Colorful years

As the last streetlamp cast its dark golden glow around the corner, Xiao Hong finally saw the ice crystals clinging to the tips of Zhang Cong's hair. He was hunching his shoulders and stamping his feet to keep warm, his black jacket covered in fine snowflakes, like stars crushed by moonlight.

The old sycamore trees lining the street swayed in the cold wind, and snowflakes leaking through the bare branches fell like silent sighs onto his slightly disheveled hair.

Xiao Hong stood in the shadows at the street corner, her gaze fixed on him silently through the drifting snowflakes. This was the third time she had encountered him at this time, and each time it was the same: standing alone in the cold wind, as if waiting for something, yet waiting for nothing at all.

"Give me your hand." She suddenly took off her sheepskin gloves, her voice so soft it was as if she were afraid of disturbing the tranquility of the snowy night.

Zhang Cong instinctively hid his briefcase behind his back, only to see a pair of hands wrapped in woolen sleeves reach straight towards him. In the cold wind, strands of her hair brushed against his frozen nose, and a scarf with the scent of pine was suddenly wrapped around his neck.

As her body heat seeped into his skin through the wool fibers, he realized his briefcase was already in her hands. Her fingers were icy cold, yet carried a strange warmth that seemed to penetrate his layers of defenses and reach straight to his heart.

“It’s windy in the alley ahead.” Xiao Hong tucked the hand warmer into his arm, her dark brown eyes reflecting the snow. “Director Zhang wouldn’t want to catch a cold and infect everyone at the meeting, would he?” Her tone was teasing, but her eyes were gentle as water, as if to say: I understand you, you don’t need to explain.

They trudged through the snow into the depths of the alley.

Several wintersweet bushes at the base of the old wall were in full bloom, their subtle fragrance appearing and disappearing with the rhythm of Xiao Hong's high heels.

Zhang Cong gazed at her profile, its outline flickering in the snowy night, and suddenly recalled that stormy night six months ago—when he rushed into the corner café, soaked to the bone, it was this girl in the dark green apron who silently offered him piping hot ginger tea and a dry towel. Back then, she had been just like that, offering warmth without a word, as if it were all perfectly natural.

At that moment, the briefcase clasp swayed gently at her elbow, making a soft metallic sound. Zhang Cong watched as his breath mingled with the snowflakes in her hair, and suddenly noticed a cinnabar mole on her left earlobe, like a red bean fallen on white jade. This mole stood out starkly against her fair skin, as if it were the only splash of color on her body, yet it also carried an indescribable gentleness.

The next day, the city hall's heating made everyone feel drowsy. Zhang Cong unbuttoned the second button of his collar, staring at the poverty alleviation data flashing on the projection screen, his eyes filled with the image of Xiao Hong's beige hem fluttering as she turned away the night before. That glimpse of her hem lingered in his mind, as if possessing some kind of magic, making it impossible for him to concentrate. The moment his phone vibrated, he nearly knocked over his thermos.

"In a meeting?" The clinking of cups and saucers came from the other end of the phone. "The new girl keeps confusing espresso with latte..." Her voice suddenly softened. "You have coffee stains on the left lapel of your suit."

Zhang Cong looked down and saw a light brown stain. The text message she sent him that morning echoed in his ears: "There are hand warmers in the suit pocket. Remember to change them at nine o'clock."

Touching the warmth emanating from beneath the fabric, he suddenly realized that for the past two weeks, different medicine boxes had been consistently appearing in his briefcase: liver-protecting tablets on Mondays, throat lozenges on Wednesdays, and multivitamins on Fridays. These medicine boxes were like her silent care, quietly seeping into his life and becoming a part of his daily routine.

In the dim light of the desk lamp late at night, Zhang Cong stared at the draft text message on his phone screen. The rhythm of snowflakes tapping on the glass outside the window gradually overlapped with the sound of wind chimes from the coffee shop in his memory.

He recalled Xiao Hong's slightly furrowed brow as she wiped the coffee machine, the hot cocoa she reserved for the delivery driver on a rainy day, and how she always placed the sugar bowl fifteen centimeters to the customer's right. These details seemed like her daily habits, yet they also seemed like her silent care for him.

His fingertip hovered over the send button for a long time before finally typing: "Mr. Xiao, did you know that after the wintersweet blooms, oval capsules will grow on the branches?"

Three days later, at dawn, Zhang Cong received a plain white package at the city hall. The moment he tore open the kraft paper, the scent of dried wintersweet wafted out. Amidst the dark yellow petals lay a note, the handwriting as slender as a plum branch: "When the capsule splits open, the seeds will ride on the wing membranes to travel far away—but some foolish seeds always insist on landing at the foot of the old wall."

Zhang Cong held the note, a smile unconsciously creeping onto his lips. He knew that Xiao Hong was telling him in her unique way: some things are destined not to go far, like those seeds that fall at the foot of old walls—clumsy, yet willing to stay.

He looked up at the window. The snow had stopped, and sunlight streamed through the clouds onto the streets, as if bathing the city in a gentle golden glow. And at that moment, his heart was quietly melted.