Liu Naige, Ph.D. in Literature, is a professor at Inner Mongolia University for Nationalities, a graduate advisor, and a member of the university’s Academic Committee. A former visiting scholar at Staffordshire University in the UK, she also serves in editorial roles with East-West Publishing House and China Daily–World Chinese Literary Arts. She has published over 50 academic papers and three monographs, receiving multiple national and provincial awards. As a literary writer, her fiction, poetry, and essays appear in both domestic and international media, often exploring themes of memory, identity, and cross-cultural resonance with subtle and reflective language.
Vertigo
By Liu Naige
This is a story about loss, memory, and reconciliation.It is not a tale of a horse, nor simply a man’s revenge—it is the long, tender search of a soul across time.Alejo spent a lifetime responding to the sudden shattering of his childhood.And he also spent a lifetime waiting for the white horse that once looked back at him—Vertigo.
Chapter One: Dusk at the Riding Ground
In the horse town at dusk, wind drifted in from afar, brushing against the low fences and stirring the vacant light above the fields.Alejo rode his old mountain bike slowly along the path outside the riding ground.
He wasn’t in a hurry. His movements were calm and unhurried, like someone long accustomed to walking alone.
Alejo stopped his bike and gently set a foot on the ground.His frame was upright, though his back was slightly curved—never hunched—his whole being still and solid, like a stone rooted in place.
His face was sharply defined, bearing both the steadiness of age and a gentle warmth.His brow was distinct, his gaze clear, carrying a faint blue shimmer, like a star that never went out in the night sea sky.
At the far end of the riding ground, a white horse stood in the glow of the setting sun.
The orange-gold light fell across its mane, illuminating a stretch of still time.
Alejo stood beneath an old tree, gazing at the horse.
Its outline, its expression, the sheen of its mane—all made his heart tremble.It was no ordinary horse.It was the companion of his childhood, the steed he had loved most—Vertigo.
He didn’t call out, but gently formed two sounds with his lips: “Bum… bum.”
That was how he used to call Vertigo when he was a boy.The white horse raised its head, its ears twitching slightly.Then, it began walking toward him, slowly and surely, as if crossing the river of time, stepping forth from memory.
When it reached him, it did not neigh or hesitate.It simply nudged Alejo’s cheek softly with its nose.Then, it pressed its forehead to his, and he lowered his head to meet it.
“Is it you…” he whispered, voice husky and choked, like wind gently striking the hollow of his chest.
The horse did not respond. It simply leaned quietly against his heart.Alejo gently patted its neck, then slowly turned around, pushing his mountain bike into the dimming sunset.
The horse remained still, as if watching a former version of Alejo walk away.
That scene rose from the depths of time, like a sealed memory surfacing again.
In that moment, the images of childhood flooded back:The crack of his father’s whip, the laughter of siblings, bonfires beyond the tents, the pasture, the river…And that boy on horseback, his face lit with sunshine.
Alejo had once possessed everything—And in a single night, lost it all.
Chapter Two: The Steed and the Father
Alejo’s childhood had once been rich and passionate.At that time, his family lived on a fertile ranch in eastern Mexico.His father was handsome and strong, like an ancient pine that never fell;
His mother was gentle and quiet, like moonlight resting beside a rural pond.The family lived in a solid old brick house, with a lawn in front and, behind it, a stretch of orchards and horse stables.
Back then, the family raised many horses.Each had its own name and character.
Alejo had his own horse—a pure white steed with a stubborn glint in its eyes, named Vertigo.It was his most faithful companion, and the shadow of his childhood soul.
Sister Margaret’s horse was a black-and-white piebald, and she rode it in the town’s equestrian shows. Her skirt fluttered, the horse’s hooves pounded like drums, and she galloped and wheeled through the morning breeze like a knightess stepped out of a fairy tale. She was not only beautiful and charming, but also genuine and understanding—a dream girl to many boys in town. She was always the first to notice her younger brother’s silence, the first to help their mother with chores, and she could always gently dissolve the tension between their father’s stern gaze and the clamor of their older brothers.
His brother’s horse was named Phantom, jet black from head to hoof—a brave companion in the bullfighting ring.Once, during a match, Alejo’s brother was knocked to the ground by a bull.In the chaos, Phantom, bloodied, carried him out of the arena.The moment it broke through the edge of the field, applause thundered from the stands.But his brother simply clung tightly to Phantom’s neck, tears and sweat mingling as they fell.
Their father had a chestnut-colored old horse that accompanied him across fields and hills—as though it were an indispensable half of his life’s journey.
It was an era when the sound of hooves replaced car engines— time when horses were part of growing up, a chapter of childhood fairy tales.
Every morning, Alejo would ride Vertigo to a neighbor’s home to fetch fresh milk.He often carried a huge enamel basin, riding along the forest trail carefully.Sunlight filtered through the leaves; cattle mooed in the distance.
One time, Vertigo seemed to be toying with him—ambling along at a lazy pace, then suddenly speeding up.When they reached the house gate, the horse came to a sharp stop.Alejo was caught off guard—milk splashed all over his face and clothes,and the basin dropped to the ground, bursting into a white splash.Vertigo threw its head back proudly and neighed loudly, as if saying, “Got you this time!”That day, Alejo’s face was covered in milk.His mother, standing at the kitchen door, couldn’t help laughing aloud,and his sister clapped her hands, bending over with laughter.
Their father was a true rider.He often took the siblings on horseback across mountains and valleys.On holidays, he’d take them camping—pitching tents, lighting fires, boiling water, cooking over the open flame, and watching the stars.He taught the children how to communicate with horses, how to navigate,and on nights when wolves roamed nearby, how to stand watch without a sound.In those days, horses weren’t just transport—they were family: brothers, sentinels, and friends.
One time, their father led them across a river swollen by heavy rain.He went first; Alejo followed close behind, and the others came after.The current surged, the water already rising past the horses’ bellies, nearly sweeping them away.Their father raised his whip; his horse fought the current and leapt ashore in just a few strides.The children followed one by one, hearts pounding with awe and courage.That day, Alejo first realized:To ride through the torrents of life, one must possess unwavering faith.
Another time, while camping, they encountered wolves.The herd grew alert, encircling the tents.Vertigo stood guard at the flap of Alejo’s tent, eyes sharp and wary.That night, the wolves never came near.He knew—it was because the horses were protecting them.
Horses were the quietest yet most loyal partners on that land.And Vertigo was a part of his soul.
He still remembered another heart-stopping moment.While riding across the border, a sudden explosion rang out from afar.A stray bullet came flying.Vertigo leapt up and shielded him with its body.Alejo was thrown to the ground, scraped and bruised—but alive.Vertigo was shot in the leg, blood gushing.He hugged the horse’s neck tightly, crying for help.He rinsed the wound with water, fed it pain-relieving herbs, and cared for it for more than a month.When the horse finally healed, Alejo himself collapsed from exhaustion and fell ill.
He never told anyone the details of that day.But deep in his heart, that was proof—Vertigo had given him life.A bond of mutual survival.
That kind of childhood was a symphony of wilderness and tenderness—an alchemy of running free and learning to trust.Until it all came to an abrupt end, when Alejo turned thirteen.
Chapter Three: The Nightmare at Thirteen
It was a quiet yet stifling afternoon.
Alejo’s father returned from the ranch, his brows deeply furrowed as he entered the house.He said he had a terrible headache and was feeling dizzy.He was a man who never admitted to pain—a man as strong as an ox, who never got sick.His mother grew worried and urged him:“You should go to the hospital. Maybe it’s some kind of infection.”
Just then, Alejo’s uncle appeared at the doorway.He stepped into the courtyard, saying,“Go to the hospital, don’t tough it out.”He said this with the usual expression on his face—a smile that was slightly stiff, a smile that sent chills down the spine.
Alejo’s mother wanted to accompany her husband,but the uncle said,“You stay home with the children. I’ll go with him.”After a brief hesitation, his father agreed.He put on his coat and followed his brother out the door.
In the dusk, his father’s silhouette looked like a wooden pillar drained of its strength—slow and heavy.That scene etched itself deep into Alejo’s memory.
That night, Alejo and his mother stayed home.The house was unusually quiet.The only sounds were the clinking of pots and pans in the kitchen, and the wind outside the window.Alejo felt uneasy, though he couldn’t say why.After dinner, his mother told him to sleep early.He lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.
Eventually, he drifted into slumber.
He dreamed of his father lying still in a hospital bed.The sheets were stark white, his face pale, eyes closed—no breath.The room was empty, the only sound was the wind outside the window, weeping softly.Alejo tried to cry out, but no sound came.Something seemed to press down on his throat.Tears fell in the dream, but he couldn’t wake up.
At dawn, he woke with a jolt.His heart was racing, his forehead covered in sweat.He got up and went into the kitchen.His mother stood at the stove, cooking porridge.Her expression was dazed, her face pale.
“When will Dad be back?” he asked quietly.
His mother paused, then said softly,“He should be back around noon.”
Alejo nodded.He didn’t mention his dream.He thought maybe he was just overthinking.
He sat on the doorstep and watched the sunlight climb up the branches of the jacaranda tree in their yard.
The tree had grown tall over the years—more than ten meters high—then suddenly spread wide at the top, like a giant umbrella,like his father’s arms stretched open beneath the sky of their yesterdays.He and his siblings used to climb that jacaranda every day,scaling it branch by branch until they reached the top.It was their favorite tree to climb.In bloom, its violet-blue flowers blanketed the branches,and hidden in the heart of the blossoms was a faint, sweet nectar.They would often pick the flowers and suck them lightly—that subtle sweetness tasted like the secret of summer.Hummingbirds often danced among the flowers, their wings fluttering like wind,as if they, too, were sipping that gentle sweetness.When it was time to come down, they’d slide down the trunk like firefighters.Their father always stood at the base of the tree, arms wide open,ready to catch each child as they dropped down giggling.
Those sun-drenched mornings,violet blossoms scattered in the wind, covering the ground little by little—and blanketing Alejo’s childhood too.It was the most beautiful place in their youth—simple, radiant, and rooted deep in time.
Noon came.
But the one who returned was not his father—it was his uncle.
He looked as though nothing had happened, carrying a bag of medicine.On his face was that same unbearable smile—cold, false, and disturbingly relaxed.
He stopped at the doorway, swept his gaze around the room, and said lightly:“Your father… won’t be coming back. The doctors did their best,but everything was too late.Remember this day—it’s the day of your father’s passing…”
His mother stood frozen at the stove.The bowl in her hand fell to the ground with a crash, but she didn’t move again.She didn’t cry, didn’t ask—she simply stood there,as though someone had pulled her soul right out of her body.
Alejo stood stiffly in place, like a sculpture frozen in clay.His lips moved, but no sound came.In his mind was nothing but the dream from the night before—the white sheets, the silent hospital room, his father’s pale face.Dream and reality fused together in that moment, without a seam.
In that instant, the world of his childhood collapsed in silence.Not with an earth-shaking roar—but as if all light had been withdrawn,leaving only a weightless darkness.
After his father died, everything in the home unraveled rapidly.
His mother, not well-educated, had no means to challenge legal documents or fine print.His uncle produced a so-called “property inheritance agreement,”stamped with seals and signatures they had never seen before.His mother sobbed as she signed.In the midst of chaos, the family’s farm, land, house, and even all the horses—were “legally” transferred to the uncle’s name at a ridiculously low price.
Alejo once found a ledger and a few handwritten records of horse breeding in his father’s desk drawer.He brought them to his mother.But she only shook her head and said:“Your father’s not coming back, son. As long as we can survive, that’s enough.”
Soon after, his mother moved out with all ten children.They left the red-brick mansion and settled in a low, dim house on the edge of town,lit only by a yellowing lamp.The most valuable thing in the house was his mother’s rough, but warm, hands.
On the day they moved, someone came to take away Vertigo.
The sun was harsh, the ground dry.The white horse resisted, neighed wildly, and kept looking back again and again.It didn’t understand what was happening,nor why its master wasn’t coming to its side.
Alejo knelt in the dust, pressing his lips together to make that familiar sound:“Bum… bum.”Trying to call him back.Vertigo stopped briefly—but a whip cracked against its side, and it staggered forward.Its eyes were wet, nostrils flaring.Just before it was loaded onto the truck,it turned its head one last time to look at Alejo.Its gaze was searing and silent.
“I’ll come find you one day…”Alejo whispered—speaking to Vertigo,and to himself.
That night, Alejo burned with a high fever, sleepless until dawn.From that moment on, he never slept through the night again.He could only sleep three or four hours a day.Each night, his dreams replayed:his father’s breath on the hospital bed, the sound of hooves, his mother’s quiet sobbing, his uncle’s cold smile.Those dreams were a curse with no cure—relived every night, trapping him at the edge of his childhood cliff.Alejo grew silent and withdrawn,gradually losing trust in nearly everyone.
Chapter Four: A Hearth Without Flame
From the age of thirteen, Alejo began working while attending school.He had been a gifted student, with excellent grades and real potential to become someone of ambition.But the collapse of his family struck like a flood—in a single night, it washed away all prospects for his future.He became a laborer of life, bearing the weight of harsh reality,carrying it from boyhood into the cold, hardened world of adulthood.
At eighteen, Alejo came to the United States alone, carrying his imagination of the “American Dream.”He thought the lights of America would be warmer than the stars of his homeland.
But reality quickly taught him:America had no dreams—only night.
Alejo settled in a small town in Southern California.When he first arrived, he worked many jobs: cleaning at a dental office, proofreading, office errands, delivering mail…Eventually, he became a night-shift technician—a job he held for over thirty years.
He was almost never awake during the day.He avoided crowds, disliked festivities, feared noise.
Only when the cold fluorescent light of the factory flicked on at nightdid he feel that he was truly “allowed to exist.”
Life moved forward in silence, day by day.Until one day, at a friend’s gathering, he met her—a woman who valued efficiency.She lived an orderly life, planned rigorously,but showed little warmth in matters of emotion.Their union felt more like a transaction—or a hasty compromise.
Married life was two individuals performing their roles:He accustomed to silence, she accustomed to control.She cared about the balance of bills and utilities.She would sometimes prepare him hot tea late at night,but never spoke of his daytime exhaustion.She was like a calm bookkeeper,or a navigator trying to master fate.He, on the other hand, was like an old object in the room—silent for years,only coming to life in the dead of night.
At first, their marriage had a hint of sweetness.At that dim hour when life felt uncertain,having someone to share a roof with was already a kind of blessing.Their affection wasn’t fiery,but within their steady gazes, a quiet understanding grew.But such balance didn’t last long.
Alejo’s silence, once seen as “steadfast” when they met,soon became, in her eyes, “dull” and “emotionless” after marriage.He wasn’t good at expressing himself,and had grown used to bearing his nightmares and loneliness alone.To her, this silence was more a source of frustration than sympathy.
Worse still, he didn’t earn much.Alejo worked a physically demanding night job, and money was tight.It wasn’t enough to satisfy her yearning for a “better life.”So the complaints began, little by little.
She said he earned too little, and didn’t talk enough.Said he didn’t seem like a husband—just a roommate.Said she saw no bright future in this home.
At first, Alejo tried to explain.But later, he learned to keep quiet.He knew she wasn’t malicious—just misunderstood him.And he had never truly opened himself to anyone.
In the early days, the company paid weekly.On those Fridays, she would stand at the door smiling,a hot meal on the table, the house filled with a sense of “home.”Later, the company switched to biweekly payments.Her smile only appeared on those paydays.The rest of the time, silence prevailed.Then it became monthly.Her smile flickered briefly at the end of each month,and sometimes, didn’t appear at all.
Eventually, salaries were deposited directly into the bank.She no longer waited by the door,
no longer prepared a meal.Her smile faded like sunlight printed on paper—present once, but never warm again.
Thus, the marriage slowly shifted—from closeness to mutual endurance.Sometimes, Alejo would jolt awake in the middle of the night, gasping for air.She would turn over and mutter:“Did you have another dream? Maybe you should see a therapist?”
He tried to explain,tried to tell her about Vertigo,about the trauma of losing his father as a child.But she only frowned and said lightly:“Aren’t you overthinking it? Aren’t you doing fine now?”
He fell silent again.
Alejo knew—she wasn’t a bad person.She simply couldn’t see his dreams.She didn’t understand how one night at the age of thirteencould keep burning like a low-grade fever for decades afterward.They didn’t argue,but they rarely spoke.
The marriage became a fireplace without fire—complete in form,but never truly warm.The saddest thing isn’t the cold—it’s the fire that could have burned,but was snuffed out by their own hands.
There are two kinds of marriage:One is the hand that reaches out when you’re drowning;The other is a back that never turns around—even though you’re standing right on the shore.
Perhaps Alejo’s own silence and emotional shutdown were part of the problem.He never truly opened himself up,nor could he offer the material security she wanted.This marriage felt more liketwo people groping through the fog—neither meaning to hurt the other,but still unable to save each other in the end.
Chapter Five: The Night Rider
Alejo had become a “knight of the night.”
Outside of marriage, there was almost no social circle in his life.His world grew increasingly quiet.
He continued to live like a night walker.Every evening at dusk, he would ride that old mountain bikethrough the hills and woods of Norco—California’s “horse town”—and sometimes even along a stretch of coastline.To work, from work, for groceries, reading, or revisiting familiar places—he relied on that bike.Its tires had been replaced several times,the frame now rusted and weathered,but he had never abandoned it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t own a car.He sometimes drove,but the car was more a tool than a companion.Only that mountain bike had kept him company—listening to the wind pass through the hills,smelling the earthy scent of soil,watching the stars and moon above—witnessing him stumbling home on nights of utter exhaustion.It was like Vertigo.Like that horse keeping silent vigil outside his tent during childhood camps—the sleepless guardian.
Wind blew through the canyon, cool and fragrant with grass.He loved that kind of wind—it calmed the soul, lightened the memories.He once said,“The air inside a house is dead.Only the wind at night is proof that I’m still alive.”
The stars above were sparse—like the unreachable lights of his homeland.Sometimes, in the middle of the night,he would stop in front of the library’s long bench,sip a cup of coffee,and read a few pages of a book.
He loved books.Though he hadn’t been able to continue school,he’d always been a top student.Reading had never left him.He loved history, philosophy, poetry.He said the real world held too much bitterness,but in books, there were dreams unfinished.
In that old library’s corner,he read Laozi and Nietzsche,Mexican revolutionaries and five thousand years of Chinese history.In the margins, he wrote notes—his dreams,his memories of Vertigo,his father,and the word “if”—a word he never dared speak aloud his entire life.
Books were the last open window in his soul.Even if ruins lay beyond,as long as wind could still pass through,his spirit could still stir.
Often, only after nights of extreme fatigue would Alejo fall briefly into sleep.But he never called it rest.He called it “falling.”
Like a fruit stripped of its branch,plummeting from the sky into a black swamp—quiet, without sound, without echo.
Alejo had become a prisoner of dreams.
He dreamed of Vertigo neighing in the middle of a river,ears alert, hooves churning the water;he dreamed of his father standing at the tent entrance,a cup of warm milk in hand,a campfire glowing behind him.He also dreamed of his uncle’s face—that ever-smirking, cunning face—suddenly appearing at the end of a hospital’s dim corridor,like a shed snake skin—cold and slick.
He never left.He never changed.He simply kept wandering through early-morning streets,graveyard-shift factories,and libraries at the city’s edge.Those places weren’t noisy,weren’t crowded.They suited him.They embraced him.Bit by bit,they turned him into a true “night rider.”
Between him and the world,very little connection remained.But there was one thread that never broke—his sister.
She had stayed in their hometown—Alejo’s last bridge to the past.Margareta sent updates from time to time:The town had a new priest.The old house’s jacaranda bloomed again this year.Sometimes, she attached a photo—a white horse’s silhouette passing through town.
Alejo occasionally replied.Usually brief.
“How tall is that jacaranda now?”
Other times, he simply wrote:“Have you ever heard that horse neigh?”They didn’t talk about fate,rarely about pain.But those messages carried the taste of “roots”—the only trace he could still feel in a foreign land.
Once, his sister wrote:“I dreamed of Dad.He was holding Vertigo, waiting for you across the river.”
Alejo didn’t respond for a long time.
The next day, he wrote back one sentence:“I dreamed of them too.The river’s high, but they’ve never gone far.
Chapter Six: A Belated Echo
Many years later, Alejo finally returned to that land which had long disturbed his soul.
It was dusk. The sky hung low and heavy, clouds pressing down.Wind blew from the east end of town, rustling the branches of the jacaranda in the yard, making a long, faint sound.He carried no luggage, gave no notice to anyone—just slung a cloth bag over his shoulder,a shadow quietly stepping out of the night,walking up to the front door of his uncle’s house.
The door was ajar.Dim yellow light leaked through the curtain’s gap, spilling onto the ground.The furnishings inside remained familiar,but now seemed coated in a layer of dust and time.The curtains hung low.The house was silent.The air smelled of mildew and faint medicine—like the scent exhaled from a neglected, ailing body.
Alejo gently pushed the door open.His footsteps made no sound.He wasn’t coming home—he was stepping into a moment frozen in time.
In the dim living room,a man lay on the sofa—his uncle—eyes shut, breath weak, seemingly asleep.
Alejo didn’t approach right away.He stood silently at the doorway for a long moment—as if waiting for the man to wake,or waiting for the debts from memory to rise up on their own.
Only after a while did he slowly step forward,standing in front of the couch, lowering his head to gaze at that aged face.Time had carved deep furrows across it,but the look between the brows had not changed—that same coldness, calculation, and hidden pride Alejo recognized instantly.
He drew a deep breath,and in the voice of his father Donald, whom he had long since buried in his heart,he called out the sleeper’s name:
“Fe…fealmeanu.”
The man on the sofa stirred slightly,like a leaf rustled by a passing wind in a dream.Alejo stepped closer.His voice grew lower, yet more distinct:
“It’s me.”
This time, the man’s eyes sprang open.
In the lamplight,he saw Alejo’s face—that face now so much like Donald’s: the contours, the brows, even the voice—as if someone had clawed him back from the grave.
His pupils dilated in panic.His complexion drained white.His lips trembled, and he murmured:
“You’re… Donald? You’re not dead… no, that’s impossible…You died…”
He looked like someone cast into a nightmare—trying to rise but paralyzed,his words chaotic and frantic:
“It wasn’t me… It wasn’t my fault…I only… only…”
That voice no longer carried the tone of excuses—it was crumbling. Like a wall pushed over in silence,stones flying, dust rising.
Alejo remained standing, unmoving. His face—caught between light and shadow—was still as stone, emotionless.
He understood, finally—in this moment, he did not need to accuse anything.
Every word this man spoke was a verdict against himself. No interrogation was needed, no violence. At the edge of death’s shadow, a man’s deepest fears and guilt would surface on their own.
He stood there a while longer, then turned and quietly walked out of the house that had once held dominion over his fate.
The wind stirred the curtains.Behind him, the wooden door gave a creak—like an old clock churning out its final chime at twilight.
He didn’t look back.
The town was deep in night. The air carried the scent of damp soil and well water. Streetlamps glowed dimly, stars barely visible. He followed the old path,passed two rows of low houses,turned into a narrow alley, at the end of which stood his sister’s home.
The moment the door opened, his sister was standing there.
She wasn’t surprised—as if she had always known he would come.
Time had etched fine lines into her face, gray strands into her hair, but those eyes—they still shone like the ones in childhood photos: clear, warm.She called his name and opened her arms.
Without hesitation, like a child returning after many years, he stepped into her embrace. And in that moment, he felt something long forgotten—the scent of forgiveness, like warmth rising gently from an old hearth.
The siblings sat inside the familiar house. A photo still hung on the wall—from the days when they were young, riding horses.Vertigo’s mane flew in the wind.Their father held the reins.Their mother stood beneath the jacaranda tree, its branches heavy with blue flowers, waving toward them.
His sister asked softly:“Did you… see him?”
Alejo nodded.
“Did you speak?”
“No. I didn’t need to.”
Tears welled in her eyes:“You finally came back…I always knew you would. I just wanted you to come back.”
That night, they spoke of many things from the past.
Margareta gently lifted the curtain of those old years,memory by memory.
The year their father died, she was seventeen. She had thought herself strong enough to carry their mother and siblings through the storm. But the real storm wasn’t losing the house, the horses, the land, or being forced into poverty—it was the silence that grew among them.
The quietest of all was Alejo. He was like a sealed night—no matter how close she got,she couldn’t wake him fully.
She knew—her brother blamed himself for not saving their father, for watching helplessly as Vertigo was taken away. He had grown up overnight, but buried his childhood deep in dreams,never willing to unearth it again.
All these years, she never stopped writing to him. Not just to speak—but to let him know someone was still waiting.
Someone remembered how Vertigo ran. Remembered the warmth of their father’s palm.
Remembered that summer when the jacarandas bloomed so wildly it looked as though the sky was falling.
That evening, when she opened the door and saw Alejo standing outside, she seemed to hear their mother calling him home from the kitchen: soft, warm—like a hearth that had never truly gone cold.
She knew, her brother had finally come through his long, dark night. Outside, the moonlight was pale. The insects had gone quiet.
That night, Alejo slept deeply—deeper than he could remember.He didn’t recall when he closed his eyes.He only remembered:the breeze outside was light,and the light inside was warm.
The next morning,his sister made steaming hot corn porridge. Just as he lifted the bowl,she answered a phone call.The voice on the other end was hurried and hushed. She listened a few seconds, then sat down slowly, and looked at him.
“He… is gone. Midnight last night—cardiac arrest.”She didn’t say the word “uncle.”
The room fell into silence. The wind rustled the curtains. Light on the wall cast a swaying tree-shadow.
Alejo said nothing. He simply put the bowl down on the table, lowered his head, and sat in silence for a long time.He didn’t ask for details—he didn’t need to. He knew—it was no coincidence.
Some deaths require no blade, no trial.Some guilt splits the heart from within, and on a destined night, it collapses on its own.
He didn’t feel satisfaction, nor relief. Only this—the dust had finally settled.
In his heart, he said something silently—no sound, no witness:“I’m no longer just surviving.
Chapter Seven: The White Horse and the Journey Home
Winter mornings in the horse town of always arrived with a light mist. Wind swept across the pasture grass, stirring gentle ripples—like the trembling surface of a lake at the moment of waking from a dream. At the end of the street, that white horse once again walked slowly toward Alejo,its mane rising slightly in the breeze.
Alejo reached out slowly,stroking the horse’s mane and resting his forehead against it,breathing with it, gently intertwined.His temples had turned gray, trembling slightly in the wind.
In that moment,he seemed to hear the crack of his father’s whip, the neighing of Vertigo galloping along a riverbank, the laughter of children riding through the woods, and even his sister calling his name from far away.
From that day forward, Alejo often came to the riding ground in the early morning. No one knew who he was. No one disturbed him. He would stand quietly by the fence from time to time,making that familiar sound with his lips—“bum, bum”—to see if the white horse would come to him again.
He began writing letters to his sister.He wrote: “I dreamed of Vertigo, walking slowly toward me across a river paved with white snow. It didn’t speak, just turned its head at the end of the river and looked back at me. I knew—it had forgiven me.”
His sister replied: “You were never its burden. You were the one it chose to approach.It never forgot you.”
He wrote again: “These days, I often dream of Father. He’s standing on the far bank, holding a horse. It’s as if he’s waiting for me to come over.”
She answered:“You already have.”
After that, Alejo no longer woke up gasping in the middle of the night. His dreams grew gentler.
No more shouting, no more fleeing.Only him, riding a horse, moving slowly between mist and light. In those dreams,there were familiar riversides, rising smoke from cooking fires, his father’s smile, and Vertigo’s eyes.
He finally understood: Though childhood had been stolen, and loved ones were gone—love had never been broken.
Vertigo had never died.
It lived on in every dream where someone still believed in loyalty and gentleness.It lived on in the very moment when Alejo, having crossed the long night, still chose to turn back and look one more time.
And he—had finally become his own herdsman.
Postscript
This is a story about loss, revenge, trust, and redemption. Alejo’s life was like a river crossing through the dry season—winding, parched, but never ceasing its flow.
The horse, in this novel, was not merely a childhood companion. It was a symbol of the soul—loyalty, strength, silent companionship.
May everyone who treads silently through life one day, in some early morning, meet again the white horse they once loved.
在记忆与沉默中跋涉：刘乃歌小说《Vertigo》欣赏
刘乃歌，文学博士，现为内蒙古民族大学教授、研究生导师、校学术委员会委员，曾任英国斯泰福厦大学访问学者。她同时担任中西方书局副总编及《中国日报·世华文艺》编委。至今已发表学术论文五十余篇，出版专著三部，屡获国家级及省部级奖励。作为文学创作者，她的小说、诗歌与散文作品发表于海内外多家媒体，语言细腻沉静，善于在文字中探讨记忆、身份与跨文化共鸣等主题。
《Vertigo》
刘乃歌
这是一个关于失落、记忆与和解的故事。它不是关于一匹马，也不仅是一个人的复仇，它是一个灵魂在漫长时光中找寻温柔的努力。阿莱霍用一生，去回应童年那场突如其来的破碎，也用一生，去等待那匹回望他的白马“Vertigo”。
第一章：马场黄昏
黄昏的马城，风从远处吹来，拂过低矮的围栏，也吹动草地上空荡的光线。阿莱霍骑着那辆陈旧的山地车，沿着马场外的小路缓缓前行。
他没有赶时间，动作不疾不徐，像一个早已习惯独自行走的人。
阿莱霍停下车，把一只脚轻轻撑在地上。他的身形挺拔，如一块经风历雨的石，沉默却不冷硬。他静静伫立着，目光落在那匹白马身上，脸上泛起一丝轻微的动容——那是久违的温柔，也是突如其来的恍惚。鼻梁高挺，面庞轮廓沉着而坚毅，此刻却因记忆的涌入而柔和下来。他的蓝眼睛微微泛光，仿佛一湖被旧时光扰动的水，涌起久远的回音。他仿佛又看见了童年的那个午后，那些马匹、尘土与风，从遥远的时间深处走来，缓缓浮现在他的眼底。
马场尽头，一匹白马正站在落日的余晖中。橘金色的光洒在它的鬃毛上，像点亮了一段静止的时间。
阿莱霍站在一棵老树下，望着那匹马。
那轮廓、那神情、那鬃毛的光泽——都让他心头一颤。那不是别人，那是他童年时最亲密的伙伴，那匹他最深爱的骏马——Vertigo。
他没有叫喊，只是轻轻地，用上下嘴唇发出两个唇音：“嘣、嘣。”
那是他小时候呼唤Vertigo的方法。
白马抬起头，耳朵微动。接着，它竟然缓缓地朝他走来。每一步都小心而坚定，像是穿越了岁月的长河，踏着记忆而来。
走到他面前时，它没有嘶鸣，也没有迟疑，只是用鼻子轻轻蹭了蹭阿莱霍的脸颊。接着，它将额头靠近他，他也轻轻低头，将脸贴在它的额头上。
“是你吗……”他低声说，声音低沉哽咽，像风在胸腔中轻轻撞响。
白马没有回应，只是安静地贴着他的胸口。阿莱霍轻轻拍了拍它的脖子，然后缓缓转身，推着山地车走进渐暗的夕阳。
白马站在原地，一动不动，仿佛在目送他曾经的自己。
这一幕，如同某段被封存的记忆，从岁月深处慢慢浮出水面。
那一刻，童年的画面纷至沓来：父亲的马鞭声，兄弟姐妹的笑声，帐篷外的篝火、牧场、河流……还有那个骑在马背上，脸上洒满阳光的少年。
阿莱霍曾拥有一切，也在一夜之间，失去了全部。
第二章：骏马与父亲
阿莱霍的童年曾是丰盈而热烈的。那时，他家住在墨西哥东部一座富饶的农庄里。父亲英俊强壮，仿佛是永不倒下的古老松树；母亲温柔安静，像乡间水塘边的月光。他们一家住在砖墙厚实的老宅中，屋前有草地，屋后是成片的果树林和马厩。
那时候，家中养了许多马。每一匹都有自己的名字和性格。
阿莱霍有自己的马——那匹通体雪白、眼神倔强的马，名叫Vertigo。那是他最忠实的伙伴，也是他童年灵魂的影子。
姐姐玛格丽特的马是一匹黑白花斑马，她骑着它参加镇上的马术表演。裙摆飞扬，马蹄如鼓，她在晨风中盘旋疾驰，像童话中走出的女骑士。她不只是美丽动人，还是个性格率真、善解人意的女孩，是镇上很多男孩的梦中情人。她总是第一个发现弟弟的沉默，第一个为母亲分担家务，也总能在父亲严厉的目光与兄长们的喧嚣之间，轻轻化解紧张。
哥哥的马叫“幻影”，通体乌黑，是斗牛场上的英勇伙伴。一次比赛中，哥哥被斗牛顶翻在地，是幻影在混乱中顶着血光将他驮出了赛场。幻影奔出场边那一刻，四周掌声雷动，哥哥却在马背上紧紧搂住了它的脖子，泪水与汗水一同滑落。
父亲则拥有一匹棕红色的老马，随着他走遍田野与林丘，仿佛他人生旅途中不可或缺的另一半。
那是一个马蹄声代替汽车引擎的年代，一个马儿陪伴成长的童话岁月。
阿莱霍每天清晨要骑着Vertigo到邻居家取新挤的牛奶。他经常端着一只硕大的搪瓷盆，骑在马背上，小心翼翼地穿过林间小道，晨光从树叶间洒下来，牛群在远处哞叫。
有一次，Vertigo像是在捉弄他似的，一会儿慢慢踱步，一会儿忽然提速。等到家门口时，马猛地刹住脚步，阿莱霍手中的牛奶全泼在了自己脸上和衣服上，盆子还掉在地上，溅起一滩乳白。Vertigo得意地仰头长嘶一声，像在说：“今天捉弄你成功了！”那天他满脸是奶，母亲站在厨房门口忍不住笑出声来，姐姐也拍着手笑弯了腰。
父亲是个真正的骑士。他常带着他们兄妹几个骑马穿山越岭。每逢假日，他会带孩子们骑马露营，扎帐篷、升火、烧水、野炊、看星星。他教孩子们如何与马沟通，如何辨认方向，甚至在有狼出没的夜里教他们怎样不动声色地守护彼此。那时候的马不仅是交通工具，更是家庭的一部分，是兄弟，是卫士，是朋友。
有一回，父亲带他们穿越一条暴雨后涨水的河流。他走在前面，阿莱霍紧跟在后，兄弟姐妹们骑马跟在最后。水流湍急，水已经漫过了马腹，几乎把马冲走。父亲挥动马鞭，身下的马奋力踩水，几步之间便跃上了对岸。孩子们一一效仿，心中充满敬畏与勇气。那一日，阿莱霍第一次意识到，马背上的人要拥有坚定的信念，才能带着马越过人生的急流。
还有一次，他们野营时遇到野狼出没。马群警觉地围绕在帐篷四周，Vertigo站在他帐篷门口，眼神警惕。那夜，狼没有靠近。他知道，那是因为有马在守护他们。
马，是那片土地上最沉默却最忠诚的伙伴。而Vertigo，更是他灵魂的一部分。
他还记得另一次惊心动魄的经历。他骑马穿越边境时，忽然远处传来一声爆响，一颗流弹直朝他飞来，Vertigo猛地跃起，用身体挡住那颗子弹。他滚落在地，身上擦伤，但活了下来。马腿中弹，血流不止。他紧紧抱着马脖子，呼喊着救命。他用水清洗伤口，喂它止痛草药，整整照顾了它一个多月。马伤愈合了，阿莱霍也累的病倒了。
他从未向任何人讲过那天的细节。但在他心中，那是Vertigo用生命换来的“共生”的证明。
那样的童年，是荒野与温情的交响，是奔跑与信赖的炼金术。直到一切，在阿莱霍十三岁那年，戛然而止。
第三章：十三岁的梦魇
那是一个宁静又沉闷的下午。
阿莱霍的父亲从牧场归来，走进屋里时眉头紧皱，说自己头疼得厉害，还感觉有些晕。他从不轻易喊疼，是个强壮得像牛一样的男人，从不生病。母亲担心不已，劝他说：“去医院看看吧，也许是感染了病毒。”
就在这时，叔叔正好出现在门口。他一边走进院子，一边说：“去医院吧，别硬撑。”他说这话时，脸上挂着他一贯的笑——那种略显僵硬、令人不寒而栗的微笑。
母亲本想陪他去，可叔叔说：“你留在家里照顾孩子，我陪他去就好。”父亲迟疑了一会，最终同意了，披上外套，跟着哥哥走了出门。
黄昏下，父亲的背影像一根被抽空的木柱，缓慢而沉重。那一幕，深深印在阿莱霍的记忆里。
那晚，母亲和阿莱霍留在家里。家里安静得出奇，只听得见厨房锅碗的碰撞声和窗外的风声。阿莱霍心里有些不安，但年幼的他无法说出哪里不对。他吃完饭，母亲让他早点睡觉。他躺在床上，翻来覆去，迟迟无法入眠。
终于，在不知不觉间，他睡着了。
他梦见父亲安静地躺在医院病床上，床单雪白，脸色苍白，眼睛闭着，没有呼吸。他梦见病房里没有人，只有窗外风在低声哭。他想要喊出声，却喊不出来，像被什么按住了喉咙。他在梦中流泪，却醒不过来。
天刚亮的时候，他从梦中惊醒，心跳加速，满头是汗。他起身走到厨房，看见母亲正在灶台前煮粥，眼神恍惚，脸色苍白。
“爸爸什么时候回来？”他小声问。
母亲顿了顿，语气轻轻地说：“应该中午就能回来。”
阿莱霍点了点头，没有说出自己的梦。他想，也许只是自己想多了。他坐在门槛上，看着阳光慢慢爬上庭前的蓝花楹。这棵树直直地生长了十多米高，到顶端才猛然舒展开枝桠，像一把巨大的伞，也像父亲张开的双臂，撑开在旧日的天空里。他和兄弟姐妹们几乎每天都要爬上爬下，他们从树干上一节一节地往上窜，直到接近树冠顶端。那是他们最喜欢攀爬的一棵蓝花楹，花开时节，蓝紫色的花朵压满枝头，花心里藏着一丝淡淡的甜汁，兄妹们常常摘下来轻轻吮吸，那微甜的味道就像夏天的秘密。花间常有蜂鸟飞舞，翅膀扑扇如风，仿佛也在偷饮那一点点甜美。下来时，他们就像消防员一样沿着树干滑下，而父亲总是站在树下，张开双臂，稳稳地接住每一个咯咯笑着跌落的孩子。那些阳光跳跃的清晨，蓝紫色的花瓣在风中落下，一点点铺满地面，也铺满了阿莱霍的童年。那是他们童年最美的地方，简单、清亮，又牢牢地生长在时间之中。
中午到了。
进门的，不是父亲，而是叔叔。
他像什么事都没发生过似的，拎着一袋药，脸上挂着那种让人无法直视的笑容——冷漠、虚伪、甚至带着一丝轻松。他停在门口，目光在屋里扫了一圈，语气轻飘飘的：
“你父亲……再也回不来了，医生尽力了，可是一切都太晚了，记住今天就是你们父亲的祭日……”
母亲站在灶前，手里的碗“咣”地一声掉在地上，却没有再动。她没有哭，也没有问，只是呆呆站着，像被人抽走了灵魂。
阿莱霍愣在原地，整个人像被冻结的泥塑。嘴唇张了张，却发不出声音。他脑子里只有昨晚那个梦：洁白的床单、沉默的病房、父亲苍白的脸。梦境在此刻和现实无缝重叠。
那一刻，童年的世界无声地坍塌了。不是天塌地裂的那种轰鸣，而是一切光亮都被抽走，剩下的，只是一片失重的黑。
父亲去世后，家中的一切迅速崩塌。
母亲没什么文化，也无法质疑法律与文书的细节。叔叔带来了一份“产权继承协议”，盖着他们从未见过的印章和签字。母亲一边啜泣，一边在文件上签字，在混乱中，家族的农场、土地、宅子，甚至所有的马匹，都以极低的价格“合法”转移到叔叔名下。
阿莱霍曾在父亲的书桌抽屉中找到一本账本和几张手写的养马记录。他拿给母亲看，但母亲只是摇头：“你爸爸不会回来了，儿子。咱们能活下去就好。”
不久之后，母亲带着十个孩子搬离了那座红砖大宅子，住进镇边一间低矮的砖屋，室内一盏昏黄的灯。家里最值钱的，是母亲那双粗糙却温暖的手。
就在搬家那天，有人来牵走了Vertigo。
阳光强烈，地面干燥，白马在几名陌生人的牵引下挣扎、嘶鸣，一次次回头。它不明白发生了什么，也不明白为什么自己的主人没有靠近它。
阿莱霍跪在尘土中，用上下嘴唇碰撞，发出熟悉的“嘣、嘣”声，试图召唤它。Vertigo停下脚步，却被一鞭抽得踉跄前行。它的眼睛湿润，鼻翼颤动。上车前，它努力回头望向阿莱霍，目光灼热而沉默。
“我会回来找你的……”阿莱霍低声说，像是对他的Vertigo说的，也像是对自己。
那一晚，阿莱霍高烧不退，整夜未眠。从此之后，他再也没有睡过一个完整的夜晚。每天，他只能睡三、四个小时。梦里循环着父亲病床上的呼吸、马蹄声、母亲的底泣、叔叔的冷笑。那些梦像无解的诅咒，夜夜重演，把他困在童年的悬崖边缘。阿莱霍变得内向寡言，渐渐不再信任任何人。
第四章：壁炉无火
十三岁起，阿莱霍便一边打工一边上学。原本天资聪颖，学习优异的他，完全有可能成为一个有抱负的人。但家庭的倾覆如同洪水，一夜冲毁了他的未来。他成了生活的搬运工，扛着沉重的现实，从少年走进冷硬的成人世界。
十八岁那年，阿莱霍怀揣着对“美国梦”的想象，孤身来到美国。他以为美国的灯光会比故乡的星辰更温暖，但现实很快告诉他：美国没有梦，只有夜。
阿莱霍在南加州的一个小镇上扎下了根。初来乍到，他做过牙科诊所的杂工、校对、办公室打杂、邮递员……最后他成为一名夜班技师，一干就是三十余年。
他几乎不在白天醒着。他拒绝热闹，害怕人群，讨厌节日喧嚣。唯有深夜的工厂的那盏冷光灯亮起，他才真正“被允许存在”。
生活在沉默中，一天天推进。直到一次朋友聚会，他遇见了她——一个讲求效率的女人。她生活井井有条、计划严密，对人情却少有温度。他们的结合更像一场交易，也像一次仓促的妥协。
婚后的生活是两个个体在履行义务，他习惯沉默，她习惯掌控。她关心账单与水电开支的平衡，也偶尔在深夜为他准备热茶，却从不提起白天的疲惫。她像一个冷静的账房先生，也像一位试图掌控命运的航海者。他则像房间里的一件旧物，日久无言，只在深夜独自苏醒。
刚开始，他们的婚姻还算甜蜜。在那个夜色缠绕、人生未明的阶段，能有人愿意与他共筑屋檐，本就是种幸运。两人之间的感情并未如火如荼，却也在彼此沉稳的眼神中，悄然达成了某种默契。只是，这种平衡维持不了太久。
阿莱霍的沉默，在相识时被视作“稳重”，婚后却成了她口中的“木讷”“冷漠”。他不善表达，又习惯独自承受噩梦与孤独。而她，对这份沉默的解释，更多是误解。
再加上他收入有限，阿莱霍做的是夜班体力工种，日子过得紧巴，不足以满足她对“更好生活”的向往。于是，抱怨便一点一点地堆积。
她说他挣钱少，也不说话；说他不像个丈夫，只像个室友；说她看不到这个家有任何明亮的前景。阿莱霍起初还试着解释，但后来他学会了沉默，他知道这不是恶意，只是误解，而他从未真正敞开过自己。
最初，公司每周五发工资。那一晚，妻子会站在门口，笑意盈盈，桌上热着饭菜，屋里透着家的气息。
后来，工资改为两周发一次。妻子也只在那一夜笑着迎他，其余日子多是沉默。再后来，变成月薪，妻子的笑容只在月底短暂停留，甚至有时也不再出现。
直到工资变为电子转账，汇入账户，妻子不再出现在门口，也不再准备饭菜。笑容，像纸上的阳光，存在过，却从未温暖。
婚姻就这样，一步一步，从彼此靠近，变成了各自安静地忍耐。
有时，阿莱霍半夜惊醒，喘息着坐起。她翻个身，说一句：“你是不是又梦见什么了？是不是该去看心理医生了？”
他试着解释，试着讲起Vertigo，讲起那场深埋童年的丧父之痛。但她只是皱眉，淡淡地说：“你是不是想太多了？你现在不是也过得挺好吗？”
他不再说话。
阿莱霍知道，她并不是坏人，她只是无法看懂他的梦境，也不明白，一个人可以因为十三岁的那个夜晚，而在之后的几十年里持续低烧。
他们不争吵，但也少有交流。婚姻像一座没有柴火的壁炉——形式完整，却从未温暖。最令人悲哀的，不是冷，而是那一团本可以燃烧的火，最终被亲手熄灭。
有一种婚姻，是在你落水时向你递出手的那个人；而另一种，是你站在岸边，却始终等不到那个转身回头的背影。
也许，阿莱霍自己的沉默与封闭，也是原因之一。他从未真正敞开自己，也无法给她物质上的安全感。这一场婚姻，更像是一场彼此在雾中摸索的误投——谁都不曾想伤害，却终究谁也没能拯救谁。
第五章 夜行骑士
阿莱霍成了“夜的骑士”。
婚姻之外，阿莱霍的生活里，几乎没有别的“社交圈”。他的世界日渐安静。
他始终过着夜行者的生活。每天黄昏时分，他骑上那辆老旧的山地车，穿越Norco马城的山野、林间、偶尔沿着海岸线走一段。下班、上班、买菜、读书、访旧地，他都是靠这辆山地车，轮胎不知换过了几轮，车身已斑驳锈蚀，却从未舍弃。
不是他没有车。他偶尔也开车，只是那车更多像是一件工具，而不是伙伴。只有这辆山地车，陪他一起听风穿山、闻泥土腥香、仰望星月，见证过他在疲惫之夜跌跌撞撞骑行回家的身影。它像Vertigo，像在野营帐篷外那匹不眠的守夜者。
风从峡谷里穿过，带着清凉的青草气息，他喜欢那种风，他吹得人心静，吹得记忆轻。他说比起起屋子里的空气，夜里的风，才是活着的证据。
星光稀疏，仿佛他故乡遥不可及的灯火。有时他会在半夜停在图书馆门前的长椅上，喝一杯咖啡，坐着读几页书。
他爱读书。虽然未能继续求学，但从小成绩优异，阅读从未离开过他。他喜欢历史，哲学，诗歌。他说，现实里太多苦涩，而书中有未竟的梦。
他在老旧图书馆的角落里看过老庄和尼采，也读过墨西哥革命史和中华上下五千年。他在旁注上写字，写自己的梦，写Vertigo，写父亲，写“如果”这个他一生都无法说出口的词。
书是他心里仅存的一扇窗。哪怕窗外是废墟，只要风还吹得进来，灵魂就还能动一动。
常常是在极度疲惫的夜归之后，阿莱霍才短暂昏睡。他说，那不是睡，是“坠落”。
一个失去了枝干的果子，从高空坠入一片黑色泥沼，静悄悄，没有声响，没有回音。
阿莱霍成了梦的囚徒。
他梦见Vertigo在河心嘶鸣，耳朵竖起，四蹄踩水；梦见父亲站在帐篷口，手中一杯热牛奶，身后是燃着微光的篝火。他也梦见叔叔的脸——那张永远带着狡诈笑意的脸，在医院昏黄走廊尽头突然浮现，像蛇蜕的皮，冰凉而滑腻。
他没有离开，也没有改变。他只是继续在凌晨的街头、夜班的工厂、城市尽头的图书馆游走。那些地方不嘈杂，不拥挤，适合他，也包容他，就这样一步步成了一个“夜行骑士”。
这个世界与他之间，只剩下很少的联系。而那一根始终未断的线，是他的姐姐。
她留在了故乡，是阿莱霍与过去之间最后的桥梁。
姐姐玛格丽特每隔一段时间会发来消息，说镇上换了新教士，说他们家老屋的蓝花楹今年又开满了鲜花，有时候附一张照片，是一头白马经过镇上的背影。
阿莱霍偶尔回几句话，多数简短。
“那棵蓝花楹现在有多高？”
有时，他只是写：“你听过那匹马叫了吗？”
他们不谈命运，也很少谈痛。但那种消息，是他在异国他乡所能感受到的一丝“根”的味道。
有一次，姐姐说：“我梦见爸爸了，他牵着Vertigo，在河那头等你。”
阿莱霍久久没有回复。
第二天，他才写了一句：“我也梦见了他们。河水涨得很高，但他们始终没有走远。”
第六章：迟来的回声
多年后，阿莱霍终于回到了那片令他心神不宁的土地。
这天傍晚，天色低沉，云层压得极低，风从镇子东头吹来，卷动院蓝花楹的枝条，发出幽幽的响动。他没有带行李，也没有通知任何人，只是背着一只布包，像一道从夜色中走出的影子，悄悄走到叔叔家的门前。
门虚掩着，屋里昏黄的灯光透过窗帘缝隙映在地面，摆设依旧熟悉，却像被灰尘和时间悄悄蒙了一层。帘子垂着，屋内一片静默，空气中弥漫着陈旧的潮气与微弱的药味，像一个无人打理的病人身上散发出的气息。
阿莱霍轻轻推开门，脚步没有发出一丝声响。他仿佛不是回家，而是走进了一段被冻结的时光。
客厅昏暗，沙发上躺着一个人——是他叔叔，闭着眼，呼吸微弱，似在昏睡。
他没有立刻靠近，而是在门口站了片刻，像是在等待那人醒来，或者，等待那记忆中尚未结算的债务自己浮出水面。
许久，他才缓缓走近，站在沙发前，低头望着那张老去的脸。岁月在上面刻下沟壑，但眉宇间的某种神情仍未散去，那种阿莱霍一眼便能辨出的冷漠、算计与隐秘的骄傲。
他深吸一口气，压低嗓音，模仿父亲Donald生前的语气，喊出那个沉睡者的名字：
“Fe…fealmeanu。”
沙发上的人动了一下，似梦中被风吹动的枝叶。他再靠近一步，声音更低，却更清晰：
“是我。”
这一次，那人陡然睁开眼。
灯光下，他看清了阿莱霍的脸，那张越发像父亲的脸——轮廓、眉骨，甚至声音，都像从二十年前的墓地里翻了出来。
他的瞳孔猛地放大，面色骤然惨白，嘴唇开始颤抖，喃喃出声：
“你是……Donald？你没死……不，不可能……你死了……”
他像被扔入一场噩梦，努力想起身，却瘫软在沙发上，声音杂乱无章：
“不是我……那不是我的错……我只是……只是……”
那种声音，不再是狡辩，而是崩溃。像一堵墙被悄然推倒后，碎石纷飞、尘土四溢。
阿莱霍依然站着，没有动，也没有说话。他的脸在灯光与影子的交界处沉静如石，毫无波澜。
他终于明白，此刻他不需要任何控诉。
这个人说出的每一句话，都是对自己的审判。无须逼问，无须动手。在死亡的幽谷边缘，人内心最深处的恐惧和罪疚，自己会开口。
他静静站了一会儿，然后转身，轻轻走出那个掌握过他命运的屋子。
风吹动帘子，木门在他身后“咯吱”一声，像一口老钟，在黄昏里发出它最后一次的声响。
他没有回头。
镇子上夜色已浓，空气中弥漫着泥土和井水的味道。路灯昏黄，星光稀薄。他顺着旧路，穿过两排低矮屋舍，转进一条窄巷，尽头，是他姐姐的家。
门刚一打开，姐姐就站在那儿。
她没有惊讶。像是早就知道他会来。
岁月在她脸上留下了细密的纹路，鬓角也添了些银白，但那双眼睛，仍像从童年照片中走出来，清澈而温暖。姐姐喊着他的名字，张开双臂。
他没有犹豫，像个迟到多年的孩子，被姐姐揽入怀中。那一刻，他感受到一种久违的东西——原谅的气息，像炉火悄悄升起的温度。
姐弟两人在旧屋里坐下，屋内还挂着一张旧照片，是他们小时候骑在马上的模样。Vertigo的鬃毛在风中飞扬，父亲牵着马，母亲站在开满花朵的蓝花楹树下，向他们招手。
姐姐低声问：“你，是不是见过他了？”
阿莱霍点了点头。
“你说话了吗？”
“没有。我不需要。”
姐姐的眼中泛起泪光：“你终于还是回来了……我知道你迟早会回来。你能回来，就好。”
那一夜，他们谈起很多旧事。
玛格丽特在回忆中轻轻掀开那年岁月的帘子。
父亲去世那年，她十七岁。她曾以为，自己已经足够坚强，足以带着母亲和弟妹们穿越风暴。但真正的风暴，并不是房屋被夺、马群被抢、搬迁与贫困，而是他们一家人之间渐渐扩大的沉默。
最沉默的，是阿莱霍。他像一个被封存的夜晚，无论她怎样靠近，都无法把他真正唤醒。
她明白，弟弟恨自己没能救下父亲，也恨自己眼睁睁看着Vertigo被牵走。他在一夜之间长大，却将童年深深埋入梦中，再也不肯轻易翻起。
这些年，她从未停止写信给他，不是为了说话，而是想让他知道——总有人还留在原地。
有人记得Vertigo奔跑的样子，记得父亲掌心的温度，也记得那年夏天，蓝花楹开得像天塌了一样绚烂。
那天傍晚，当她打开家门，阿莱霍站在门外。那一瞬间，她仿佛听见母亲在灶台前唤他回家的声音，轻轻的、温热的，像多年未熄的炉火。
她知道，弟弟已经穿越了属于他自己的漫长黑夜。
屋外月光清冷，虫声渐止。
阿莱霍那晚，睡得出奇地沉。他记不清是什么时候合上眼，只记得屋外的风很轻，屋里的灯是温暖的黄。
第二天清晨，姐姐煮了热腾腾的玉米粥。他刚端起碗，姐姐接了一个电话。电话那头的声音急促而压低。姐姐听了几秒，脸色一变，缓缓坐下，看着他。“他……走了。昨晚半夜，心脏骤停。”她没有说出“叔叔”这个词。
屋里陷入短暂的寂静。风吹动窗帘，光在墙上映出树影轻晃。阿莱霍没有说话，只是把碗放在桌上，低下头，沉默良久。他没有问细节，也不需要问。他知道，那不是巧合。
某些死亡，不需要动刀，也无需审判。有的罪，是从心里发出的裂缝，在某个注定的夜晚自己塌陷。他没有为此感到痛快，也没有如释重负。他只是感到——尘埃终于落了地。
他在心中悄悄说了一句话，没有声响，也没有人听见：
“我终于不再只是活着了。”
第七章：白马与归途
马城的冬日清晨，总是带着淡淡的薄雾。风拂过牧草，掀起一层浅浅的波纹，像梦初醒时湖面的涟漪。街道尽头，那匹白马又缓缓向阿莱霍踱步而来，鬃毛在风中微微扬起。
阿莱霍缓缓伸手，抚摸白马的鬃毛并将头靠上去，任鼻息与马的呼吸交织。他的鬓角斑白，在风中微微颤动。
那一刻，他仿佛听见了父亲挥舞马鞭的声响，听见Vertigo在河滩上奔跑的嘶鸣，听见童年穿林策马的笑声，甚至听见姐姐从远方喊他的名字。
自那日之后，阿莱霍常在清晨来到马场。没人知道他是谁，也没人打扰他。他只是偶尔站在栏杆边，轻轻发出那熟悉的“嘣、嘣”声，看着那匹白马是否还会走来。
他开始给姐姐写信。
他写道：“我梦见Vertigo踏着一条白雪铺成的河，慢慢地走过来。它没说话，只在尽头回头看了我一眼。我知道，它原谅我了。”
姐姐回信：“你从来不是它的负担。你是它选择靠近的人。它一直记得你。”
他又写：“我现在常梦见父亲。他站在河对岸，牵着一匹马。好像在等我过去。”
姐姐回他：“你已经过去了。”
从那以后，阿莱霍终于不再在夜里惊醒。梦境变得柔和，没有嘶喊、没有奔逃。只剩下他骑着马，在雾与光之间缓缓前行。那些梦里，有熟悉的河岸、缓缓升起的炊烟、父亲的笑容、Vertigo的眼神。
他终于明白，童年虽然被掠夺，亲人虽已不在，爱却从未中断。
Vertigo从未死去。
它活在每一个仍愿相信忠诚与温柔的梦里，活在阿莱霍走过漫长黑夜、仍愿回望的一瞬。
而他，终于成为了自己的牧人。
后记
这是一部关于失落、复仇、信任与救赎的故事。阿莱霍的生命如同一条穿越旱季的河流，虽曲折干涸，却始终未曾停止奔流。
马，在这篇小说中不仅是少年时期的伙伴，更是灵魂的象征——忠诚、力量、沉默的陪伴。
愿每一个在沉默中跋涉的人，都能在某个清晨，重新遇见自己曾深爱过的那匹白马。
《美洲文化之声》简介：
《美洲文化之声》国际传媒网（Sound of USA）成立于2016年，是美国注册的综合网络平台，主要从事华语文学作品的交流推广。目前已与Google、百度、Youku、Youtube 等搜索引擎联网，凡在这里发表的作品均可同时在以上网站搜索阅读。
我们致力于弘扬中华传统文化，同时提倡文学创作的思想性和唯美主义风格，为世界各地的华语文学作品交流尽一份微博之力。同时，美洲文化之声俱乐部团结了众多的海内外知名诗人、作家和评论家，正在形成华语世界高端文学沙龙。不分国籍和地区、不分流派，相互交流学习，共同为华语文学的发展效力。
“传播中华优秀文化、倾听世界美好声音，”是我们美好的追求和不可推卸的责任。
总顾问：森道.哈达（蒙古国）
顾问：蓬丹（美国）、李发模（中国）、段金平（美国）、祁人（中国）谭五昌（中国）、张素久（美国）、林德宪（美国）、萨仁图雅（中国）、周占林（中国）北塔（中国）
总编辑：韩舸友（美国）
副总编：冷观（美国）、
副总编：jinwenhan（加拿大）
副总编：曹谁（中国）
副总编：佩英（新西兰）
副总编：刘乃歌（中国）
AI（人工智能）创作艺术总监：张琼（美国）
国际交流中心总监：王芳闻（中国）
中国交流中心总监：夏花（中国）
编委：韩舸友（美国）、冷观（美国）、jinwenhan（加拿大）、yimeng（美国）、张琼（美国）、王芳闻（中国）、夏花（中国）曹谁（中国）、佩英（新西兰）、柳芭（中国）、计紫晨（美国）、刘乃歌（中国）
——————————————————
发帖时间： 世界诗歌欣赏， 书画摄影， 作家论坛， 国际文化资讯， 夏威夷国际文联之窗， 小说， 散文， 朗读者， 现代诗， 联系我们， 艺术天地， 译林漫步， 诗词
← 唐诗之路之 / 立夏 寻求一分清淡的禅意！——“立夏”与唐诗经典乡村文化空间的融合 / 孙 毅
发表回复
窗体顶端
您的邮箱地址不会被公开。 必填项已用 * 标注
评论 *
显示名称 *
邮箱 *
网站
在此浏览器中保存我的显示名称、邮箱地址和网站地址，以便下次评论时使用。
窗体底端
其他操作
编辑发帖时间： 世界诗歌欣赏， 书画摄影， 作家论坛， 国际文化资讯， 夏威夷国际文联之窗， 小说， 散文， 朗读者， 现代诗， 联系我们， 艺术天地， 译林漫步， 诗词
← 在邊緣書寫中心：越南文學的全球敘述與歷史負載/劉乃歌（中国）
发表回复
以 Sound of USA 的身份登录。 编辑您的个人资料。 注销？ 必填项已用 * 标注
评论 *
分类
选择分类 世界诗歌欣赏 书画摄影 作家论坛 国际文化资讯 夏威夷国际文联之窗 小说 散文 朗读者 现代诗 联系我们 艺术天地 译林漫步 诗词