The Vanishing of Huashan

Zhao Xunjin, a name that dissipates in the wind like a musical note.

The last trace he left behind was a photograph on the Huashan cable car, with the still-frigid peaks of March in the background and a hazy sky resembling a vast, expressionless face. Then, he vanished. As if swallowed by the mountain, carried away by the wind, erased by some unknowable force.

I heard the news in a 24-hour convenience store. The female announcer's voice on the radio was flat and mechanical, as if broadcasting an unimportant product promotion. "...Young man Zhao Xunjin, who went missing while visiting Huashan, has been confirmed dead..." I was holding a can of midnight beer, standing at the checkout counter, waiting for the perpetually sleepy clerk to give me my change.

At that moment, I felt an indescribable emptiness. Not sadness, nor shock, but a deeper, more hollow feeling. Like staring into a bottomless black hole, seeing nothing but darkness.

Who is Zhao Xunjin? I don't know him. But his disappearance, like a pebble thrown into my calm, stagnant life, created ripples. I imagine him walking on the mountain path, perhaps alone, perhaps with friends, but in the end, he faced that silent mountain forest alone.

Why did he come to Huashan? To conquer? To escape? Or simply to find an answer? An answer about life, about existence, about meaning?

I don't know. Perhaps he didn't know either.

We are all walking in a giant maze, searching for an exit, searching for meaning. But often, we are just spinning in circles, or heading into deeper darkness.

I walked out of the convenience store, and the night wind blew, carrying a chill. The streetlights emitted a dim yellow glow, illuminating the empty street. I opened the beer and took a sip, the bitter taste spreading on my tongue.

I remember many years ago, I also went to Huashan. At that time, I was young and vigorous, always feeling that life had infinite possibilities. I stood at the top of the mountain, overlooking the sea of clouds below, and felt as if I was standing at the top of the world.

But now, I just feel tired.

Life is like a never-ending machine, carrying us along, repeating the same actions day after day, saying the same words, thinking the same questions. We are bound by work, family, and responsibilities, gradually losing ourselves, losing direction.

Zhao Xunjin's death, like a mirror, reflects the emptiness and confusion in our hearts. We live, but we don't know why we live; we pursue, but we don't know what we are pursuing. We are like empty bottles floating on the surface of the sea, drifting with the waves, with nowhere to rely on.

I looked up at the starry sky, but only saw a patch of darkness. Those twinkling stars, distant and indifferent, they will not change for anyone's disappearance.

Perhaps this world, in its essence, is meaningless. The meaning we seek is merely an illusion we impose upon it.

I finished the last sip of beer and threw the empty can into the trash. The sound of metal colliding, particularly harsh in the silent night.

I continue walking, my figure disappearing into the darkness. Just like Zhao Xunjin, disappearing into the mist of Huashan.

And tomorrow, the sun will still rise, the world will still turn. Everything will continue, as if nothing had happened.