The summer heat clung to the walls of the lecture hall, its oppressive weight softened only by the faint breeze filtering through an open window. A portrait of Chairman Mao hung above the chalkboard, its silent gaze a reminder of the boundaries no one dared cross. Rows of students sat upright, notebooks open, pencils poised, eyes fixed on the man at the podium.
Li Chengxian, now in his early twenties, stood before them. His figure was lean but composed, his glasses balanced carefully on the bridge of his nose. He wore the standard grey Mao suit like everyone else, but something about him stood apart—an air of quiet authority that most young professors lacked.
"Today," he began, his voice steady and clear, "we will discuss the fall of the Qing Dynasty."
The air in the room tightened, as though history itself was holding its breath.
"The end of a dynasty is rarely caused by one mistake. It is death by a thousand wounds—some self-inflicted, others delivered by foreign hands. But the real tragedy of the Qing was not its fall—it was the opportunities lost before the end arrived."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.
Chengxian had learned to speak carefully, to measure every word. Under Mao's watchful government, history was not just history—it was a weapon, a lesson, a tool to shape minds. He knew how far he could go and where he must stop.
But every now and then, despite his caution, his lectures carried a faint echo of something else—something personal, something regretful.
Chengxian had been a model student throughout his university years—diligent, sharp, and careful with his words. He rose quickly through the ranks of academia, earning respect from his peers and admiration from his students. But he also kept a distance, an invisible wall that few ever crossed.
In the evenings, after his lectures were finished and the halls had emptied, he would sit alone in his office. Stacks of books towered around him—volumes on Qing politics, biographies of emperors, and endless treaties and correspondences from the twilight years of the dynasty.
"If I had been braver… smarter… could I have changed it? Could I have saved us from falling apart?"
But history was a graveyard of 'what ifs', and the answers he sought were buried too deep for him to uncover.
One spring evening, as the cherry blossoms began to bloom in scattered clusters across campus, Chengxian walked along a narrow path leading back to his office. His mind was lost in thought when a familiar voice called out to him.
"Professor Li! Always walking around like an old man lost in his books."
He turned sharply, blinking as though waking from a dream.
It was Zhang Yue.
She stood beneath a lantern, her hair neatly braided over her shoulder, wearing a simple cotton dress. Time had softened her face, but her eyes—sharp, curious, and unyielding—remained unchanged.
"Yue…" Chengxian's voice wavered for a moment before steadying. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to visit an old friend. Isn't that allowed?" she said, smirking. "Besides, I'm not that old. You, on the other hand, look like you've aged ten years since we last met."
They walked together along the narrow path, the lantern light flickering between them.
Zhang Yue had become a nurse, working long hours in one of Beijing's overcrowded hospitals. Her life was filled with stories of illness, recovery, and loss—stories she rarely shared but carried with her in her tired eyes.
"Chengxian," she said softly as they sat on a bench overlooking the small campus pond. "You're still carrying it, aren't you? That weight you never talk about."
He didn't respond immediately. His hands rested on his knees, his gaze fixed on the water's rippling surface.
"Do you ever feel like… you've lived another life, Yue?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
She turned to him, her brows furrowing. "Another life?"
"Like you've made mistakes before. Huge mistakes. And now, you've been given another chance, but you don't know how to fix anything. You're just… stuck, watching the same story play out again and again."
Yue stared at him for a long moment before speaking.
"Chengxian, whatever happened to you—whether in this life or another—you can't keep carrying it alone."
He smiled faintly. "Some burdens can't be shared, Yue."
Over the following years, Zhang Yue became one of the few constants in Chengxian's life. They would meet occasionally—on weekends at a quiet tea shop, or during her rare evenings off. Their conversations ranged from lighthearted banter to serious reflections on life, the past, and the future.
She would tell him stories about her patients—small victories, heartbreaking losses. He would listen carefully, sometimes offering advice, sometimes just staying silent.
One evening, as they sat across from each other in the dim light of a teahouse, Yue reached across the table and took his hand.
"Chengxian," she said softly, her voice steady, "you can't keep living in the past."
He looked at her, his eyes shadowed by years of regret and unanswered questions.
"I know," he said. "But some part of me feels… tethered to it. Like I still have something left to do."
Yue squeezed his hand once before letting go. They sat in silence for a while after that, the faint scent of jasmine tea hanging in the air between them.
They never spoke of love, nor did they need to. Their connection was something else—something deeper, built from shared silences and unspoken understandings.
Time moved on, as it always does. Chengxian grew older, his hair turning grey, his steps slower but still deliberate. He became a respected historian—a quiet voice in a field overshadowed by political scrutiny.
Zhang Yue eventually moved to another city, her work taking her where she was most needed. Their meetings became less frequent, then letters replaced visits, and then… silence.
But Chengxian kept her photograph in his desk drawer, alongside faded images of his parents.
In 2026, at the age of seventy-five, Li Chengxian passed away quietly in his small apartment.
His desk was cluttered with papers, unfinished manuscripts, and history books with dog-eared pages. A faint beam of moonlight illuminated a final manuscript, titled:
"A Reflection on the Qing Dynasty: What Could Have Been."
A small envelope lay next to it. Inside was a letter—unfinished, addressed to Zhang Yue.
"Yue, I think I finally understand now. I hope… in the next life, if there is one, I'll be brave enough to do what I couldn't before."
The ink had smudged in places, as if he had hesitated before writing each word.
The city carried on outside his window. The people below walked hurriedly under neon signs, bicycles rattling over cobblestones, conversations rising and falling like distant waves.
But in that small apartment, surrounded by books and scattered pages, Li Chengxian's story came to an end.
The ticking clock on his desk continued for a few moments more before the hands froze at midnight.