When I was little, we used to catch a bus from Shanghai South Station to Ningbo. The bumpy ride lasted three hours, and I would go in and out of dizziness. The bus always made one rest stop, since there was no toilet on board. My grandparents lived in Ningbo, not far from Shanghai, so we visited them often. By the time I was in middle school, we could take the high-speed train to Ningbo in less than two hours, with a dozen toilets available.
I took one of those long high-speed trains to Ningbo with my parents for the first time when I was fifteen. My grandmother passed away that summer, and my parents brought me to Ningbo for the funeral.
When We saw Grandpa at his house, he did not appear deeply grief-stricken. He just stared hard at the floor. My aunt had already opened the door for us, but Grandpa hadn’t noticed yet. Only when Mom called him did he snap out of it, managing a not-even-a-smile smile and inviting us inside. The table was filled with steaming dishes, and my aunt urged Grandpa and the rest of us to eat. He sat alone in a corner, head lowered, drinking in silence.
After dinner, Grandpa and my aunt insisted on walking us to the hotel. It wasn’t far—straight down the road and a right turn, about ten minutes away. The weather was clear, but because it was summer, the air pressure was very low. It felt stiflingly hot. By the time we reached the end of the road, the sky was almost fully dark, leaving only a faint orange glow in the distance. We approached an intersection that led to a bustling area. The lights of Yin Tai City Mall replaced the dimness behind us. The street suddenly opened up wide, giving me the strange impression of stepping onto a starry avenue. Under the streetlights, I could just make out the outline of Grandpa’s still-straight back. There was a slight bulge to his arm muscles, more than you would expect for someone his age.
“Hey, hurry up!” Grandpa called from ahead.
I blinked my eyes open from my daze, not knowing exactly when I had returned to the train. After we held Grandma’s funeral and laid her to rest, I left China to study abroad. I came back in the spring of 2023. I rushed to Ningbo overnight. Stepping off the high-speed train, I saw my aunt waiting at the station exit. I was already half a head taller than her now. She warmly hugged me, insisted on taking my luggage, and led me to her car.
The last time we arrived at Ningbo Railway Station, my parents and I had taken a taxi. Two years flashed by, and my aunt had earned her driver’s license and bought a new car. On the way, she told me about Ningbo’s changes in the past couple of years: the old house in Jiangshan that was torn down would soon have new housing built on it; the economy was improving; my cousin would take her college entrance exams next year… I gazed out the window, noticing overpasses that didn’t exist in my childhood and how tall buildings now blocked out the blue sky.
Carrying my luggage into the house, my aunt called out to Grandpa, “Wangzai’s back!”
Grandpa, supporting his waist, carefully emerged from the bedroom. His aged face didn’t look much different from two years before, except for a few fine wrinkles hidden from my near-sighted eyes. His hair had thinned and turned white, and he could no longer straighten his back. I gently asked about his health, but he waved it off, saying all was well. My cousin was in her busiest study period, still at after-school tutoring. When she returned, we all went out for dinner.
Living abroad for so long has made me walk very fast. Bathed in the yellow-orange sunset after a rain, I walked by myself ahead of everyone. My aunt hurried over, patted me lightly on the shoulder, and quietly said, “Wangzai, slow down a bit. Wait for Grandpa.”
I snapped out of my trance and gave a quick nod. When I turned around to look at Grandpa, the setting sun stretched his figure, casting a short, swollen shadow. Mine fell in a long, solid black shape. His, however, was grayish and somewhat transparent, like a faint candle flame flickering on a white wall in the dark. Time had built up my strength and made me bigger and taller, but Grandpa’s back was hunched day by day, his muscles shrinking, and his body became smaller. I stopped without thinking, waiting for him to catch up. When I saw the same old smile on his face, a flood of guilt rushed through me, and tears welled in my eyes.
After strolling around Yin Tai City Mall for a bit, we went into a barbecue restaurant. While ordering, we asked Grandpa if he would like some wine. He shook his head and smiled, saying no. During the meal, my aunt and cousin asked about my life abroad. I said it was pretty good, though the cafeteria food wasn’t very tasty. As I spoke, Grandpa, seated diagonally from me, suddenly placed two pieces of meat in my bowl. I quickly thanked him. His own bowl was empty.
Early the next morning, I headed back to Shanghai to have my wisdom teeth removed. My aunt and Grandpa accompanied me to the train station. Grandpa insisted on walking me to the train, but he didn’t have a ticket, so he could only stand at the ticket-check point, watching me leave.
I put my bag through the security scanner and glanced back at Grandpa. He was still standing there. At that moment, I seemed to see him chatting with my mother, his rough hand brushing over me when I was a baby.
After I passed through the gate, I turned to look again. He was still there—carrying a steaming bowl of soup out of the kitchen.
I picked up my bag and turned once more. He was still there, smiling at me
