Since then, the boy and the girl became good friends. They spent their days together: strolling along the
Great Wall, admiring the beauty of the sunset and making music from their souls. Sometimes, they would spend
the whole day enjoying the magnificent melodies they made.
“
The tune is beautiful, isn’t it?” sighed the girl. “Yes,” replied the boy, “beautiful.”
But he wasn’t talking about the tune.
“
I wonder where the melody goes to,” the girl turned to the boy, with a gentle smile hanging on her face.
“
They will be carried by the breeze and stay in our hearts,” the boy looked up in the blue sky and smiled,
“
music could deliver our feelings.”
“
So, after all that,” I commented. “She still didn’t know how you felt about her?”
“
I supposed not,” the old man replied. “We were both young by then and we were just… good friends.”
“
So that was it? You let her go?” I asked with uttered bewilderment.
“
Of course not, my boy,” the old man denied, “Yet, fate is something you can’t control.” The old man then
grabbed the flute tightly in his hand and continued with his story.
“
I’m leaving this country,” she told him. “My family is sending me to Vienna to take singing courses.”
There was a long silence. They didn’t say anything. Nothing was needed to be said. Then, he broke the silence,
replying, “We could still keep in touch.”
Both of them knew that they were not able to contact each other as the technology at that time was surely
not able to allow them to do so across the seas.
“
We can remember each other,” he explained. “Play the tune when we think of each other. The breeze will
help us to deliver our feelings, remember?” The girl nodded. They then watched the sunset for the very last time,
a sunset that was the most sentimentally glamorous.
“
Wouldn’t you think it is a pity not able to let the girl know how you felt?” I asked, and instantly
regretted.
“
My boy, you have a lot to learn.” The old man said. “Have you heard of the story of Meng Jiangnu? A
lot of love stories happened around the Great Wall. All ended tragically. Yet, that’s the beauty of it.”
The old man stopped telling his story. He lifted up his flute, and continued playing the heartbreaking,
touching and tender tune. It was the best to let him be, and stayed with his memories. He should be left in his
own world, where better not be disturbed. I bid him farewell, and turned away, praying that the breeze would
bring the tune to its destination.
* * *