The strongest dream therapist

Chapter 52: Legend of Cheng Huang (2)

She was extremely tired. After speaking only two sentences, she began to feel drowsy, her eyelids drooped uncontrollably, and she fell into a deep sleep soon after.

Two boys, about ten years old, were lying on the edge of the bed, their small shoulders shaking violently as they sobbed. Tears streamed down their tender cheeks, dripping onto the worn sheets, leaving dark stains.

The eldest son stood up, with two lines of blood and tears in his eyes. He looked at his younger brother deeply with his dark pupils.

"Brother..." The younger brother couldn't help but go forward and hug him, his voice full of reluctance and fear.

The elder brother stood there motionless, letting his younger brother hold him tightly, as if he wanted to embed him into his body. His lips trembled slightly, and his voice was as low as the fluttering of a mosquito's wings, "Time is running out..."

The younger brother shook his head desperately, tears falling to the ground like beads from a broken string. "No, brother, don't do this. We have a lifespan of a thousand years. Even if you send her back to the age of fifteen, she will only live for another seventy years at most."

"You are the only one who can accompany me, brother...you are the only one I have."

The elder brother's eyes flickered and he avoided his younger brother's gaze.

He didn't respond, but said, "When we were born, others looked upon us as monsters. Our mother was only ten years old at the time. She could have married someone else and had a happy family, but because of us, her life was ruined."

He tilted his head, looking at his brother tenderly, his voice a little hoarse, "I often think that God is always fair. Just like us, although we have long lifespans and early intelligence, our bodies are weak. If it weren't for mother, we would have died long ago. Now that I sacrificed myself to save her, I think it is God's mercy. This is perhaps the meaning of our existence as twins."

At this moment, a breeze came from nowhere and blew gently. The candlelight in the room swayed gently, and the light and shadow danced on the wall.

My brother grew rapidly, from a boy of four or five feet tall to an eight-foot tall man.

He stood there, like a delicate painting, every move captivating.

He has black hair that is soft, shiny, and slightly curled at the ends. His eyebrows are thick and stylish. His nose is tall and straight, with smooth and strong lines. His lips are well-defined, with the upper lip slightly upturned and the lower lip full and moist, without any makeup.

But soon, wrinkles began to appear on her delicate, fair skin, sagging at a visible speed, the folds spreading rapidly like a spider web. Her jet-black hair lost its luster, and in a moment, turned into sparse white hair.

At the same time, his body began to curl up uncontrollably, and his back seemed to be severely bent, gradually changing from the upright posture of a young man to a hunched one.

On the other side, the younger brother's body began to shrink rapidly. The clothes that originally fit him became extremely loose, and as his body shrank, they piled loosely on the ground.

His face, which had just begun to show its outline, gradually became rounder and more childish, and the maturity and intelligence in his eyes gradually faded, replaced by a baby-like innocence.

But all this was exchanged for the mother lying on the bed, who was now recovering her youth in a miraculous way.

The wrinkles on her face, which were originally full of traces of time, gradually disappeared, and her skin became smooth and delicate, radiating the unique luster of a young girl.

Her once gray hair had now become a bright black. Her body moved slightly, and the corners of her mouth lifted unconsciously, as if she were having a sweet dream.

My brother moved, and his bones made a crisp sound.

He suppressed his physical discomfort, smiled, and took out baby clothes from the closet, then gently put them on his brother.

His younger brother looked at him quietly, his eyes filled with complex emotions, including reluctance and resentment, but he couldn't say a word.

"You don't have to say much. You and I are twins. I can tell what you're thinking just by looking at you." His brother smiled and touched his head, his smile full of doting and helplessness. At the end of his words, he couldn't help coughing twice.

His younger brother looked at him dimly: "Brother, you are very selfish."

The elder brother put his younger brother on the bed, letting him lie side by side with the girl, and whispered, "Tonight is my last night. You will live your life again and will soon grow up to be ten years old. I believe you can take good care of mother, so don't let me worry."

As he spoke, he slowly sat down at the desk, his hands trembling slightly as he ground ink for himself, and the ink slowly spread in the inkstone.

He picked up the pen and hovered over the yellow paper for a long time, when he suddenly remembered that he had never asked his mother's surname.

He suddenly remembered that she loved the word "willow" the most and liked to hum the Xiaoya melody on weekdays. The lyrics read, "There is a willow with a wisp, and it does not rest. The God is very active, and has no place to hide..."

Then he picked up his pen and wrote:
There was a woman named Liu who had been a slave since childhood. When she was only ten years old, she was pregnant with twin unicorns. It was a frosty autumn, and moss was growing on the clay stove. A neighbor woman advised her, "Young swallows are still waiting to be fed, how can you bear to keep two lotus flowers together? Pick one and sell it, and they can still survive." Liu hugged her children and cried, "The twin lotus flowers share the same root, how can I bear to break their stems!" So she wore hairpins made of thorns, washed silk in the stream at night, and gathered wild vegetables in the wild during the day.

When the twins cried hungry, she nursed them with one breast and the other, using her knees as a rocking chair. On cold nights with no quilt, she took off her jacket and covered them, breathing on them to warm water. Once, after three days of malaria, she forced herself to get up and fetch water, only to see her reflection withered. Suddenly, she heard the children inside the tent babbling, calling each other "Mom." She scooped up icy water and poured it over their faces, saying with a smile, "Twins of us shine together, a gift from heaven."

When they were little, Liu would light pine torches to teach them how to study. Her eldest son, Min, recited the "Book of Filial Piety," reaching the line "Ruining does not endanger one's life," and kowtowed to his mother. Her second son, Ne, studied the "Thousand Character Classic," reaching the line "Rise early to keep warm," and secretly tucked in his mother's quilt. Years later, the townspeople began to notice frost on Liu's temples, and exclaimed, "The woman who once washed silk has now become a cypress boatman or a pine tree!"

People of the time said, "The reed's tenacity isn't about competing for spring's beauty, but about its very roots." Look at Mrs. Liu, a young woman still barely 12, carrying a heavy burden, unwavering resolve through twenty years of trials and tribulations. A mother's heart is as strong as gold and stone. Now, two cranes cry in the clouds, but who has seen the blood-stained feathers in their nest? Only the spring grass on the roadside remains green year after year.

When I finished writing, it was already late and the wind was cold.

He couldn't help but cover his mouth with his sleeve and coughed violently a few more times. When he moved his sleeve away again, it was already stained with blood.

He couldn't help but look back at his brother again and pulled out a new page of yellow paper.

Letter to My Brother

The north wind knocks at the window, the solitary candle sheds tears, and you hold the pen as if it were a thousand pounds. I recall your childhood in swaddling clothes, your cry was like the first chirping of a spring cicada.

On the day of Jingzhe (Awakening of Insects) in Dingyou, you took your first steps. Your mother broke a peach branch into a cane and supported you under the old locust tree in the courtyard. You repeatedly fell and stood up, finally learning to stand after three days. On the spring day of Wuxu (Wuxu), you held your mother's hand and asked her how to write a Chinese character. As you pointed out the eight strokes of the character "永" (eternal), you suddenly looked up and said, "Why are your hands as rough as tree bark?" It was because the cold spring water soaked your bones while you washed your swaddling clothes.

When Mother was in charge of the household, you sucked your finger and smiled innocently, while I was already in charge of the morning and evening. In the year of the Rabbit, an epidemic suddenly broke out, stricken with the illness of the twin children. Mother wept day and night. Though my brother was the same age as me, he forged ahead, tasting your medicine and wiping away your pus and sweat. On the night of the Tiger, you were sweating profusely, yet I still held onto the "Jijiupian" and taught you calligraphy and painting, fearing you would neglect your studies.

On the night of the Yi-hai year, a thunderstorm struck, and my mother, overworked, fainted. I carried you over twenty miles through the snow to seek medical treatment. Blood clotted on my shoes, and the two children shared a straw raincoat. You lay on my back and cried, "Brother, your shoulders are as thin as paper." Little did you know that I was chewing ginger to dispel the cold, using my body warmth to warm your feet.

Now that I see that you can compose "Song of the Wandering Son", I feel a little comforted.

Yet, in the diamond-shaped mirror, my temples are prematurely gray, my veins are thin. The twenty volumes of the Analects I left behind, with their inscriptions, were all made while I was teaching my mother. I hope you will continue my filial duty, warming the bed for me, reading without interruption in the mornings and refraining from neglecting your evening lessons. We once shared sweets, and now we should serve together in the hall; we once played with kites, and now we should support each other with a dove-shaped staff.

We shared the same bed in life and the same grave in death. After my brother passed away, don't forget to add a pair of chopsticks to your winter meal of wheat rice. I choked with sobs at my farewell, unable to express even a fraction of my words.

My brother's last words
某夜
　Happy New Year's Eve, posted together~
　　Two chapters are combined into one chapter, telling a short story, and the next chapter will push the main line.

　　I would like to recommend a book by a group friend here. It is a male-oriented book and I feel it has an atmosphere similar to that of Liao Zhai.

　　(End of this chapter)