When I was little, there was a young maid from the countryside living downstairs. I was a lonely only-child, locked indoors with homework, so I would sneak out to find her.
We barely understood each other’s words, but loneliness懂得翻譯。 Her smile was enough.
One day she cut off the long braid she’d grown for over ten years. I begged for it. And when I held it, it was warm— as if her scalp still remembered me.
I clipped it to my head, pretended to be a Chinese fairy, a bedsheet for robes, a feather duster for a magic wand. It was ridiculous and perfect.
Then my head began to itch.
The adults panicked. High-proof liquor, towels, plastic caps— my childhood scalp probably survived a small-scale arson.
Soon I was forbidden to see her again. She disappeared back to her village. No farewell, no explanation. Just gone.
I forgot her name. I forgot her face. But I never forgot the braid.
It was the first time I touched someone else’s life so directly, so innocently, and also the first time it slipped away.
Some memories don’t fade because they matter— they stay because they were gentle, and lost too soon.