Colorful years

The twilight was like a sheet of rice paper soaked with ink, slowly spreading and spreading outwards from the car window.

Looking into the distance, the majestic outline of the Wuling Mountains gradually disappears into the bluish-gray mist, like a mysterious and hazy painting.

The Yuan River meanders beneath the highway, like a faded silver chain, quietly shimmering with a faint light.

The metal roof of this old-fashioned bus had become scorching hot after a whole day of blazing sun. At this moment, it was like a thirsty child, greedily sucking up the last rays of the setting sun.

Sitting by the window, Wang Li idly counted the fine rain streaks on the car window, traces left by raindrops that fell when they passed through Taojiang County that morning.

However, over time, they have solidified into brown mud stains, like a string of ellipses that never ends.

As the wheels relentlessly rolled over the potholed gravel road in the Yuanling section, the entire carriage echoed with the crisp sound of enamel mugs colliding with each other.

At the same time, the aluminum water bottle that Zhang Cong placed on his military green satchel gently tapped against Wang Li's knee with the bumps of the car, as if telling an untold story.

Wang Li involuntarily turned her gaze to the person beside her. The afterglow of the setting sun shone on his profile, bathing him in a golden glow. At that moment, her thoughts suddenly drifted back to the scene of their first encounter a year ago at the Propaganda Department of the State Committee.

I remember that day, he was wearing that same faded polyester shirt, with blue ink stains from mimeographed documents on the cuffs.

When he smiled and handed her the newly delivered copy of "New Observer" magazine, Wang Li could even clearly smell the faint scent of waxed paper emanating from his fingertips.

At that moment, time seemed to freeze, and everything around them became insignificant. Only their brief eye contact and the exchange of glances became an eternal memory.

"Zhang Cong, now that you have met my parents and relatives..." She parted her lips slightly, and as soon as she finished speaking, the car suddenly jolted, like a wild horse breaking free.

The sudden tremor caused her originally melodious and graceful voice to be thrown onto the roof of the car, disappearing without a trace like a kite with a broken string.

Just then, the young man sitting beside her almost instinctively reached out his right hand and swiftly and accurately protected the back of her head. His palm was broad and strong, and the slightly raised calluses on his palm inadvertently brushed against her silky smooth hair, like ripples on a calm lake, bringing an indescribable tingling sensation that made her heart tremble.

"How about we make it cold?" Zhang Cong said casually, while raising his left hand and gently tapping the edge of the car window. His long, slender fingers had a bluish-white tinge at the knuckles, a unique mark left by years of gripping a fountain pen, like shallow grooves etched by time on his fingertips.

Following his hand, one could see that on the wooden window sill, where some of the paint had faded, were faintly inlaid fragments of red lacquer accumulated over the years. These fragments, scattered among the wood grain, resembled specks of cinnabar peeling off the beautiful wedding dress of a woman from western Hunan, exuding a unique poignant beauty and mystery.

At the same time, a faint smell of tung oil quietly entered Wang Li's nostrils. This peculiar scent came from the young man beside her who had come from deep in the mountains.

Having spent years conducting in-depth interviews in the Miao region, he had unconsciously absorbed a strong Miao village atmosphere, as if it were innate. Even the old, military-green satchel he carried with him, containing a box of Phoenix cigarettes that he always hesitated to smoke, seemed shrouded in a hazy, unspoken mist, making one want to explore its contents.

Just then, Wang Li playfully raised her pink fist and gently landed it on Zhang Cong's broad, sturdy shoulder. Their vehicle was slowly passing the Yuanjiang ferry crossing when a loud whistle rang out, startling a flock of egrets that had been perched on the mudflats into flight.

Their snow-white wings intertwined in the air, creating a magnificent spectacle as they swept past the car window. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in their wings, casting dappled shadows around the girl's beautiful temples, a dreamlike and enchanting scene.

Zhang Cong suddenly recalled the second day of the Lunar New Year at the old house in Taojiang, where the moonlight had also pierced through the blue-printed quilt, weaving the snores of his ten-year-old cousin into a curtain of illicit pleasure. The camellia oil scent mixed with the musty smell in Wang Li's hair that day became the most agonizing curse in his memory.

“Marriage is like a towering red veil!” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he looked away from the road ahead and into the rearview mirror at the cigarette dangling from the mouth of the driver. Amidst the swirling smoke, the driver squinted, seemingly listening intently to his words.

“After this year’s autumn harvest, my father said he wanted to come and see the tung oil workshops in Jishou…” However, before he could finish speaking, a sudden mountain gust of wind swept by, carrying away most of the rest of his sentence.

Sitting to the side, Wang Li silently turned her face away. The car window reflected the blush on the tips of her ears, just like the pillowcase in the tenement building that night, stained red by the oil lamp.

At that moment, a torrential downpour was pouring down outside the window, the raindrops pounding against the glass with a loud pattering sound. Inside, however, my younger brother's precious college acceptance letter lay quietly on the table, emitting a faint musty smell in the damp air, yet it was like a spring bud, full of vitality and hope.

Those memories surged forth like dust kicked up by a car. The Xiangxi Highway of the 1980s, like an old python shedding its skin, meandered through the mountains. It struggled to carry a full load of people, slowly moving forward in the approaching twilight, as if each step carried the weight of years.

Finally, when the dim streetlights of Jishou Station pierced the gray sky, the whole world seemed to brighten up a bit. The loquat tree at the entrance of the government compound was now helplessly shaking off its last few withered yellow leaves, as if telling people about the passage of time.

Wang Li got out of the car quietly, her steps a little unsteady. She looked down and counted the cracks on the cement steps under her feet, one, two, three... all the way to the seventh crack, which was exactly the same as when she left last December.

Zhang Cong followed behind, his canvas shoes stomping heavily on the ground, shattering the dappled moonlight into countless fragments. The clinking of his keys was particularly crisp and loud in the quiet night, even startling a few bats perched under the eaves. They fluttered their wings and quickly disappeared into the darkness.

“This bed board…” Wang Li stroked the creaking wood grain and suddenly remembered the narrow bed in the old house in Huaguo Mountain. She remembered how her ten-year-old cousin’s hand, under the blue-printed quilt, darted like a silver fish in the moonlight when he turned over.

At this moment, the wind blowing through the corridor carries last year's "Hunan Daily," and the printed headline "Household Contract Responsibility System" rustles through the cracks in the door.

The rice cakes in the aluminum lunchbox were covered in a layer of cold, white oil, yet no one paid them any attention. As Zhang Cong's fingertips brushed against her loose braids, the tung oil lamp cast their shadows onto the mottled lime wall. In the distance, the roar of the You River carried the shouts of the night boatmen, each note striking the rusty windowpanes.