Chengyu Through the Looking Glass

Chengyu's eyelids fluttered open, the rhythmic clacking of the train against tracks giving way to silence. Darkness pressed against the glass panes like a weighty, unseen specter. The occasional, far-off lamp post flickered.

A voice crackled overhead, "We are now passing through Jiujiang." His heart seized in his chest—a stab of panic. He wasn't supposed to be here. Although he hadn't had a destination in mind, he had missed his stop long, long ago.

"Focus," Chengyu whispered to himself, pressing his palms into his eyes. The panic subsided, and he exhaled slowly.

This must be something like fate, he concluded, an odd sense of tranquility washing over him. It was as if the rolling hills and the scent of wild jasmine creeping through the cracks were ushering him to rest. With his belongings clutched to his chest, he waited for the train to cease its rumbling before stepping off. His feet came into contact with cracked cement, illuminated by a single lantern. Above, a rickety wooden structure on the verge of collapse loomed. If he stretched, he could touch the beam and feel the rotting wood.

He studied his surroundings. To the left, across the tracks, was a village. He didn't feel too inclined to search for company, so he took a moment to think and basked in the calm, midnight air.

As the locomotive retreated into the night, Chengyu stood alone on the platform, feeling both abandoned and yet, strangely liberated. The train's fading lights seemed to take with them the life he knew, leaving behind a canvas blank and ready for new brushstrokes.

How long would he be here? He didn't know. Since he didn't want the flashlight app to sap his battery, he jumped up and snatched the lantern. Peering inside, he saw dancing flames.

"Neat—a real, old-fashioned lantern. But this one's a Western design," he muttered. Stepping forward, he jumped down from the platform, falling into the grass that reached his waist. Veering to the right, he soon stood on an earthen walkway, a straight strip of dirt framed by the train tracks, then on the other side, a neat rice field.

He followed the path until it led to a ramshackle building, the only thing ablaze in the rural twilight. A sign outside designated it as a shop.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a quaint interior—he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe. It looked more like a home than a store, but Chengyu browsed the few aisles until a leather-bound journal caught his attention. He approached the counter, where the old clerk sat hunched over the counter. When Chengyu cleared his throat, the old man eyed him through bushy white eyebrows, with a mix of curiosity and indifference.

"Excuse me," Chengyu began, the journal tentatively placed between them. "I seem to have found myself unexpectedly in need of a place to stay."

"Got off at the wrong stop, huh?" The clerk said in a gruff voice, handing back change. "Head straight down that path there, past the rice fields. You'll find the old inn."

"Thank you," Chengyu replied, though he sensed mischief in the clerk's eyes.

Journal tucked beneath his arm, Chengyu ventured out. Folling the path again, it led Chengyu into a sea of green, each step sending ripples through the stalks. Silver moonlight bathed the field, transforming it into a sheet of jade beneath a sky peppered with stars.

Despite the nearby urban center, this part of town, the outskirts of the city, was ringed with mountains, laced with rice terraces, and had dusty streets made of dirt. If he kept walking, he was sure he'd disappear into nature forever, consumed by its ravenous, untamable will.

Despite the suspicion that he'd been sent on a fool's errand, Chengyu couldn't help but marvel at the natural beauty around him.

After what felt like miles, Chengyu stumbled upon an ancient temple nestled at the mountain's base. Crumbling walls stood as silent sentries, their history etched into every stone. He circled the temple, awestruck by the timelessness of the structures that surrounded it.

How has this place escaped the relentless march of modernity? he pondered.

He traced his fingers over the weathered carvings, feeling the pulse of centuries thrumming through the cold stone. Each touch was a whisper from the past, beckoning him closer to secrets long forgotten. As Chengyu stood at the precipice of discovery, he allowed himself to be enveloped by the temple's enigmatic embrace, eager to uncover the stories it yearned to tell.

Chengyu's fingertips grazed the moss-laden edges of a stone relief, tracing the sinuous curves of a dragon that seemed poised to leap from its confines. The temple, bathed in an ethereal glow, whispered secrets that only the ages understood, and Chengyu—a self-confessed history aficionado—couldn't resist the urge to listen.

"Empires have risen and fallen," he murmured, "yet you remain." His voice was a hushed veneration amidst the silence of the night.

With each step, the flagstones beneath his feet recounted tales of processions long past; emperors and monks had tread the same path, their echoes lingering like faded incense. Chengyu's heart raced with every revelation the temple offered. It was as though he had stumbled into the pages of a history book, one that smelled of earth and time.

His exploration led him to a courtyard, where the remnants of day clung to the edges of a crumbling well. There, perched precariously, was a cat—its fur a patchwork quilt of moonlight and shadow. Its eyes, gleaming like twin orbs of amber, met Chengyu's gaze.

"Hey there, little historian," Chengyu called softly, inching closer. "What era do you hail from?"

The cat blinked impassively, as if it were the guardian of the well, daring him to venture past.

"Alright, stay put," Chengyu said, extending a tentative hand toward the feline sentry. But as he leaned forward, the ancient stones betrayed him, shifting under his weight. He reached for something—anything—to steady himself but found only air.

Gravity seized him mercilessly, pulling both man and cat into the abyss. A cacophony of loose stones echoed their descent. Chengyu's thoughts spiraled with them, tumbling through regrets—missed opportunities, unspoken words, a life half-lived.

Of all the places to meet my end, he thought bitterly, why here?

He was suspended in the darkness, free falling. The fingernail moon above momentarily shone, then Chengyu came into contact with water. Instead of feeling a surge of pain, it felt like he was slipping through velvet. He plummeted, further into the silk-like water.

Then, unexpectedly, the darkness fractured. Brilliant light unfurled around him, tendrils of luminescence weaving through the void. They twirled and danced, caressing his skin with the gentleness of a mother's touch. It almost felt like the cosmos were cradling him.

"Is this...?" Chengyu's disbelief trailed off as he felt the light penetrate his very essence, stitching him into the fabric of the cosmos. The lines of his body blurred, mingling with stardust and mystery.

"Am I dreaming?" he whispered, yet the words felt irrelevant. What did it matter if it was a dream when every fiber of his being vibrated with such intensity?

The cat, now a silent companion in their shared journey, pressed close to Chengyu's side. Together, they were no longer falling but floating, ascending through a portal that promised wonders beyond any earthly history could recount.