She made a soft sound of assent and said: “Thank you, truly, for today.”
The wind was cutting cold. Jiang Du glanced up at the sky and, with a touch of shyness, mustered her courage: “The forecast says there’ll be sleet. If you’re not dressed warmly enough, it’s easy to catch a cold — and a cold is a nuisance. Even though it’s a minor illness, the dull headache and heavy feeling are really unpleasant.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say it outright: dress more warmly when it gets cold.
The girl expressed her feelings in roundabout, gentle terms, hiding her thoughts in the wind.
“That day when I was being reprimanded — were you watching from the balcony opposite, secretly pleased?” Wei Qingyue made a joke out of nowhere. That day, he had noticed Jiang Du. In truth, he had long known she lived in the building across from him. Once, he had happened to see the girl struggling with a clothes-drying pole to hang a heavy sweater up high — drip, drip, drip, water pouring as though it hadn’t been wrung out at all — and only then did he understand that Jiang Du’s lack of strength was entirely genuine.
Jiang Du was startled again. She was flustered, and for a moment, couldn’t even come up with a lie on the spot.
“I wasn’t secretly pleased. Really.” Jiang Du said, her face flushed, her mind racing. “That day, a lot of classmates saw you. I was just looking along with everyone else to see what was going on. I genuinely had no intention of laughing at you.”
The girl’s manner felt vaguely familiar to Wei Qingyue — hazy, fleeting, carrying a sense of wistfulness. He didn’t know where this momentary feeling came from. After saying goodbye to her and returning to the dormitory, amid the noisy, boisterous laughter, he had even less means to identify or trace it.
Until the next day — and it truly was sleet — when lead-gray clouds blanketed the sky and cold rain mingled with snowflakes, melting into every paving stone across the school grounds. Lin Haiyang came to find him again, delivering another letter.
Wei Qingyue had thought he would not receive another one of these letters. After all, quite a long interval had passed.
The same envelope. The same paper. And the same handwriting.
At the time, after Wang Jingjing finished reading the third letter, she tilted her head and mulled it over, asking: “Jiang Du, are you writing a novel? My family doesn’t have a Chinese toon tree.”
Jiang Du had long anticipated that Wang Jingjing might harbor deep confusion on this point. She responded calmly: “Writing it that way feels warmer and more intimate — I think an easy, unhurried tone is nicer. Don’t you think?”
Wang Jingjing pursed her lips and said: “What I think? I think you’ve been acting like an old grandmother the whole time — rambling on and on, talking about nothing but dull things. Otherwise, why not copy out some romantic poetry for him? Copy the kind nobody’s read before, something with real flair? You must have read poems like that.”
“But those were written by other people,” Jiang Du said, with one of her inexplicable streaks of stubbornness.
Wang Jingjing couldn’t quite understand this line of thinking: “So what? You’re even allowed to quote famous sayings in essays.”
“This is a letter, not an essay. A letter should contain the most genuine things.” Jiang Du refused to yield. In moments like these, she was as stubborn as a mule — though Wang Jingjing had no personal experience with mules and didn’t quite understand why stubbornness was compared to them.
But Wang Jingjing’s mouth was quick, and she was best at arguing back: “My family doesn’t have a Chinese toon tree — that’s not genuine either!”
Jiang Du was momentarily stumped. After a pause, she said: “Artistic truth.”
“Oh, give it a rest — what on earth is that — you’re actually killing me, Jiang Du, you’re genuinely hilarious!” Wang Jingjing burst out laughing. When she finished, she was still quite happy to copy the letter out. But toward the end of the copying, she couldn’t help muttering again.
When the letter was delivered to Wei Qingyue, the weather was dreadful. After evening self-study, everyone hunched their shoulders, crying “Freezing to death!” as they sprinted toward the dormitories. Some students were particularly lazy — never filling their own hot water, borrowing from this person one day, that person the next, or simply crawling straight into bed without washing their feet. Wei Qingyue, though relaxed about minor things, still maintained basic hygiene. He slept on the upper bunk; after washing up, he climbed into bed, sat there in his thin pajamas, and read the letter.
The topic male dormitory students loved discussing most was always girls. Wei Qingyue would usually listen in silence, smile in silence, rarely joining in such conversations — yet the subject matter itself was undeniably compelling. The boy in the bunk across from him — short, thin, his face dotted with pimples — had mentioned Jiang Du a few times.
What surprised him was that the other boys in the dormitory also had an impression of Jiang Du. They said she was a genuine beauty, though she seemed physically fragile — like a gust of wind could carry her away. Someone joked that they should call her “Little Sister Lin,” after the sickly heroine from Dream of the Red Chamber.
Was this the same girl he knew? Wei Qingyue always felt that the Jiang Du his dormitory mates described and the one he knew were not the same person.
Honestly, he didn’t remember much of the details. Every time their paths crossed, Wei Qingyue would say whatever came to mind — to him, she was simply a schoolmate they’d had some minor interactions with. If he were truly asked to recall what he and Jiang Du had ever said to each other, he could summon perhaps a third of it.
At eleven o’clock, the dormitory lights went out on schedule. Wei Qingyue switched on his phone’s flashlight. Around him, the other boys chatted on about girls.
“Dear Reader,
It has been a long while since I last wrote to you — I hope you are well. I imagine everything is the same as usual for you? You ranked first in the midterms again, and everyone is talking about you. Your name has become synonymous with supreme honor.
Time passes so quickly. Without realizing it, another autumn has gone. Winter always seems especially long — and everyone is bundled up so heavily. I’m not very fond of winter, but if it happens to be a snowy day, gathered around a small brazier with family, roasting sweet potatoes and chestnuts while wind and snow swirl outside — that kind of scene I do love. The classroom, however, leaves much to be desired. It’s so cold. I especially hate duty days: the benches are hard, the desks are hard, and when the broom swings, dust flies straight into your face. Why is there so much dust in winter? It settles on the desks, and wiping it away with a facial tissue doesn’t work — you have to use a wet cloth. Some classmates like to just give the desk a few sweeps with a book and then sit right down. Can that actually get it clean? Quite a few students in our class do that. I wonder how you wipe your desk and bench.
Perhaps the greatest pleasure of winter is being able to look forward to the New Year and to spring. Speaking of spring — there used to be a Chinese toon tree in our old courtyard. Once spring arrived, the family would pick the freshest toon shoots. They could be stir-fried with eggs, or mixed with tofu — the color was so delicate and lovely. People who aren’t used to the taste of toon shoots find it strange, but once you’ve grown accustomed to it, there’s a particularly fragrant aroma. Sadly, we moved house later on, and now we can no longer pick toon shoots in spring, nor can we see the swallows that came year after year to build their nests under our eaves. Though the apartment complex we live in now is cleaner and closer to school, I still miss our old courtyard most of all. Most importantly, back then, my family hadn’t grown so old. I grow a year older, and so do they — one year older for every one of mine. By the time I start university, by the time I start working… I actually don’t dare think about these things. There is truly nothing more merciless than time.
Oh — the large tree near the library has lost almost all its leaves. Its branches twist and contort, and suddenly it carries the air of something desperate and withered — entirely different from the magnificent abundance of its full foliage. It used to frighten me a little; now it no longer does. I’ve even begun to feel a small tenderness toward it. After all, it’s the only solitary tree in that area, with a small flower bed beside it full of blooms — but they’re all a different kind from the tree, none of its own sort. I wonder if you’ve ever felt this way: when you’re not the same kind as others around you, there’s always a hollow feeling somewhere. Like — everyone else has something that you don’t. Of course, I’m not saying I’m the sort of person who wallows in self-pity. I only mean that having an absence — while not necessarily something that cuts to the bone — can sometimes make you feel empty. Like a piece missing from somewhere, impossible to fill.
I’m not quite sure why, but this letter has taken on a rather melancholy tone as I’ve written it — that was entirely not my intention. It may simply be because the days are short and the nights are long, and people tend to let their minds wander. I imagine you’re nothing like me in this respect — your goals must be clear, your plans well-defined. I’ve heard you intend to study abroad. You’ll be going to a country very far away, won’t you? If you come to love it there, you might stay. I wonder whether you have family here you’d miss, and whether there is anything at Mei High you’d be reluctant to leave behind. I love Mei High dearly — very dearly. Being able to study here makes me feel so fortunate. I think, no matter where I go in the future, no matter how old I grow, I will always cherish every memory of Mei High.
It’s been truly cold lately, and everyone has been adding layers. I don’t know whether some people simply don’t feel the cold — dressing so lightly, as though they’re not afraid of getting sick at all. But I’ve heard from my family that if you dress too lightly when you’re young, you’ll develop joint pain when you’re older, and joint pain is terrible to endure. I truly cannot imagine the feeling of not being able to run and move about freely. So since our bones have to serve us for an entire lifetime, it’s surely better to care for them gently — (just my personal thought).
This is the third letter, and I don’t know whether you’ll read it. Before picking up my pen each time, I’ve actually thought about this question. Whatever the case, I still hope you will read it. Of course, if it causes you any trouble or irritation, I won’t write again — (this is something I suddenly realized: I don’t want you to dislike me. Strangely, I used to think that simply writing it was enough, and never considered whether it might bother you. That was too selfish of me.) But at this moment, I don’t even know whether you read the first two, so perhaps these worries are simply talking to myself.
But regardless — finally, I’d like to say in advance: “Happy New Year.” And also: “May the New Year bring you health, peace, and continued excellence.” This wish holds for every year.”
---