely rebuffed her advances, extricating himself from her grasp.

Yet, Yu Yao found herself seething, irrational anger coursing through her veins. Perhaps it was the girl’s youth, her beauty, or the unbridled passion that radiated from her very being. The way she gazed at Jiang Zhonglin, with a fervor that rivaled his own, was almost too much to bear. They stood together, under the tree’s boughs, a picture of perfect harmony, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy.

Yu Yao was forced to confront the ugly truth—she’s jealous, and not just a little. She’s ashamed of the way she had been acting, of the tantrum she had been throwing, all because of the gnawing sense of insecurity. She had been giving Jiang Zhonglin the cold shoulder, and it’s clear that it unsettled him.

Hence, this letter, a solemn promise, a reaffirmation of his feelings, a guarantee that his love for her will endure, unwavering, until the end of time.

As she read these words, she was touched, deeply, but a part of her remains skeptical. Can love truly be this enduring, this unchanging? Or is it just a fleeting high, a dopamine rush that will eventually wear off? The statistics aren’t exactly on their side—the seven-year itch is a phenomenon for a reason, after all.

Can Jiang Zhonglin, this young man, so full of passion and fire, really sustain this level of devotion until they’re old and grey? It’s a tall order, one that she’s not sure she believes in, no matter how much she wants to.

As Yu Yao clutched the letter, a nagging thought crept into her mind—perhaps in a few years, she and this man would succumb to the same monotony she’d witnessed in other couples, their passion and love dwindling, leaving only a trail of mundane arguments and petty annoyances in its wake.

Isn’t it true that every person who’s ever been in love has, at some point, harbored this same pessimistic thought, wondering if their relationship will eventually wither away?

It wasn’t until now, after all these years, that she found herself reunited with this letter, poring over its words once more, savoring each sentence.

The man who penned this letter had indeed followed through on his promises, devoting himself to her and her alone, for a lifetime. And yet, the journey to get there was a bittersweet one, a testament to the fact that some loves can endure, even if the path to proving it is a long and arduous one.

As Yu Yao’s emotions began to settle, she rummaged through the pile and pulled out two tickets that had been tucked away at the bottom—online reservations for an exhibition at the Palace Museum. Jiang Zhonglin had been eager to attend, and they’d planned to visit together on July twenty. Although their wedding anniversary fell on the fifteenth, his schedule was packed that day, so they’d decided to celebrate on the twentieth instead.

In the end, they never made it to the exhibition, and the two tickets remained, a poignant reminder of what could have been.

With a sense of resignation, she closed her eyes, carefully gathered everything, and put it back in its place.

Her gaze then fell upon the stack of black leather notebooks, and she picked up the one on top, which appeared to be the most recent. As she opened it, she discovered it was a notebook filled with random notes and reminders, a jumbled collection of thoughts and memories.

Jiang Zhonglin had a thing for carrying around a small notebook, jotting down daily musings and sparks of inspiration that struck him. As Yu Yao flipped through its pages, she noticed it was still a work in progress, with entries dating back just a few months.

Her lip curled under her teeth as she turned to the most recent entry, penned not long after her return. A single paragraph stared back at her, its words dripping with a mix of nostalgia and melancholy.

The scribbled lines read: “She’s really back, unchanged, yet frozen in my memory—but seeing her again fills me with this overwhelming sadness. All I’ve ever given her are the blind passions of my youth and the frailties of my old age. My love, my everything—and yet, I’ve only been able to offer her the two most unbearable chapters of my life… I”

The handwriting trailed off abruptly at the word “I”, as if the weight of his emotions had become too much to bear, leaving his thoughts dangling in the silence.