Closing the Loop

This is a story I dreamed of this morning. When I awoke, the plot was still hazy, as if I were walking along the edge of a grand dream. I jotted down the outline immediately and, with the help of AI, fleshed it out into this piece.

I

The day we went out, the sunlight was beautiful.

I walked in front, she followed behind, separated by a distance of two or three paces. This was our habitual position; for many years, it had always been so. She walked lightly, almost making no sound, her soles as if coated with a layer of soft cloth, landing on the ground with only the noise of wind passing through gaps in leaves. When I was young, I always thought this was a habit formed in her maiden days—she said that in her generation, women had to walk lightly and speak softly, so as not to startle anything. Later, I came to believe it.

We were looking for a mountain forest. What kind of forest, I couldn’t exactly say; I only felt it should be lush and quiet, and best of all, have a stream winding down from the mountainside, curving once, then curving again. She said she knew of such a place.

As we left, we passed the corner of the main room. There sat an old wooden chest, with a few yellowed booklets spread across its lid. The cover of the topmost diary had half-peeled away, revealing the grey-white lining underneath—a color close to her photograph on the wall of the main room. In the photo, she looked younger than she did now. She suddenly stopped, her gaze falling on that diary. She lingered for a few seconds, or perhaps longer than a few seconds.

I walked a few steps further, and turned back to look at her.

“What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer, just stood there, as if identifying something, or confirming whether a certain event had truly happened. Sunlight slanted in through the window, falling on the wooden chest, on the diary, and on the spot where she stood. I looked down; there was only my shadow on the ground.

“Grandma?” I called her.

She snapped out of it, withdrawing her gaze from the booklet and shaking her head slightly, as if brushing a thought away.

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She followed, still maintaining those two or three paces of distance, still soundless. We walked out of the yard, along the village road toward the mountains. The wind brushed the tips of the grass by the wayside. As she walked beside me, a corner of her hair was lifted by the breeze, then fell back.

Only later did I know that it was the last time she ever went out.

I don’t know how long we walked that day. I only remember that the sun remained beautiful—so beautiful it made one feel dazed, as if walking along the edge of a grand dream.

II

We had walked a dozen paces past the yard when I suddenly stopped.

“Grandmother.” I turned to face her.

She stood still, separated by that habitual distance of two or three paces, framed by the wind. Her hair was grey-white, fluttering in the breeze to reveal the deep wrinkles on her forehead. Her eyes watched me; she said nothing.

“That booklet just now,” I said, “did you remember something?”

She remained silent. The wind blew over the grass by the road, hissing. In the distance, someone was shouting something; the sound dragged far by the wind, unclear.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s all old matters.”

“You stopped for several seconds,” I said. “The way you looked at that book… it was like you were seeing someone you hadn’t seen in forever.”

She didn’t respond. I looked at her, and she looked back. After looking at each other like this for a while, she suddenly smiled, very lightly, like a sigh falling to the ground.

“You have sharp eyes,” she said.

She turned and began walking back. I followed her, still those two or three paces behind. We returned to the corner of the main room, to the front of that old wooden chest. She reached out, hovering above the diary for a few seconds, then gently flipped open the cover.

Inside the diary were sandwiched a few sheets of paper, folded, their edges worn and frayed. She pulled one out and unfolded it. It was a yellowed list; the ink had bled a little, but the handwriting was still legible. The paper was thin—the cheap kind from that era—and felt brittle to the touch.

“This was written that year,” she said. “Year thirty-four, or thirty-five… I can’t remember clearly.”

The list named some supplies—grain, cloth, medicine, and some things I didn’t recognize. Each item was followed by a quantity, and some had a signature next to them, scribbled in a hurried hand. At the very bottom was a line of small words, still quite clear to this day, reading “Loop Station Three Handover,” followed by a name: A-Chun.

“Who is A-Chun?” I asked.

She didn’t answer immediately, her gaze falling on that name, as if identifying it, or reminiscing about it. After a while, she said, “A fellow villager. Someone I worked with back then.”

She handed the list to me, her fingers brushing the back of my hand. That touch was light, carrying almost no temperature.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” she said. “Let’s go. Back to those mountains.”

III

We followed the village path toward the mountains.

The fields on both sides had just been turned; clods of earth were piled into ridges. Someone was stooping in the distance, busy with some unknown task. The wind carried the scent of raw earth and sun-warmed grass. She walked ahead of me; her steps weren’t large, but they were steady, as if she had walked this path so many times she could recognize it with her eyes closed.

“I was nineteen that year,” she began suddenly. Her voice wasn’t loud, as if she were speaking to herself. “Or was it twenty? I can’t quite remember. Anyway, I was at that age where you aren’t afraid of anything. You feel that if the sky falls, there will be taller people to hold it up.”

I quickened my pace to walk beside her. She didn’t look at me; her eyes were fixed forward, as if seeing a road only she could perceive.

“This list,” she pointed to the paper in my hand, “was written on the road.”

“What road?”

“The Loop,” she said. “A mountain path that circles these peaks to deliver supplies to various stations. A full circuit took three or four days if you were fast, five or six if you were slow. That was the line we walked back then.”

I lowered my head to look at that list. The yellowed paper, the frayed edges, the blurred ink. A-Chun’s name was somewhat fading, like a shadow dissolving in water, yet it remained recognizable. Grain, cloth, medicine, quantities for each, and scrawled signatures as if written in haste.

“A-Chun,” I pronounced that name, “what did he do?”

She paused—her steps didn’t falter, she was just silent for a moment.

“A guide,” she said. “A local who knew the way. Which paths were passable, which weren’t; where the Japanese had been, and where they wouldn’t go—he knew it all. He led us, station by station.”

“And then?”

She didn’t answer, simply continuing forward. I followed, watching her back. Her clothes billowed slightly in the wind, as if there were no weight to her body, as if she were held upright only by the breeze.

“There was a stretch I didn’t finish,” she said. “Halfway through, I came down with a high fever and couldn’t walk. A-Chun told me to rest in a cave while he took the others onward. He said, ‘Wait here. We’ll finish the loop and come back for you.’”

“Did he come back?”

She said nothing.

We walked for a while before she spoke again, her voice lighter than before, as if afraid to startle something.

“No,” she said. “Something happened on the stretch they took. No one could say for sure what it was. Some said they ran into a patrol; some said they took a wrong turn; some said… anyway, they never came back.”

She stopped and raised her hand to point forward.

“Look. Those are the mountains.”

I looked where she pointed. In the distance was a lush green forest. The peaks weren’t high, but were dense, the trees forming a solid mass as if guarding a secret in their depths. A small path wound into the base of the mountains, turned a corner, and vanished.

“The Loop started there,” she said. “A circle. You go in, go around, and come out the other side. The part I walked was the front half. The part A-Chun walked was the back half.”

She paused, her voice dropping.

“That loop… I couldn’t finish it.”

IV

We moved along the narrow path into the mountains.

The woods grew denser. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, breaking into jagged shards, falling on the ground, on the grass, and on the path we trod. The wind moved through the treetops, carrying moisture and the tart scent of green wood, as if a rain had just passed, or was about to arrive.

“What did A-Chun look like?” I asked.

She walked ahead, her steps still light, her soles making no sound against the earth. She didn’t turn back, just said, “A very ordinary person. Lean, dark-skinned, a man of few words. But his eyes were very bright. When he looked at you, it felt as if he could see right through to what you were thinking.”

“How old was he?”

“About my age, maybe a year or two older. No one really asked back then; who cared about such things?” She paused. “He had a younger sister in another unit doing mending work. He always said, when the war was over, he’d go back to see her.”

After we had walked a stretch, she spoke again suddenly. Her voice seemed scattered by the forest breeze, floating.

“Once, it rained, and we took shelter in a cave. It rained for most of the night. We just sat there, waiting for dawn. A-Chun sat at the cave entrance, watching the rain, saying nothing. I asked him what he was thinking about, and he said he was thinking about the circle.”

“What circle?”

“The Loop,” she said. “He said this line was like a circle—you walk it, and you end up back at the start. I said, ‘Isn’t that good? Back at the start, so you don’t have to worry about getting lost.’ He just smiled and didn’t say anything else.”

She stopped beside an ancient tree. A hollow at its base was filled with withered leaves.

“Only later did I know that his ‘returning to the start’ didn’t mean that,” she said. “He meant that for some people, once they finish the circle, they can never truly come back.”

I said nothing, just stood behind her, watching her silhouette. Her clothes were clean, as if freshly changed, but the color was old—a faded grey-blue. The wind blew through the forest, leaves rustling. Her hair was lifted, revealing the back of her neck.

I lowered my head to look at the list in my hand. The ink had bled further; A-Chun’s name was becoming even more blurred, like a shadow melted by water. My hand was dry.

“Let’s go,” she said. “It’s just ahead.”

She turned and continued. I followed, those two or three paces behind. The forest grew deeper, the light dimmer. Her figure flickered in and out of the tree shadows, as if she were about to merge into something else.

I reached out, wanting to steady her. My hand was passing through the hem of her clothes. I touched nothing.

V

The forest ended, opening up suddenly.

Before us was an expansive hillside. The grass grew knee-high, swaying in one direction with the wind. Far off were rolling ridges; nearby stood a few solitary trees with massive canopies, casting deep shadows. Sunlight leaked through gaps in the clouds, falling on the slope like a thin layer of gold.

She stood at the edge of the woods, going no further.

“This is the place,” she said.

I stepped up beside her, looking at the hillside. The wind blew, and the grass wove undulating, like a vast sea of green. A few birds took flight from the thicket, flapping toward the ridges.

“You walked until here back then, and stopped?”

She nodded and raised her hand, pointing to the other side of the slope.

“A-Chun went that way. That morning, my fever hadn’t broken yet; I couldn’t even stand steady. He said, ‘Rest here. We’ll finish the loop and come back.’ He said, ‘This line circles back to the start. Just wait for me at the start.’”

She lowered her hand and fell silent for a while.

“I waited for three days,” she said. “Three days later, someone came from another direction and took me away. They asked where the others were, I told them they went that way. They went to look, found nothing.”

I looked at her. Her eyes were fixed on the distance, as if watching a road only she could see.

“And then?”

“And then?” She smiled, very lightly, like self-mockery. Then I aged for many years, asked many people, traveled many places. The back half of that Loop was never finished. A-Chun, and those who went with him… they just vanished, as if the mountains had swallowed them whole."

She squatted down, reached out, hovering above the tips of the grass, not touching them.

“I couldn’t finish the circle,” she whispered. “Missing one loop.”

I stood behind her, watching her. The wind swept across the slope, the grass rippled, and her clothes billowed gently.

“So, a loop is missing,” I said.

She didn’t move, only nodded.

“Yes, missing a loop.”

We stood there for I don’t know how long. The sun slowly drifted west, clouds gathered and dispersed, and the wind blew from the ridge, carrying a chill.

She stood up and patted the hem. Her hand passed through the fabric of the hem; she patted nothing.

“Bury me here, when the time comes,” she said.

I started. “Here?”

“Mhm.” She gazed at a specific spot on the slope, a spot only she could perceive. “It’s good here. Quiet. There’s wind, there’s grass. This is where A-Chun left from. If I stay here, I’ll be closer to him.”

“But—” I hesitated. “What about the missing loop?”

She turned to face me. In the sunset, her eyes held a very faint trace of a smile.

“I can no longer fulfill it,” she said. “I won’t be able to finish the back half of that Loop Line in this life. But you are different.”

She reached out, hovering in front of me, as if to pat my shoulder, but stopped in mid-air.

“Next time you come, walk it for me,” she said. “Finish that loop, come back and tell me.”

I didn’t speak; I only nodded. In truth, she was already there.

She smiled, slightly, a sound like a sigh lost in the wind.

“Go now,” she said. “It’s getting dark.”

VI

I went back to those mountains.

When exactly I went, I can’t quite say. Was it later, or was it just now? I’m not sure. I only remember the sunshine was beautiful that day, just like the day we set out. But I can no longer tell which day happened first.

I walked that small path alone. The woods were still dense, the sunshine still shattered by leaves, falling on the ground and on the grass.

I finished the back half of that Loop.

The road was longer than I had imagined, and harder to walk than I imagined. Some parts were overgrown, choked with thorns and weeds; some parts had been trodden into new paths, bypassing the original bends. As I walked, I noted—marking every turn, every ancient tree, every stream. I took photos with my phone; some were clear, some were blurry. I picked up a leaf and tucked it in my pocket.

How long did I walk? Perhaps half a day, perhaps a whole day. I reached the end of the Loop—an abandoned mountain cave. The entrance was draped in vines; the interior was empty. I stood at the mouth, looking inside, wanting to shout A-Chun’s name, but felt it wasn’t necessary. He was long gone; shouting wouldn’t get an answer. But I shouted anyway. Naturally, there was no reply.

I returned to the start, returned to that hillside.

A stone was already standing there.

I recognized it. Her headstone.

It wasn’t tall—just a common, grey-white stone with a rough surface, as if carved in a hurry. Her name was etched into it; the strokes weren’t deep, but recognizable. No dates of birth or death, no other words. Only her name, standing solitary amidst the waves of grass.

I stood before the stone for a long time. The wind swept the slope, the grass rippled, and a few birds took flight, heading toward the ridges. Sunshine spilled through the clouds, falling on the stone and my shoulders.

I looked down at the list in my hand. The paper was very old now, the edges frayed, the ink bled into a single mass. A-Chun’s name was long gone, like a shadow dissolved in water. My hand was still dry. Or rather, it should have been wet.

I folded the list and placed it before the stone. I took the leaf from my pocket and laid it on the paper.

I looked up toward the distance. In that direction lay the rest of the Loop, a continuous stretch of forest with no visible end. I had walked it, turn by turn, finishing the link she couldn’t.

I withdrew my gaze and looked at the silent stone.

“This loop, I have brought it for you.”

The wind blew over the hillside, grass waves undulating, and the name on the stone caught a faint gleam of the setting sun. I stood there, stood for a long time again. The sunlight slowly drifted west, the clouds shifted, and the glow on the horizon darkened bit by bit.

I did not look back at my shadow behind me.