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Zhuang Zi’ang spent a night in Nanhua Village and, the following morning, bid farewell to the two elderly people with tears in his eyes.
This departure was final—a farewell with no return.
Lin Suzhen continued to chatter, fussing over her grandson.
“You must eat on time and take care of yourself.”
“It’s still chilly; don’t wear such thin clothes.”
“Remember to bring Xiao Yudie back when summer vacation comes.”
……
Zhuang Zi’ang could only nod silently. He couldn’t bring himself to say the truth—Xiao Yudie would never return.
Zhuang Jianguo walked with Zhuang Zi’ang to the village entrance, waiting for the bus together.
“Grandpa, you must find someone to inherit the craft of making iron flowers.”
Zhuang Jianguo shook his head and sighed. “Young people nowadays only care about making money; no one wants to learn this. It’s dangerous and doesn’t pay well.”
Zhuang Zi’ang said firmly, “There will always be someone willing to learn; there are people in this world who seek beauty.”
“Well then, when you come back for summer vacation, I’ll teach you,” Zhuang Jianguo joked.
“Okay, Grandpa. Please take care of yourself. No matter what happens in the future, don’t be too sad,” Zhuang Zi’ang urged.
“I won’t. At my age, I’ve learned to let go. There’s nothing that can make me sad.”
Zhuang Jianguo chuckled, unaware of the deeper meaning behind Zhuang Zi’ang’s words.
The bus slowly approached, and the final farewell arrived.
Zhuang Zi’ang stepped onto the bus, waving continuously at Zhuang Jianguo.
Zhuang Jianguo waved back, murmuring, “Zi’ang, come back soon.”
As the vehicle moved away, the old man’s figure grew smaller in the distance.
Tears streamed down Zhuang Zi’ang’s face, flowing like an endless river.
His entire being was consumed by sorrow.
The greatest grief in the world is when the old must bury the young.
Back in the city, Zhuang Zi’ang stopped taking his medication, letting the disease consume him.
He just wanted it all to end soon.
Or rather, he wished to leave this world as quickly as possible—to reunite with his beloved Xiao Yudie.
A few days later, his condition worsened; no medicine could help him anymore.
Dragging his ailing body, he once again stepped through the gates of Xiaoyao Palace, heading to the side hall where Zhang Bansian interpreted omens.
Zhang Bansian, despite his carefree nature, felt a pang of sympathy when he saw Zhuang Zi’ang’s frail appearance.
“Alas, your illness truly mirrors hers.”
Zhuang Zi’ang managed a faint smile. “Daoist, she came to see me once more. It turns out she left without misunderstandings or regrets. That is the greatest blessing from the heavens.”
“Have you learned that piece?” Zhang Bansian asked.
“I can’t learn it. I won’t be able to see her again,” Zhuang Zi’ang shook his head.
“That’s alright. Even if you traveled back in time and met her again, the outcome would remain the same—you would still be trapped in suffering,” Zhang Bansian comforted him.
According to the ancient notation of Dreaming of Butterflies, even if Zhuang Zi’ang returned to a year ago, Xiao Yudie would not recognize him.
As long as they met a year ago, the events of a year later would never occur.
Even if they rekindled their love, Xiao Yudie’s illness would still take her away before long.
He would still have to watch her die, only to spend another year in grief until his own end arrived.
That year would be an unbearable torment.
It was the sea of suffering Zhang Bansian had spoken of.
“Daoist, I have one final wish. Can you take me to her grave?” Zhuang Zi’ang pleaded.
For someone on the brink of death, such a simple request was one Zhang Bansian could not refuse.
He set aside his work of interpreting omens and accompanied Zhuang Zi’ang to Qiushui Town.
Su Yudie’s grave was on a hillside south of town.
As they climbed the rugged path, Zhuang Zi’ang was surprised to see the mountains covered in blooming azaleas.
“Zhuang Sheng’s dream is entangled with the butterfly, and Emperor Wang’s spring heart is entrusted to the cuckoo.”
The fiery red flowers looked as if they had been stained with blood.
Amidst the thickets, a solitary grave stood.
It was desolate—Xiao Yudie had no close relatives; only Grandma Su would occasionally visit, weeping alone.
Seeing the name “Su Yudie” engraved on the tombstone, alongside a black-and-white photograph, pierced Zhuang Zi’ang’s heart like a blade.
Just a few nights ago, they had watched the iron flowers together.
Yet in the real world, she had already been gone for a year.
Overgrown weeds surrounded the grave.
Zhuang Zi’ang reached out to touch the photograph, as if it still carried her warmth.
Zhang Bansian patted his shoulder. “Life and death are predestined. The universe is like a vast chamber, filled with both song and sorrow.”
Zhuang Zi’ang recognized the reference to Zhuangzi’s parable of singing while beating a drum.
Life and death, like the changing seasons, cannot be defied.
But he was not a sage—his heart ached as if torn apart.
“Daoist, let me talk to her alone for a while.”
Zhang Bansian nodded silently and walked away.
Zhuang Zi’ang traced the characters “Su Yudie” repeatedly, etching them into his heart.
After a long while, he took out his bamboo flute and began to play Dreaming of Butterflies.
“Lai suō suō xī duō xī lā, suō lā xī xī xī xī lā xī lā suō…”
The flute’s melody floated over the mountains, stirring a flurry of butterflies among the azaleas.
Zhang Bansian, leaning against a distant tree, couldn’t help but shed tears.
Time passed, the flute music ceased, yet Zhuang Zi’ang never came down from the mountain.
Zhang Bansian retraced his steps to Su Yudie’s grave, only to find it empty.
A bamboo flute lay quietly on the ground, stained with drops of blood.
Zhang Bansian called out in distress, but no answer came.
No one knew if Zhuang Zi’ang had ended his own life or successfully traveled back in time.
Either way, both possibilities were heartbreaking.
……
Days later, Deng Haijun, Li Huang Xuan, and Lin Mu Shi came looking for Zhuang Zi’ang.
Zhang Bansian led them to Su Yudie’s grave.
Watching a pair of butterflies dancing in the air, Lin Mu Shi whispered, “Could they have become like Liang Shanbo and Zhu Yingtai?”
Li Huang Xuan, tears streaming, murmured, “She always said, ‘The butterfly is me, and I am the butterfly.’”
Deng Haijun, usually skeptical, felt a deep sorrow.
“Perhaps, in another world, they can be together forever.”
A year ago, Xiao Yudie dreamed of Zhuang Zi’ang.
A year later, Zhuang Zi’ang dreamed of Xiao Yudie.
Was it Zhuang Zhou dreaming of butterflies, or were the butterflies dreaming of Zhuang Zhou?
For a thousand years, no one has known.