The bicycle moved forward along the willow catkins floating on the small river. Before long, we saw wooden bridges scattered haphazardly across the water, their surfaces mottled with age. The road turned into bluestone slabs, with blades of grass springing up from the cracks. The leader of our group took a deep breath and said, "We've arrived at Long'an." A dilapidated stone tablet stood by the roadside, covered in willow catkins; the roots of a willow tree were coiled in layers around it. The front was inscribed with "Long'an," while the back was covered in a jumble of small, illegible characters. Puddles from yesterday's rain lingered in the middle of the road, refusing to dry. The roof tiles held the yellowish tint of time, as if viewed through a filter. From the distance came the hawking of candied hawthorn sticks. This place—this was Long'an.

Our group got off our bicycles, our laughter and chatter seemingly shattering the tranquility of the place. We occasionally saw an old grandfather playing chess by the roadside, puffing on a pipe, with the "Peace and Prosperity" signs on the gates and the wisps of smoke rising from the roofs as his backdrop. Passing through this small alley, we reached a place that felt like a market; besides the usual goods, one could see paper umbrellas, rouge, and sugar figurines. The surrounding environment made even the tangled, messy power lines look like a photographic negative.

An old grandmother sat on the steps in front of her door, stitching a shoe sole. We passed by, holding our candied hawthorns. "Little Douzi likes candied hawthorns too," she said, as if talking to herself, yet also as if speaking to us. We walked over and sat down on the steps. "Grandma, could you tell us about Long'an?" She looked at us quietly, stopping her stitching for a long time before her cloudy eyes flickered, and she began to speak.

"In the old days—and when I say old days, I mean a long, long time ago—Long'an wasn't called this. Back then, we all called it Rong'an. In those days, the character for 'Dragon' (Long) was taboo; how would common folk dare to use it? Later, people suddenly started making a fuss, talking about how everyone is equal, asking what an emperor even is, and insisting on changing the name to Long'an. The elders wouldn't allow it, saying it was an affront to the Son of Heaven and would bring down divine retribution. We—the group of young people I'm talking about—said the times had changed. It was the Republic of China now, not the Qing government or the Xuantong era. That tablet was also erected by us back then." We followed the grandmother's proud gaze toward the stone. "Later, the Japanese devils came. They said China was doomed and that the devils would soon reach Long'an, telling me to leave quickly. I was pregnant with Little Douzi at the time. His father recited some grand principles and decided to join the army. He had studied in a private school for a few years and knew how to talk about big ideas—I can't remember them all now, something about farmers or the like. I told him, 'I don't understand your grand principles, but if you want to go, I won't stop you. Just name the child, and the boy and I will wait for you here in Long'an.' I waited for half a lifetime."

I asked, "And what about Uncle Douzi?" Grandma looked at my candied hawthorn and said, "A few years passed, the War of Resistance was won, but his father never returned. Everyone said he wouldn't come back, and that a woman alone with a son couldn't survive. They told me to find someone else and remarry while I was still young—that it didn't matter if I ruined my own life, but I shouldn't ruin the child's." Grandma’s eyes grew reminiscent. "Everyone said I couldn't raise Little Douzi, but I managed to raise him until he was 15. It’s just that, back then, Chairman Mao waved his hand and called for the War to Resist U.S. Aggression and Aid Korea. Little Douzi came back and told me he wanted to join the Volunteer Army to go find his father. I let him go, too, and he never came back either."

Grandma's tone was very calm, as if she were telling someone else's story, as if she were reciting poetry from a movie. None of us spoke, and she continued.

"Long'an is slowly changing. The people from Baiguo nearby always like to come here to acquire our land, saying they can give us big apartment buildings with supermarkets downstairs. I've lived in this courtyard my whole life; I drink from the well in the courtyard and eat from the land beside it. Why would I want to squeeze into a tiny room and suffer? In the past, the river water was clean, and all the people of Long'an relied on it to live. Now, the black water from Baiguo flows down, making the whole river stink. We protested, but they said it was a 'necessary sacrifice for scientific development' or something like that. People around here say Long'an is backward, but I just feel this is the most comfortable way to live. From the distant sound of the candied hawthorn hawker to the noise of children playing—that day, the hawker stopped calling out and switched to a loudspeaker, which startled me. And now, we aren't allowed to have earth burials; they say all the elderly must be cremated, and they even offer a reward of 10,000 yuan. I've lived most of my life alone as an old woman, and all I wanted was to be buried in the earth after I died. Now, even this wish, held for thousands of years, has been bought by technology—for 10,000 yuan." Grandma sighed softly. "I haven't had much schooling, but I know a little bit about logic. If development and progress make people uncomfortable, what kind of progress is that? The country is so big, yet it can't accommodate one old woman."

Grandma stood up shakily and walked into the house, saying, "Thank you for keeping an old woman company for so long. It's getting dark, you should head home." We didn't say a word on the way back. As we left Long'an from the other side, I looked back at the small town and said, "Let's take a picture. Maybe next time we come, we won't be able to see it anymore."

Just then, willow catkins drifted over and obscured half the lens; one could only faintly see the dilapidated brick houses and the smooth, rounded bluestone road.

——Long'an, as visited in a dream 2016.4.23