Chapter 7 — The Last Remaining Echo

As the final words fell, mother could no longer stand on her own, leaning heavily against father for support. My brother’s eyes were bloodshot as he choked out, Wanwan, please give us a chance to make it up to you.

I shook my head.

Some things can never be mended.

The surgery from seven years ago cannot be mended.

The instrumental backing track that I could not hear during my art examination cannot be mended.

The lonely hours spent receiving intravenous drips in the hospital, defending my thesis entirely on my own, bleeding silently before walking away—none of that can ever be mended.

I handed them a lawyer's business card.

If you truly feel indebted to me, hand over the overdue medical expenses, the compensation for emotional distress, and all the money that Niannian stole from me over the years to this attorney.

Do not come looking for me ever again.

Mother completely broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Yet my heart remained hardened. The classroom bell rang for the start of the lesson. The children inside began to clap and call out cheerfully.

Teacher Shen!

I turned and walked through the door. Before it closed shut, I caught the sound of my mother’s muffled weeping, and my brother collapsing into a squat outside, striking his own face fiercely in deep remorse. Once upon a time, such a sight would have broken my heart. Not anymore. These belated tears could never coax withered, dead hopes back into bloom.

For a very long time afterward, Chen remained in Xizhou. He did not force any further encounters upon me. Every single day, he simply left flowers and medicine by the doorway of the rehabilitation center. I never accepted a single offering. The blossoms were distributed among the teachers on duty, while the packages of medicine were returned unopened, completely intact. He wrote countless letters. He told me that Niannian had moved out of the family residence. He wrote that the health of my parents had deteriorated sharply, that my brother had quit his job to dedicate himself to dealing with the lingering fallout of the past, and that every single night he dreamed of the hospital from seven years ago—dreaming of the moment I asked him if I would only ever be able to hear half the world from then on. In one letter, he penned: If only I had turned back to look at you at that very moment.

I never replied. In this world, there are no ifs. There are only the wounds that were truly inflicted.

A year later, I was admitted to a graduate program specializing in special education. My advisor recommended me for an art therapy project tailored for hearing-impaired children, and I guided the little ones in staging a dance performance entitled Half-Tone. On the day of the show, the auditorium was packed to capacity. Though the children could not clearly hear the music, they could deeply feel the vibrations pulsing up from the wooden floorboards. They raised their arms, spun around, and leaped into the air. Their movements lacked absolute uniformity, yet this recital brought more tears to my eyes than any other I had ever witnessed.

Standing in the wings, I watched them and suddenly recalled the day of my retaken art exam seven years prior. I had stood alone in the center of the stage, my right ear shrouded in absolute silence. The musical accompaniment drifted in from an infinite distance, and I could neither catch the rhythm nor find my own footing in life. But now, at last, I understood. Even with only half the world of sound, I could still dance a complete, unbroken dance.

When the performance concluded, the applause from the audience roared like thunder. I spotted my parents and my brother seated in the very back row. They looked far older than when I had last seen them. Mother covered her mouth as she wept; Father kept his head bowed, his shoulders trembling faintly. My brother stared unblinkingly at me, his eye sockets raw and red. Further back, lingering just outside the exit, Chen stood quietly. He did not step inside. When our eyes met, he offered a slight nod of his head, as if bidding a final farewell.

I nodded back in return. There was no hatred left within me, nor any lingering attachment.

Word reached me later that Niannian was never able to grace a formal stage ever again. Deprived of the protection of her family and the indulgence of Chen and my brother, she had once wept all the way to Xizhou in a desperate attempt to see me, only to be turned away at the gates by the security guards. I refused to meet her. It was neither out of forgiveness nor malice; simply put, she no longer possessed the weight to occupy any space in my life.

Years later, I remained in Xizhou and established my own art studio dedicated to hearing-impaired children. On opening day, the kids presented me with a drawing. It depicted a small figure with a tied-back ribbon standing beneath the warm sun, accompanied by a clumsy, scrawled caption: Teacher Shen knows how to shine.

I gazed at those crooked letters and broke into a lingering, gentle smile.

There was a time when I believed that losing the hearing in one ear meant losing half the universe. Only much later did I realize that what truly cripples a person is never the inability to hear the world, but the endless, agonizing wait for those who do not love you to finally turn around.

Now, I wait no longer.

With the remaining half of my hearing, I listen to the rush of the wind and the laughter of the children, finally hearing my own voice—clear, resolute, and unwavering. From this day forward, I am no one’s sister, no one’s daughter, and no one’s fiancee.

I am merely Shen Wan. A complete and unbroken Shen Wan.