Faded Echoes of Eternity

山中岁月长，心有千秋雪。
In the mountains, the years stretch long, a heart buried under eternal snow.

Yuehan’s first sensation was cold. An all-encompassing chill that gnawed at his tiny, fragile form, like the bite of a northern wind that knew no mercy. He trembled, a delicate being thrust into the harshness of a bitter winter night. He could feel the chill seep into his bones, though he did not yet understand what bones were. His world was a haze, a realm of sensations he had never before experienced. There was the stinging air on his skin, the strange wetness on his face, and a piercing sound that tore through the quiet—a sound he would later come to know as his own first cry.

He had been many things before this moment—a leaf trembling in the spring breeze, a stone cradled by a mountain stream, a plum blossom that unfurled for only a few short days before falling to the earth. But to be human, to be so small and soft and filled with breath, this was a mystery. The world around him was vast, frightening, and filled with incomprehensible noises.

He was swaddled tightly, pulled from one cold place into another that was warmer, but somehow harsher still. A voice, soft but heavy with exhaustion, murmured above him. The sound was like the rustling of leaves, familiar yet foreign. His newborn eyes, still clouded, could not discern her face, but he felt her warmth. A name floated through the fog of his thoughts—mother. The essence of comfort, of softness and safety.

But the warmth was soon overshadowed by another presence. A voice, rough like the grinding of stones, filled with a bitterness that pierced deeper than the winter wind.

“Another mouth to feed, Xian,” the man’s voice grumbled, each word a jagged stone cast into the cold air. “As if the heavens have not cursed us enough. Another child, and no rice left in the jar.”

The woman, Xian, held the baby closer to her chest, as though shielding him from the words that could wound just as deeply as the cold. “Husband, he is but a newborn, our own flesh and blood. Do not speak so harshly on his first breath into this world.” Her voice was soft, yet there was a trembling strength in it, like the last leaf clinging to a barren branch.

Yuehan could sense their voices like vibrations, resonating with emotions he did not yet understand. What was this tension that seemed to hang in the air like a storm about to break? There was warmth in the woman’s touch, but it was strained, as if her heart were wrapped in the same chill that surrounded them.

The man’s breath was a harsh sigh, filling the small, dimly lit room with the scent of smoke and despair. “Xian, we barely survive with the two we have. Now, there will be three... and me with no work in these harsh months.”

For a moment, silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Yuehan felt a wetness upon his cheek, but it was not his own tears. It was hers, his mother’s, falling silently as she cradled him. He could not yet grasp the concept of sorrow, but he sensed a great weight in her—a burden that pressed down on her thin shoulders and creased her brow.

Suddenly, he was overcome with another new sensation: hunger. A pang deep within him, a need so primal it drowned out all other thoughts. He squirmed, his tiny fists clenching and unclenching. Instinctively, he sought the warmth of his mother’s breast, driven by a force he could neither name nor understand.

Xian, seeing his struggle, shifted him to her breast. “Shh, little one. Take what little I have to give.” Her voice broke, and Yuehan felt a wave of relief as warmth and life flowed into him. The taste was strange, but it soothed the ache within, easing him into a sense of security.

The father, Qiu Wei, looked away, his jaw clenched as if fighting a battle within himself. He was a man worn thin by years of hardship, the lines on his face like deep ravines carved by years of drought. His hands, rough and calloused, twitched at his sides as if they wanted to reach out, to touch the child, but were held back by the chains of bitterness and despair.

“There’s no use in cursing the heavens,” Xian said softly, her eyes never leaving the baby in her arms. “He is here now, and we will make do, as we always have.”

Qiu Wei laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of joy. “Faith does not fill empty bellies, woman. It is only the cruel jest of the gods that they gave us this child to torment us further.”

Yuehan, oblivious to the words exchanged above him, drifted between moments of wakefulness and darkness. Yet, within his tiny heart, a seed of understanding began to take root. He did not know what the words meant, but he could feel their weight, their sharp edges cutting into the fragile fabric of his new existence.

He would come to learn, in time, that being human was to be burdened by such things. Hunger and warmth, love and pain, hope and despair—these were the threads that wove the tapestry of human life. But for now, he was merely a soul awakening, stepping into a world that was both wondrous and cruel, where the joy of existence was tempered by the bite of winter’s breath.

As the night deepened, Xian whispered softly to her child, a lullaby that was more for her own comfort than his. “Rest now, little one, for the days ahead will be long.”

And outside, the wind howled like a hungry beast, rattling the flimsy walls of their small home. In the midst of it all, Yuehan slept, unaware of the storm both within and beyond.

山中岁月长，心有千秋雪。
In the mountains, the years stretch long, a heart buried under eternal snow.

Yuehan’s heart, though newly human, was like a petal lost in the snow—fragile, resilient, and already marked by the cold touch of fate.