Colorful years

At nine o'clock on a winter night, the Zijiang Fish Restaurant was brightly lit and warm. Fine water droplets condensed on the glass windows, like a hazy veil in winter, separating the warmth inside from the cold outside.

When Xiao Hong pushed open the carved wooden door with a copper bell hanging on it, the crisp sound of the bell startled the dozing orange cat. It lazily stretched and then curled up back into the rattan chair in the corner.

Xiao Hong wrapped her faded camel-colored cashmere scarf tighter, but the chill still seeped into her skin through the collar. She watched her mother, Hao Meihua, poking at the oak charcoal with tongs. The crackling sparks illuminated the cured fish and meat hanging on the wall, making each piece appear to be imbued with the rich aroma of time.

"Mom, where did you buy all this charcoal today?" Xiao Hong rubbed her numb fingers, her eyes suddenly drawn to a pile of snakeskin bags in the corner.

The exposed cross-section of the charcoal at the bag opening displayed a beautiful honeycomb pattern. She had only ever seen this kind of silver frost charcoal, which came from Xuefeng Mountain, from old craftsmen. It was hard in texture and emitted a faint pine fragrance when burning.

As Hao Meihua put down the fire tongs, the silver bracelet on her wrist jingled melodiously. The proprietress, well past sixty, suddenly revealed a mischievous, girlish smile: "Honghong, you'll never guess where the charcoal came from!"

As she spoke, she lifted the curtain behind the counter, revealing seven or eight neatly stacked charcoal bags, each tied with a red ribbon, as if it were a carefully prepared gift.

Just as Xiao Hong was about to ask further questions, she suddenly caught a glimpse of the crooked annotations on the calendar on the counter—"November 7th, received 300 catties of silver frost charcoal from Mr. Zhang."

A memory surged through her spine like an electric current. Last week, at the municipal cultural bureau's intangible cultural heritage project review meeting, Zhang Cong had indeed asked her about the fish restaurant's heating system. At the time, she was overwhelmed with work on her professional title review materials and casually remarked, "Old-fashioned charcoal fires are the warmest." Little did she know, he would remember those words.

“Zhang Cong said it was a gift to me as a token of his respect, and he didn’t want any money.” Hao Meihua picked up a fragrant, slightly burnt rice cake with tongs; the golden rice batter gleamed amber in the glow of the charcoal fire. “He said that since we’re dating, it’s normal for him to send hundreds of kilograms of charcoal in the winter.”

The aroma of glutinous rice cakes mixed with the fragrance of pine wood filled the room, but it made Xiao Hong's throat tighten, as if something was stuck in her chest, making her unable to speak for a moment.

Suddenly, the crisp sound of snow breaking bamboo branches came from outside the window. Xiao Hong turned her head and looked out; the outline of the middle school across the street was faintly visible through the snow curtain under the streetlights.

As a senior high school homeroom teacher, she led her students to clear the snow from the playground at six o'clock this morning, and her black boots were still soaked with undried snow water. Thinking about having to take her students to a nursing home to clear snow tomorrow, she rubbed her temples wearily.

"Mom, I'm teaching three graduating classes now, and I have to grade homework until the wee hours of the morning every day..." Xiao Hong's voice suddenly stopped.

In the reflection of the glass window, her mother's white hair at the temples overlapped with the snow outside, reminding her of a snowy night like this when her father was seriously ill, and the two of them sat silently by the dying charcoal brazier. At that time, the charcoal fire seemed to be their only support.

Hao Meihua handed her daughter a cup of piping hot ginger tea: "When Zhang Cong came to deliver charcoal today, he poured half a pound of snow out of his boots. He said the road to Hehua was blocked, so he insisted on carrying fifty pounds of charcoal and taking a detour."

In the steam rising from the teacup, Xiao Hong seemed to see the man who always wore a dark gray overcoat trekking down the snowy slope, the straps of his military backpack leaving deep indentations on his shoulders.

At this moment, twenty kilometers away on the ring road, Zhang Cong was trying to start his Beijing Jeep for the third time. The dashboard showed minus nine degrees Celsius. He breathed out white vapor and rubbed his frozen fingers. The car radio intermittently broadcast an orange blizzard warning.

In the rearview mirror, the sack of charcoal was covered with a layer of snow about an inch thick, which reminded him of the icicles hanging from the eaves of the fish restaurant this morning when he was delivering the goods. They looked like strings of crystals in the morning light.

"Director Zhang, shall we go back to town first?" The young assistant in the passenger seat asked, his teeth chattering. Zhang Cong didn't speak, but reached out to brush the frost off the windshield. The outline of the middle school in the distance was faintly visible through the snow.

He took out his phone; the screen saver was a candid photo of Xiao Hong speaking at a Teachers' Day commendation meeting. Her blue suit made her look like a tall, sturdy cedar tree, resilient and elegant.

When Xiao Hong pushed open the school gate in the early morning, the winding footprints on the snow made her gasp. The footprints, some deep and some shallow, stretched from the path behind the mountain, with a circular mark of charcoal ash every thirty centimeters—clearly the traces left by the bottom of a charcoal bag when someone was carrying a heavy load.

At the end of the footprints, six charcoal bags were neatly stacked under the eaves of the mailroom, with a half-frozen wintersweet branch attached to the top bag, its petals still bearing traces of morning frost.

The academic affairs director came over holding a thermos, his glasses fogged up: "Teacher Xiao, a parent surnamed Zhang is really kind-hearted. He brought charcoal over at five in the morning..." Before he finished speaking, Xiao Hong had already rushed towards the teaching building.

From the window of her third-floor office, she saw Zhang Cong's jeep struggling to roll over the snowdrifts at the school gate. The snow on the roof slid off in a flurry, reflecting tiny golden rays in the morning sun, as if it were his silent farewell.

During recess, the snowman the students built on the playground wore Xiao Hong's red scarf. She hesitated for a long time, holding her phone, and finally only changed Zhang Cong's WeChat nickname from "Director Zhang of the Cultural Bureau" to "The Warmest Charcoal Fire".

On the sycamore trees by the playground, the broken branches, weighed down by the snow, lay on the snow-covered ground, revealing fresh wood through the cracks, like a kind of unspoken confession.

As dusk fell, fresh charcoal was added to the brazier in the fish restaurant. Xiao Hong's pen, which was grading papers, suddenly stopped, a small ink smearing across the paper—she heard her mother's excited voice outside the door: "Mr. Zhang, you've come at the perfect time! Try our freshly pickled chopped chili fish head!"

The frost on the windowpane gradually melted, revealing a tall figure stomping his feet under the eaves to shake off the snow. His military boots were covered in ice, but the brown paper bag in his arms remained dry, as if his heartfelt sentiment was warmer than the cold winter.