“The virus suddenly broke out from the research institute. During the evacuation, it was chaotic. He insisted others leave first, taking the password and key to close the underground third-layer safety gate… He was almost eighty and originally had nothing to do with this. He applied for emergency permissions at the last minute.”
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him,” Guo Weixiang’s nose was red. “The day I left, the military vehicle passed through the compound gate.”
You asked me if I wanted to stop for five minutes to say goodbye to the old man… but I was afraid of being seen as seeking special treatment, so I refused. Why didn’t I go in? Why didn’t I go in, not even seeing him one last time…
Zhou Rong lit a cigarette for himself, lowering his eyelids in the lingering white smoke.
Guo Weixiang had a gray iron box by his side, about the size of an ordinary shoe box, sealed with a gold and red ribbon. Zhou Rong knew what it was—a memorial box containing miscellaneous items used by Deputy Director Guo before his death.
A fountain pen, a handwritten notebook, reading glasses, and at least half a box of commendation certificates and military medals.
“You’re a 118,” Zhou Rong said in a low voice, “The old man always boasted about this to others. He would die peacefully knowing this.”
Guo Weixiang shook his head while crying, muttering that Rong ge didn’t understand.
“He originally wanted me to do something else. I insisted on joining the special forces… I wanted to prove myself, to prove a point, and I shouted at him that I wanted to realize my own dream… But he actually just wanted his only grandson to stay safely by his side…”
Guo Weixiang’s voice was not loud, and was even somewhat hoarse due to crying, but Zhou Rong felt as if he had been pierced by something sharp, unable to speak for a moment.
Guo Weixiang said with a cigarette, pressing his palm against his flushed forehead. “If I had been there at the time, I would never have let an 80-year-old man close the gate, I would definitely…”
