July 16, 1953
It's hard to imagine returning to this small island three years later, for either me or the one who might arrive.
A few days ago, I overheard that "Chiang's bandit troops have blown up the Jiulong River Bridge in an attempt to cut off reinforcements from Dongshan Island." So I set off back here, hoping to inquire about him. Since last night, a steady stream of bombers has flown overhead, dropping bombs like eggs, then raining down like meteorites on tiny Dongshan Island, as relentless as the PLA's artillery fire three years ago. Last night, I thought the hustle and bustle of travel would shield me from the sound of the bombardment. I clutched the letter to him I'd never mailed in years, hoping he'd descend into my mind in my dreams to guide me in my quest. Before dawn the next day, before the sun had bestowed its scorching grace upon the ocean and land beneath the Tropic of Cancer, I walked into the village, holding the half piece of jade he had left me, now smooth from my grip. The village looked even more dilapidated and desolate than when I arrived three years earlier. The old house was still the same, but its wooden backs were nearly broken, and the scales of the pottery tiles were shattered and scattered to the ground.
As I regained my composure from the village's desolation, I realized how naive and hopeless my journey had been. I had chosen to search for a person whose whereabouts were unknown, perhaps even dead, on a battlefield where blood spurted and still scorched the earth. Even if he had once lived, even if he had once lived on this small island, how could I find the fragments he had returned to the world among so many soulless bodies? I crouched in the corner of the wall and collapsed, catching the tears that flowed from my eyes. I closed my eyes, using my eyelids as a barrier to block out the outside world. I clutched the vibrant green jade in my hands, filled with sorrow and despair. I felt a green light gradually pierce the barrier of my vision. When I raised my head and opened my eyes, the green light was tinged with a hint of blood red, illuminated by the sunlight that was just beginning to stream into the old house. I immediately stood up and limped towards the source of the green light.
It was a piece—no, half a piece—stained with a hint of blood.
I grabbed it, pulled my own piece from my pocket, and joined the two pieces of jade together at the cracked corner.
I closed it.
I fell to my knees, weeping. The green light had already covered the whites of my eyes. Yes, he had been here before, he had been here before. I moved my body, slowly pulling my exhausted frame together. I trotted out, clutching the two pieces of jade tightly, and trotted around the village asking for his whereabouts, trying my best to ask anyone if they knew the whereabouts of the jade's owner.
What shocked me was that there were no young men left in the village. Almost all I saw were elderly people and women. They told me they'd seen the man I mentioned before, more than once. The last time was three years ago, when he and a group of Nationalist soldiers took away all the able-bodied men in the middle of the night, wearing the jade around his neck, just before the People's Liberation Army invaded the village. The village grandmother also saw him this time. She told me he'd broken into the old house and found a whole room of villagers hiding inside. He didn't do anything, but for some reason, he simply extinguished all the oil lamps and told them to be quiet so they wouldn't be discovered. He waited with them until the smoke of battle faded and they caught the last evacuating boat. But before leaving the house, the rope holding the jade was severed by a sharp piece of wood, and the jade fell here.
I asked them where the boat was headed, and they told me:
Kinmen.
After three years of searching, I found him less than ten kilometers from me. How foolish I was to have never imagined that the other side of the river, not far from home, was the most likely place for him. During the eight years of the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression, we were able to cross hundreds of miles of rivers and streams to meet, but the three years of civil war separated us like a shallow inland sea. I regret not holding his hand then, and I feel deep sorrow for all love forced to be separated.
The oil lamp is almost burnt out, and it's time for me to rest.
Don't miss me
(burn marks)
(torn pages)
1953年7月16日
很難想像在三年之後還能再來到這小島，不管是我還是可能到來的他。
幾天前偶然聽到“蔣匪軍炸毀了九龍江大橋，企圖切斷東山島的增援。”便動身回到這裡，希望再打探他的消息。從昨夜開始，就有源源不斷的轟炸機從我頭頂上飛過，像下蛋一般投下炸彈，再像隕石一般落到小小的東山島上，如三年前解放軍的炮火一樣毫不留情。我昨夜本以為旅途的奔波能夠讓我不受砲火聲的影響，我抱著這些年無處寄出的給他的信，期待夢鄉中他能夠降臨我的腦中指引我尋找的方向。
第二天破曉前，太陽還沒將火辣灼燒的恩澤賜予北回歸線下的大洋和大地，我拿著他給我留下的那已經因我的緊握而變得光滑的半塊玉石走進村里，村里的景象比我三年前來到時更加破敗和荒涼，古厝還是古厝，但是它木的脊梁也差不多斷了，陶瓦的鱗片也碎裂掉落一地。
當我從村里的破敗中回過神來時，我才發覺我來此處是多麼的大海撈針和天真。我選擇到一個大地上噴出撒下的鮮血還滾燙的戰場上尋找一個不知去向甚至死活的人，就算他曾經，哪怕曾經在這小島上活過，我又怎麼在那麼多具失去靈魂的肉體中找到他還給人間的碎片呢？當時的我，蹲在牆的一角，徑直倒了下去，用雙手接住我眼中流下的，我閉上雙眼，用眼瞼做擋住外界的牆。我緊握著手中鮮綠的玉，悲傷絕望著。我感到我眼前逐漸有一道綠光穿破我雙眼的壁壘，當我抬起頭睜開眼時，綠光中卻夾雜著一絲血紅，被初生灑入古厝的陽光點亮著。我立刻站起身一瘸一拐地走向綠光的源頭，
是一塊，不，是半塊沾了些許血絲的玉。
我抓起它，也從兜中拿出我的那一塊，並起兩塊玉的裂開的那一角。
合上了。
我跪倒在地，大哭著。綠光已然矇住了我的眼白。是的，他曾經來過，他來過。我挪動著我的身體，慢慢撐起疲憊的軀殼，小跑出來，緊抓著那兩片玉在村里四處詢問著他的去向，盡全力問村里人是否知道玉的主人的去向。
讓我震驚的是，在村里已然再沒有青壯年的男子，我所見的幾乎都是老人和婦女。他們告訴我，他們曾經見過我說過的這個人，還不只一次，上一次正是三年前，在解放軍攻進村前，他和一隊國軍士兵在半夜帶走了村里的所有壯丁時，脖子上就掛著這塊玉。這一次村里的阿嬤也看見他了，她對我說，他闖進了那間古厝，看到了一整間的老鄉躲在裡面，他什麼都沒有做，不知為何只是掐滅了所有的油燈，叫她們要小聲，別被外面的人發現了。和他們一直等到硝煙漸弱，趕上了最後一班的撤退的船。但在走出房門前，掛玉的繩子被一塊尖的木頭挑斷，這塊玉便落在了這裏。
我又問她們那艘船是去哪裡的，她們告訴我。
金門。
三年來尋覓，卻發現他就在離我只有不到十公里的地方，我真傻，總是想不到家不遠的對岸就是他最有可能在的地方。八年的抗戰，我們能跨越百里的大江大河相遇，可三年的內戰卻能用一彎淺淺的內海把我們分開。我後悔那時沒能抓緊他的手，也為一切被迫分離的愛而感到悲痛萬分。
油燈已經快要燒完了，我也該休息了。
勿念
（燒掉的痕跡）
（被撕掉的幾頁）