Alongside the path lie graves of all sizes, the place where the local people bury their departed. Most of the tombstones bear similar inscriptions, typically variations of "The Grave of Ancestor/Ancestress xxx," sometimes adorned with a few auspicious words like "Prosperity for Generations, Eternal Longevity." Yet, there are many more graves, overgrown with weeds, their inscriptions weathered and forgotten. Amidst this sea of graves, in the myriad of small and large resting places, there lies one that should belong to my grandfather.

My grandfather was born into a family of generations of physicians, receiving a fine education from a young age. The upheaval of that tumultuous decade took away everything from him, but it did not change his goodness and resilience. However, years of oppression, turmoil, and strenuous physical labor ultimately took a toll on his health. He succumbed to lung cancer, passing away in the sixteenth year after the end of the Cultural Revolution. In that year, my mother and I were of a similar age.

This tale is one I've heard from countless mouths – my mother, grandmother, aunts. They possess memories of my grandfather, but I do not. For me, my grandfather exists solely within the pages of one story after another. I hope to find my grandfather's grave, to glimpse his life from the marker, to witness the proof of his existence. Yet, simultaneously, I am afraid. Afraid that what I ultimately find might be just a weathered stone bearing the words "The Grave of Ancestor xxx."

The passage in this article that resonates with me the most is this: "These etchings are not always the concluding sentence of someone's story. No grave can withstand centuries of acid rain, wind, and pigeon droppings. Many lives end without a mark, but a person's story does not need to be engraved on a stone. My grandfather's story, the land he traversed – my hometown – they are pages in the 'library of a complete life' that he left for me, the finest proof of his existence. I need not fret over whether his life left an imprint on a black stone. I will pick up this book from the shelf, 'imagine the adventures it holds, and then embark on my own adventure.'"

In my hometown, there is a mountain, and on that mountain, there winds a meandering path. Alongside the path lie graves of all sizes, the place where the local people bury their departed. Most of the tombstones bear similar inscriptions, typically variations of "The Grave of Ancestor/Ancestress xxx," sometimes adorned with a few auspicious words like "Prosperity for Generations, Eternal Longevity." Yet, there are many more graves, overgrown with weeds, their inscriptions weathered and forgotten. Amidst this sea of graves, in the myriad of small and large resting places, there lies one that should belong to my grandfather.

My grandfather was born into a family of generations of physicians, receiving a fine education from a young age. The upheaval of that tumultuous decade took away everything from him, but it did not change his kindness and resilience. However, years of oppression, turmoil, and strenuous physical labor ultimately took a toll on his health. He succumbed to lung cancer, passing away in the sixteenth year after the end of the Cultural Revolution. 

This tale is one I've heard from countless mouths – my mother, grandmother, aunts. They possess memories of my grandfather, but I do not. For me, my grandfather exists solely within the pages of one story after another. His grave was lost in the years of turmoil, and was never found by my mother and his other children. I hope to find my grandfather's grave, to glimpse his life from the marker, to witness the proof of his existence. Yet, simultaneously, I am afraid. Afraid that what I ultimately find might be just a weathered stone bearing the words "The Grave of Ancestor xxx."

"These etchings on the graves are not always the concluding sentence of someone's story." No grave can withstand centuries of acid rain, wind, and pigeon droppings. Many lives end without a mark, but a person's story does not need to be engraved on a stone. My grandfather's story, the land he traversed – my hometown – they are pages in the "library of life" that he left for me, the finest proof of his existence. I need not fret over whether his life left an imprint on a black stone. I will pick up this book from the shelf, imagine the adventures it holds, and then embark on my own adventure.