Colorful years

Inside the coffee shop, Zhang Cong frankly introduced himself.

“Xiao Hong, when it comes to making friends, I always adhere to one principle: sincerity and never hiding anything.” Zhang Cong gently placed the bone china coffee cup back on the gilded saucer, the warm yellow light dancing on the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. The fragrance of osmanthus in early October drifted in through the cracks in the French windows, mingling with the rich aroma of coffee to create a comforting atmosphere.

"I'm 45 years old this year, born in the Year of the Tiger, and the fifth child in my family." His index finger unconsciously drew circles on the table as he recalled the lively farmhouse courtyard. "My father contracted thirty acres of citrus orchards, and my mother was a housewife. In the 1970s, eight children in the family squeezed into three mud-brick rooms. In winter, we did our homework by the light of a charcoal brazier, and the charcoal ash turned our notebooks grayish."

Xiao Hong noticed that the cufflinks on his light gray shirt were hand-sewn, with fine but slightly crooked stitches, likely made by his sisters. This detail reminded her of the schoolbags her mother used to sew, and her eyes suddenly welled up with tears.

“Two years ago, my father suffered a stroke and was hospitalized. My seven siblings and I took turns keeping vigil over him.” Zhang Cong’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “It was then that I realized that sibling bonds are like the rings of an old tree—the deeper you go, the more genuine they become.” He took a sip of his coffee, the heavy shadows in his eyes deepening. “So when dealing with interpersonal relationships, I’d rather be a little clumsy than compromise my integrity.”

When the topic of divorce came up, Zhang Cong's fingers trembled slightly: "That day, my daughter handed me her college acceptance letter and said, 'Dad, I got into a university in Beijing.' I squatted in the empty house, looking at the withered pothos on the windowsill, and suddenly felt it was time to turn the page on my life." He smiled bitterly, turning the white mark left by his wedding ring. "Leaving with nothing wasn't out of spite; it was because I wanted my wife and daughter to have a more stable life."

Xiao Hong stared at the faded red string on his wrist, remembering the shredded wedding photo she had torn up during her divorce. The fragments drifted in the wind like a snowstorm, landing at the doorway of the empty children's room. She subconsciously touched the silver chain around her neck; the pendant held her daughter's six-year-old baby tooth.

“I’m in charge of intangible cultural heritage protection at the Cultural Bureau, and I’ve recently been organizing the patterns of Tujia brocade.” Zhang Cong took out a notebook from his briefcase, with colorful silk threads between the yellowed pages. “Look at this ‘Forty-Eight Hooks’ pattern. Each hook hides the blessings of our ancestors.” His fingertips traced the intricate patterns, as if touching the rings of time.

Suddenly remembering something, Xiao Hong took out her sketchbook from her handbag. Turning to a certain page, a similar geometric pattern jumped out at her: "Last year, when I took my students to Fenghuang for sketching, there was an old woman weaving this pattern." The watercolor paint between her fingers blurred into a faint blue hue on the paper. "She said it was 'The Moon Climbs the Slope,' and she was weaving it as a dowry for her daughter who was traveling far away."

Both of their fingers pointed simultaneously to a diamond pattern, their fingertips forming a subtle angle above the page. Just then, the jazz music in the café shifted to an adagio, and the vibrations of the saxophone startled the pothos on the windowsill, causing its leaves to sway gently in the draft.

When talking about his child, Zhang Cong pulled out his phone to show a photo: a girl with dreadlocks making a peace sign by Weiming Lake, the silver studs on her earlobes gleaming with a rebellious light. "She insists on studying astrophysics, saying she wants to go to NASA to find aliens." He shook his head helplessly, but the smile lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his pride. "Last week in a video, she said she joined some quantum club, but I was completely confused."

Xiao Hong flipped through her daughter's sketchbook, where sunflowers bloomed in the rainstorm. "This child always smears paint on the curtains," she said, feigning annoyance, but carefully smoothing the curled corners of the pages. "But last year, when she drew my back as I cooked, she remembered every single oil stain on my apron." Her fingertips lingered on the orange-yellow stain, as if she could still feel the warmth of the stove from that moment.

As dusk crept through the windowpanes, Zhang Cong suddenly rose and walked to the piano. He whispered a few words to the pianist, his long, slender fingers landing on the black and white keys. The notes of the third movement of "Moonlight Sonata" flowed like water, his profile reflected in the French windows, overlapping with the gradually brightening neon lights outside, creating a double image. Xiao Hong was struck by the fact that his straight back as he played was strikingly similar to the silhouette of the bronze chime bells in the cultural center.

Walking along the tree-lined avenue, Zhang Cong spoke about the residential preservation project he was preparing: "Last week, I went to Yongshun to inspect the stilted houses and found that the carvings on the beams and pillars were badly damaged by termites." He crunched a ginkgo leaf under his leather shoes, letting out a soft sigh, "It's like watching an old person's wrinkles deepen with a knife."

Xiao Hong bent down and picked up a whole ginkgo leaf, its veins stretching into a golden river in her palm. "My father was still repairing his sandalwood erhu before he died. When the soundbox cracked, he glued it back together with fish glue." Her voice rose and fell, as if she were walking on shadows in the moonlight. "He said that old objects develop a spirit and shouldn't be discarded carelessly."

Passing by a 24-hour bookstore, the two stopped simultaneously. A hardcover copy of *In Search of Lost Time* displayed in the window brought a smile to their faces. "I always read Proust on sleepless nights," Xiao Hong said, tracing the title on the glass with her finger. "Those long sentences are like spiderwebs; a gentle touch and they unleash memories."

“I actually enjoy reading Wang Zengqi’s short stories,” Zhang Cong said, pointing to the signboard of the tea shop next door. “His description of the magnolia blossoms in the Kunming rain reminds me of the gardenias in my old home’s backyard.” His murmur drifted into the evening breeze. “My mother always pinned the freshest gardenias to my father’s work pocket; the petals, glistening with dew, would smell fragrant all day long.”

Downstairs at Xiao Hong's house, the dim streetlights cast a faint glow, enveloping everything in a hazy halo.

Zhang Cong gently opened his briefcase, carefully took out a brown paper bag, and solemnly handed it to Xiao Hong, saying slowly, "This is the sheet music for the Tujia bride's weeping song. I went to great lengths to get it! It uses Chinese characters to represent the Tujia language."

Under the streetlights, the yellowed page seemed to come alive, trembling slightly and casting faint patches of light.

Zhang Cong stared at the sheet music in his hand, a hint of emotion in his eyes, and continued, "It is said that a real wedding lament is not just a simple song; it has to be sung for seven days and seven nights! The bride will carefully weave all her reluctance and longing for her family into each song, which will move people who hear it."

As Xiao Hong reached out to take the brown paper bag, her hands inadvertently brushed against Zhang Cong's slightly cool fingertips. In that instant, a strange feeling welled up inside her, and the lifeless paper bag seemed to warm up.

She looked down at the sheet music in her hands, her thoughts drifting back to her childhood, when her mother would always sit by the window, softly humming Suzhou storytelling. Those melodious, gentle tunes, didn't they also contain the same deep, lingering affection?

At this moment, a night breeze gently swept by, and the green ivy on the second-floor balcony swayed softly. The hanging vines cascaded down like a green waterfall, and a few strands even gently brushed against Xiao Hong's shoulders in the night breeze, bringing a touch of coolness.

After saying goodnight to each other, Zhang Cong slowly turned around and started walking forward. However, when he had walked about a hundred meters, an impulse welled up inside him for some reason, causing him to stop in his tracks as if possessed, and suddenly turn around.

From afar, Xiao Hong could be seen still standing quietly in the same spot. The soft light of the streetlights stretched her shadow long, casting it on the ground, just like an unfinished sonnet, full of endless poetry and imagination.

Zhang Cong subconsciously reached into his pocket, wanting to take out his phone to capture this beautiful scene. But just as he took out his phone and was about to press the shutter, he was surprised to find that the lens was covered with a thin layer of fog.

It turned out that the chill of the late autumn night had quietly spread, unknowingly wetting the glasses and blurring the view in front of me.