The ending of the story is set, but the way of narration can be chosen.

The Unintentional "Farewell" Person

The most contact I had with an uncle was during a summer when he was repairing our house; he had just turned fifty, working under the scorching sun with an average temperature exceeding 37 degrees, wearing a sun hat, laying one brick at a time.

His clothes, soaked the day before, were hung out to dry overnight and then worn again.

According to him, the house he built for over thirty years would be his last. I felt fortunate and couldn't help but look forward to his future life.

His home was in the county town, where he had chosen a location after taking some detours in his youth, and now its value had multiplied several times. Although it wasn't in a bustling area, it was several levels above ours. The main reason was its proximity to the best high school in the county.

He didn't receive much education, but by that summer, his three daughters had all worked for two years, interned at university, and just received admission letters from prestigious universities. Moreover, during the summer, he mentioned he was preparing to buy a car.

It was supposed to be the beginning of a very happy life after suffering for most of his life.

However, during this year's Spring Festival, when my aunt (his wife) came to celebrate the New Year, when we asked why he didn't come, she smiled and said he had gone to another place; he was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago.

It had only been half a year since he stood alive in front of me.

My contact with my cousin can be roughly divided into three stages.

The first was at his wedding, where he wore a sharp suit and could make everyone laugh while toasting at each table; he was at his best in appearance and demeanor, and the bride was particularly beautiful.

A few years later, at my grandmother's house. By then, I had heard he was suffering from epilepsy, having gone through several major hospitals without any effect, and could only stay at home to recuperate. He looked much duller, with no spirit on his face, and several of his front teeth had been knocked out from falling on the stairs during a seizure.

During one of our conversations, he suddenly had a seizure and fell directly from the stool; although my mother and I reacted quickly, we still watched as his head hit the ground with a "thud." He then rolled his eyes, foamed at the mouth, and his whole body twitched uncontrollably, no matter how much we tried to hold him down. After nearly a minute, the convulsions lessened, and he slowly recovered. When he sat back on the stool, his hands kept fiddling with the zipper of his open jacket...

A few years later, on the fifth day of the New Year, he came to our house to celebrate with his uncle, wearing a cotton jacket with the zipper open, revealing a very old, slightly short sweater. His skin was much darker than before, and there were several scars on his face. When he saw me and the family around, his eyes showed a lot of unease; he sat briefly at home, drank a glass of water, and left without saying a word.

His children were there too, and I asked him where his mother was. He replied that she hadn't been back for a long time, still with a smile.

My second aunt benefited from marrying a capable and hardworking husband; when I was very young, they already had a litter of pigs. Now they only do some small business at home, like selling fruits and making tofu.

Her eldest daughter married into a good family, her second son is in business, and her two younger sons, aged five and six, stay at home with her. The youngest son just brought a girlfriend from another place home last Spring Festival.

I returned from school and heard my mother say she suddenly collapsed and died despite rescue efforts. Just a week before, I had seen her at the market buying things with her grandson, and I had walked up to her for a conversation.

I only provided a brief summary of these three tragic stories; in fact, there are many details that are often hard to know where to start.

They are all representatives of the lowest level of life regarding fate. They shouldn't be, yet they live in a way that they shouldn't.

But in fact, many stories like theirs often happen in rural areas.

Many things come suddenly, and I didn't know that a hurried farewell could actually mean a farewell for a lifetime.

I can't help but sigh:

The alternation of dawn and dusk repeats, and life struggles between day and night. On the road ahead, we all face a question: life may end at any moment, and misfortune may follow. All dreams and expectations, fame and fortune, hardships and failures will disappear at the moment of death. So since we come and go with nothing, what reason do we have not to face life calmly? —2015,02,24 "I Want to Remember These People"

The Dilemma of Being Born in the Countryside

There is no concept of regular health check-ups, no public security, and in case of emergencies, calling 120 may mean that by the time the ambulance arrives, it might already be too late...

This is the rural environment;

But even under such conditions, city people still hold many misconceptions about children from the countryside. For example: faces covered in dirt, tattered clothes, timid, introverted, weak, and reclusive representations.

Birth cannot be chosen; if given a choice, I believe most of them would not wish to grow up in such an environment.

At the age of fifteen or sixteen, or even younger, they have to leave their hometown and start living alone in another place. Jobs are unstable, but they revolve around manual labor, carpentry, hardware, waitstaff, security guards...

Their demands and hopes for society are small; they do not aspire to the so-called decent jobs and high quality of life that city dwellers desire—I don't know if this can be considered a virtue or if it stems from their own humility and compromise.

Their circles are so narrow that whenever they see someone wearing a shirt approaching, they have to show a shy expression.

They may not have many opportunities to experience unforgettable romances, usually relying on introductions from acquaintances, dowries, arranged banquets, moving in together, sleeping together, and then just being together...

After that, they have children; the man works in another place while the woman stays home to take care of the child. Once the child is weaned or can walk on their own, they are handed over to the man's parents. Both parties work in another place, sending part of their monthly salary back to support their parents and raise their children. They only return home for a few days a year, like during the Spring Festival, or take their children to stay with them at their workplace for a while during the summer...

This way of life has been passed down since modern times in rural areas. The best outcome I can see is that the man stays steadily in a factory for ten or twenty years, saving money to send back home, buying good food and clothes for his children, allowing them to have a good reputation at school, and even some getting into prestigious universities. Although they cannot achieve a life of luxury with houses and cars, living a stable life is still more than enough. When they grow old and are laid off by the factory, their social security may have been completed, and they won't burden their children much; their lives will have passed as if completing a task.

However, parents with such diligence and ambition are not in the majority; for most of them, the relationship with their children is more like: by helping them raise their children, they earn their own retirement expenses. If viewed more thoroughly, it resembles a transaction: parents give birth to children, raise them to adulthood in exchange for their own old age; when the children grow up, they do not want to take care of their parents but want their parents to help them free up time to take care of their own children.

Without faith, there is no gratitude.

This applies not only to rural children but also to many young people in society. For them, aging parents.

Somewhat digressing, writing this article cares more about two points: first, most people would rather care about the trivial matters of celebrity gossip than the turbulent inner world of ordinary people around them.

The second point is that Zhang Jiajia once said: we cannot change the ending of the story, but we can change the way it is told. However, what I want to express more here is that although most story endings are beyond our control, it does not prevent us from playing a more positive role in them.