The old woman was effusive with gratitude, taking Jiang Du’s hands and telling her: come to my place whenever you want snacks, child; you must never stand on ceremony.
She had forgotten that Jiang Du had grown up — that she was no longer a small child who could dash unabashedly to the neighbor’s for a bite of something.
Skin dry and slack, all elasticity long gone — it lay so clearly over Jiang Du’s hands. That was the feeling of old age — undeniably real. When she turned to go, she looked back once: the old woman had settled quietly back into her seat. The television played a long, overwrought family drama, loud and clamorous.
But it was the only living presence in that room.
Jiang Du could not explain it, but that single glance filled her with an unbearable sadness. She turned back. “Grandma Weng, what were you looking at just now?”
The old woman’s eyes lit up. In that instant, it was as if some hidden mechanism had been touched — and she came alive.
And so Jiang Du stayed and listened to the old woman tell the stories of her photo album for a full half-hour. Midway through, her grandmother came looking for her; food goes cold quickly in winter. But when her grandmother saw that scene, she quietly withdrew.
On the twenty-eighth, the household remained uneventful. Around noon, her grandmother’s mobile phone rang. The moment the call connected, she glanced instinctively at Jiang Du. Jiang Du pretended not to notice and ate her meal in peace. After a while, her grandmother retreated to her own bedroom; only the low, muffled sound of a voice could be heard from within.
Her grandfather, meanwhile, was telling Jiang Du about herding cattle as a boy. His voice was thunderous — she suspected that when he spoke, half the apartment complex could hear him.
Whenever he recalled the past, every wrinkle on her grandfather’s face came alive. He told her: the young calves loved to rub up against the mother cow endlessly; and the mother cow would lick the calf over and over in return. But once the calf was sold, the mother cow would cry without stopping — tears running down her face — and everyone marveled at it. But marvel all they might, the sale had to be made.
Jiang Du poked at her rice without a word. Her grandfather told the story with great absorption, ending it with a long sigh: he himself had become an old cow, he said — nearly out of strength.
“Always going on about the same old things — who wants to hear that?” Her grandmother emerged from the bedroom complaining, rapping her grandfather’s bowl. “Eat your food.” Then she kicked him lightly under the table and muttered: “Little Fen says she won’t be coming after all — the weather is bad, heavy snow expected.”
“If she’s not coming, she’s not coming — no great matter. Every time she comes, it’s one commotion after another.” Her grandfather said the words, but his eyes drifted involuntarily toward the balcony — where the cured meats and sausages hung. Homemade is the cleanest kind — that was his favorite saying.
It was a sensitive subject. Jiang Du, very sensibly, rose from her seat: “Is there still rice in the pot? Let me go get a little more.”
She went into the kitchen and looked up — only then noticing how bare and forlorn the osmanthus tree looked outside the window.
This New Year’s Eve, she ought to have been overjoyed not to have to go to her great-aunt’s house. Was that truly how she felt?
The weather forecast proved accurate. On New Year’s Eve, heavy snow fell.
Her grandmother had wanted to bring Grandma Weng over to spend the evening with them and watch television, but Grandma Weng was unusually stubborn this time — absolutely refusing.
The snow was thick, and the whole world took on a gentle, hushed stillness. In some windows, warm light glowed and laughter gathered; in others, a single solitary figure sat alone through the vast snowy night. The Spring Festival Gala was lively on screen. Jiang Du, tired of watching, got up to use the bathroom. She pushed the window open — a gust of snow-swept wind swept in, cool and clean beyond measure.
Grandma Weng is alone, she thought.
And then — had Wei Qingyue’s mother come back?
Just past midnight, the chat group burst with New Year’s greetings, one after another. The city had banned fireworks; something of the festive spirit was missing.
At the moment the television host counted down to one, Jiang Du said it silently in her heart: Happy New Year.
Like those letters — no salutation, no signature. Only the snow outside falling without end, quietly covering the world.
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