Colorful years

As the first rays of morning sunlight quietly streamed through the window, Zhang Cong slowly opened his tightly closed eyes, a faint smile still lingering on his lips.

Recalling last night, as he buried himself in mountains of documents, meticulously organizing the precious intangible cultural heritage archives of the Cultural Bureau, a fleeting moment caught his eye, which landed on a book titled "A Pictorial Study of Nuo Opera in Western Hunan." This book was co-authored by Xiao Hong.

He gently turned the slightly yellowed pages of the book, and there lay a beautiful paper-cut of a mountain spirit, like a sleeping elf.

Under the dim light of the desk lamp, the paper-cut seemed to sway gently, as if it had come to life, appearing exceptionally vivid and captivating.

Zhang Cong subconsciously reached out and grabbed the slightly worn-out old-fashioned landline phone on his desk. The paint on the phone had peeled off in many places, and the number keys were stained with tea stains of varying shades from years of use.

His fingers gripped the microphone tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force. Then, he quickly dialed a familiar number and pressed the receiver firmly to his ear.

A moment later, Xiao Hong's slightly hoarse voice came through the receiver. Her voice was like silk that had been carefully crumpled; though somewhat rough, it possessed a unique charm.

"Zhang Cong, it's you." These simple four words stirred a ripple in Zhang Cong's heart.

He took a deep breath, trying to make his voice sound as soft as possible: "Your voice sounds like it's been soaked in sandpaper." At the same time, there was a slight rustling sound of papers turning over on the other end of the phone, interspersed with the crisp sound of a porcelain cup gently tapping against the table.

Through the faint sound transmitted by the radio waves, an image involuntarily appeared in Zhang Cong's mind—Xiao Hong, at this very moment, was curled up in that comfortable swivel chair. She was wearing a navy blue wool sweater, which tightly hugged her slightly thin shoulders.

Thinking of this, Zhang Cong couldn't help but recall the heavy snow that had fallen on the mountains the night before. Perhaps at that very moment, the ends of Xiao Hong's hair, which cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall, were still covered with tiny snowflakes, like frost.

This thought made Zhang Cong grip the Hero brand fountain pen tightly. The blue-black ink spread out in dark ripples on the "Folk Culture Festival Budget Sheet," blurring the words "Nuo Opera Mask Procurement Fee" into a hazy cloud.

The infirmary smelled pungent from the disinfectant, yet he lingered for a long time in front of the rows of medicine cabinets. The white tiled walls bore the marks of years of water stains, and the glass medicine bottles reflected amber spots in the morning light. Throat lozenges and watermelon frost were carefully packed into kraft paper bags, while three boxes of cough syrup lay scattered on the back seat of the taxi, their plastic packaging making a soft, rustling sound as it jolted along.

When he piled the spoils on Xiao Hong's desk, the woman's reddened eyes resembled peonies glistening with dew, but when he said, "It's just a friendly concern," she stubbornly turned her head away.

The old locust tree outside the window was shedding its last few yellow leaves, one of which happened to land on her open manuscript of "A Study of Tujia People's Weeping Wedding Songs," the pen tip piercing the note that read "Three cries break the heart."

Ten days later, the aroma of freshly baked osmanthus cake wafted from the Zijiang Fish Restaurant. Zhang Cong spotted the jujube-red color through the glass window—Hao Meihua's cashmere scarf resembled a dancing flame, her silver hair was meticulously permed into cloud curls, and the tortoiseshell comb tucked between her hair gleamed with a warm light.

He straightened the hem of his suit jacket, his leather shoes clicking crisply on the flagstones, startling the tabby cat that was dozing in the porch. The aroma of chopped chili peppers wafting from the kitchen, mingled with the rich flavor of fermented black beans, and mingled with the salty fragrance of cured fish drying in front of the door.

"Aunt Hao!" He raised his briefcase, only to see the old lady push up her gold-rimmed glasses in a daze.

The splash of water from the koi fish swishing their tails in the fish tank happened to wet the notebook on the counter, and the ink smudged on the words "Interview Program for Intangible Cultural Heritage Inheritors," turning the character "雅" (elegant) into a wet ink chrysanthemum.

Hao Chenggang ran from the kitchen, wiping his hands which were covered in chili seeds. The "Fu" (福, meaning good fortune) character embroidered on his apron gleamed from the oil stains. "This is Director Zhang from the Municipal Bureau of Culture."

Upon hearing this, the old lady's eyes lit up. She poured the blue-and-white porcelain teacup almost to overflowing. The moment the boiling water poured over the Longjing tea, the unfurled tea buds danced and swirled at the bottom of the cup.

Zhang Cong took the scalding hot porcelain cup and ran his fingertips along the gold-painted "double happiness" character on the cup's surface.

The sauce jars in the cabinet are arranged in a neat array, with the fermented bean curd jars at the front bearing the seal of the Renwu year, the sediment of time condensing into an amber mist on the glass.

Hao Meihua peeked out from behind the blue-printed cloth curtain, the silver bracelet on her wrist jingling: "Honghong was talking about the Cultural Bureau coming to film a documentary last week." As she spoke, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes gathered into gentle swirls, reminding Zhang Cong of the creases on Xiao Hong's brow when she was proofreading documents.

Suddenly, the old-fashioned radio in the corner of the fish restaurant started playing the mournful tune of Huagu Opera, and a gust of wind carrying the pungent smell of chili powder brushed past his nose. Half a packet of throat lozenges peeked out of Zhang Cong's suit pocket, and Hao Chenggang, noticing it, chuckled, "Director Zhang, is your throat bothered too? The other day, Director Xiao came to pick up the restaurant receipt, coughing so badly it was heartbreaking." The porcelain cup trembled slightly in his hand, spilling tea that meandered across the camphor wood table, reflecting the deepening twilight outside the window.

The garlic sizzled and crackled in the iron wok in the kitchen, and suddenly the image of the mountain spirit paper-cutting from Xiao Hong's book "A Study of Nuo Opera in Western Hunan" appeared before my eyes—the paper-cutting girl's flowing skirt was covered with ink dots from his fountain pen, which looked just like the whirlpools on the Zi River dyed black by the sunset.

Inside the transparent glass case, delicate pieces of osmanthus cake lay quietly, their steam rising and forming wisps of white mist. This mist gently enveloped the bronze plaque next to it that read "Intangible Cultural Heritage Protection Unit," as if veiling it with a gossamer-thin veil.

Zhang Cong stood in front of the counter, his eyes fixed on Xiao Hong's flamboyant and unrestrained signature on the register, a complex emotion welling up in his heart.

Just then, he suddenly felt as if something was blocking his throat, and a familiar taste gradually spread—it was the bittersweet taste unique to cough syrup.

"Aunt Hao, will Xiao Hong be coming to the store today?" Zhang Cong looked up and asked Aunt Hao, who was busy at work, with anticipation.

Aunt Hao stopped what she was doing and replied with a smile, "Oh dear, Xiao Hong is very busy at the company today, she probably won't have time to come over!"

Upon hearing this news, Zhang Cong's eyes dimmed instantly, but he quickly regained his composure. He took a small paper packet from his pocket and handed it to Aunt Hao: "These are throat lozenges and cold medicine that I specially prepared for Xiao Hong. Please give them to her for me." As he spoke, he added with concern, "Make sure she takes her medicine on time. The weather has been changing a lot lately, and it's easy for her to get sick."