A Young Woman's Heart

The routine Monday morning meeting was uninteresting; everyone was hunched over their desks doing their own thing.

The majority of students take advantage of this time to sleep.

It seems that even at Yukong High School, many students still do their homework very late, resulting in very little sleep...

But this can't be blamed on the school having too much homework; it's just that I was too unfocused and lacked self-discipline.

For people with these kinds of personalities, even if the school doesn't assign homework, they'll probably stay up very late...

Mo Xueyao covered her mouth and yawned widely, then continued to look out the window at the cotton-like rain.

……

Chapter Twenty-Six: Qingming Festival

April 5, 2001, Thursday, Qingming Festival.

The light rain has been almost constant these past few days.

This is especially true during the Qingming Festival.

At this moment, many people want to compose a poem.

However, when she opened her mouth, all she could say was the line that even a child could recite: "It rains cats and dogs during the Qingming Festival."

Hua Yinyin was different; she memorized a poem that few people knew—as it wasn't a poem that required memorization, it was one that very few people in school knew.

Mo Xueyao had only seen it by chance in the Three Hundred Song Poems; she hadn't memorized it, but it sounded familiar when she read it aloud.

"The West Lake is beautiful during the Qingming and Shangsi Festivals, a scene of bustling prosperity... Everyone is vying for attention." She brushed her bangs aside and leaned on Mo Xueyao's shoulder. "Green willows and red wheels carry jeweled carriages... Tourists depart at dusk, amidst the clamor of the drunk and the waking, the road turns and the embankment slopes, and flowers bloom all the way to the city walls."

"You only become serious at times like this..." Mo Xueyao teased, pouting as she looked out the window at the incessant rain.

The glass was covered with a layer of water mist, and there were occasional claps of thunder in the sky, but no real lightning flashed across the sky. It felt like being at a concert only to find that the singer was lip-syncing.

The drizzling rain makes one lose track of time.

It felt like early morning, then like evening, and when passing through the tunnel, it even felt like the dead of night.

The bus was full of students. A few unlucky boys were standing and chatting with Ye Wen, while Gao Yuan was handing out random snacks, looking like a convenience store owner traveling with them.

The only difference is that the snacks he gives out are all free.

This year's second-year high school students are going to the Martyrs' Cemetery located at the southern foot of Yuhuang Mountain.

Every year, Yukong High School organizes its students to sweep the tombs.

In fact, that era of war is not that far removed from the present, but many young people feel as if peace has been here for a long time.

That's the purpose of tomb sweeping.

It's unrealistic to expect students to suddenly realize and be moved by the efforts and sacrifices of their predecessors during tomb sweeping.

The hope is simply to plant a seed in the hearts of students, so that when the opportunity arises, it will take root, sprout, and grow into the deepest sense of belonging to this country.

Just like some articles, it is extremely painful when teachers require us to memorize them, but when we read them again when we grow up, we can understand their true meaning.

Without this prior memorization, one would not think of those articles again and have to read them from the beginning.

A gentle breeze caressed Mo Xueyao's face. Hua Yinyin, who was beside her, recited a poem and then fell silent.

Because the car has already started moving.

She might be okay in a car, but she almost always throws up when she takes a bus.

—As long as the journey is a little longer.

The bus was moving slowly in the rain, but it stopped frequently.

Sometimes it might just be because of a bicycle that rattles everywhere except for its bell.

Such frequent stops and starts make it even easier for people to get carsick.

Hua Yinyin lay on Mo Xueyao's lap, clenching her right teeth, but in order to breathe, she grinned at the left corner of her mouth, making her expression look somewhat 'ferocious'.

Hangzhou is not a city with a long history of war.

Because it didn't participate in many major battles, it was often either in the rear or was occupied incidentally.

Unlike Nanjing, which suffered a bloody massacre; unlike Taiyuan, which witnessed the protracted Hundred Regiments Offensive; unlike Sichuan, where so many people left their hometowns to defend the country, shedding their blood on foreign soil.

However, many heroes have still been born here.

China has never lacked heroes.

In fact, Chinese people are always very strange. They often dislike the country in small matters, but in big matters, they will do anything to protect the integrity of this land.

For many people, their sense of belonging seems to come not only from the country, but also from the land of China where their ancestors lived for generations.

And that shared cultural identity, like the moon and the sky.

Mo Xueyao was not a very sentimental person.

The elementary school also organized tomb-sweeping activities, but she was always the one who would chat and laugh with the people next to her when the national anthem was played.

But as they get older, they find it easier to empathize with others.

Such a light rain is nothing in the face of war.

Perhaps in the bustling streets of Shanghai during that era, there were many aristocratic ladies strolling along the streets, carrying beautiful oil-paper umbrellas and followed by servants.

But on the battlefield, such rain could not stop the war at all.

Everyone will be even more focused, guarding against any possible enemy appearances.

In movies and TV dramas, the final, tragic charge is often depicted either at sunset or in a torrential downpour.

But why can't it be in this continuous drizzle?

The rain, falling like that of a melancholy young girl, is filled with bloodshed and sacrifice.

Soldiers charging up or down the mountain fell like fragile scarecrows amidst a hail of bullets denser than a rainstorm.

The blood, which had been spilled on the soil, was quickly washed away by the drizzle.

Rain mixed with blood flowed down the mountain road.

In the hazy, bluish mist, it was impossible to tell from afar who had occupied the hilltop...

Mo Xueyao couldn't help but indulge in such fantasies, and her heart trembled slightly.

Human imagination is boundless; it extends beyond written descriptions to include vivid, immersive images that conjure up images in our minds.

"Ugh... Little Yaoyao, I feel unwell..."

"Then just lie there and don't move around." She snapped out of her daze and patted Hua Yinyin's forehead. "Who told you to always get carsick? It's been so long, why are you still getting carsick?"

"How should I know... I get carsick on buses..."

"Why don't you get dizzy on the bus?"

"Because...we're usually standing?"

In the distance, one can already see the Jade Emperor Mountain lying horizontally like a giant dragon—this beautiful scenery can probably only be seen from afar, which is why it feels so magnificent.

It is located right between West Lake and the Qiantang River. Even just standing at the foot of the mountain, you can still feel the vastness of the lake and the boundless sky in the distance, which makes you feel magnificent and lofty. It is said that this place was once known as the 'Ancestor of Ten Thousand Mountains'.

Every time Mo Xueyao heard this name, she would wonder where the Himalayas were placed back then...

However, one thing is certain.

That means this is indeed a feng shui treasure land for burial.

It is said that there are cemeteries everywhere on Jade Emperor Mountain.

When the martyrs' graves were being excavated, many coffins were unearthed from the soil.

However, unless one is an emperor or a general, the graves of wealthy merchants must give way to the graves of martyrs.

"Get off the bus! Get off the bus! Everyone get off and line up!" Before Mo Xueyao could even take in the scenery, the bus stopped. Ye Wen stood by the exit door, waving her hands and shouting.

"Yinyin, get off the bus, get off the bus!"

"Ugh—" Hua Yinyin gagged, and Mo Xueyao shrank back in fright, almost thinking that she was going to vomit on herself.

Fortunately, she didn't vomit, but her face looked terrible—like a novice's steamed bun, her face full of wrinkles, her eyelids split open in several places, and it was even hard to tell whether she had opened her eyes or not.

The students got off the bus one after another and lined up in the rain.

Looking down from above, they resemble a group of mushrooms of various colors.

Everyone was holding a different umbrella and following the line at the front of the group inside.

Unlike the martyrs' cemetery I visited last time, the martyrs buried here are not so scattered; most of them are concentrated on the tall stone monument in the very center.

It also looks more like a 'park'.

Indeed, even on ordinary days, people often come here to take a walk, play badminton, or even dance.

I wonder if the fallen martyrs minded—but if they saw the descendants of the people they protected living such happy lives, they probably wouldn't mind at all, and would be very gratified.

A cold, forgotten martyrs' cemetery is not what they want.

Thinking this, Mo Xueyao followed the group forward and picked up a bunch of flowers from the large basket.

Everyone wore the same outfit: a bunch of bright yellow chrysanthemums and a cluster of baby's breath beside them.

Every student who passes by the Martyrs' Monument bows deeply and then puts down the flowers in their hands.

Unlike the first year of high school, this time there were no school leaders organizing it. The earlier classes did it under the teachers' instructions, and the students in the later classes followed suit without any guidance.

Emotions can sometimes be contagious to those around us.

Perhaps the second-year high school students are more mature, so they just do it quietly.

Mo Xueyao held the flowers, but felt a little uneasy.

Because some of these were made from orders placed with their own fruit shop.

In other words, the bouquet she was holding was very likely made by her father himself...

Looking up, all I could see were rows of names.

"Wang Xingtian, Chairman of the Hangzhou Prefectural Committee, Mao Liying, Chairwoman of the Shanghai China Professional Women's Club..." she murmured, the others around her disappearing from sight. In a daze, it was as if she had stepped into that battlefield filled with the smoke of gunpowder alongside her predecessors...