Extra: Xiaoman's First Encounter Memo

# Extra Xiaoman's First Encounter Memo

My fingertips traced my grandfather's yellowed, old-style planting notes. The dried pear leaves wedged between the pages still held a faint herbaceous fragrance, their edges a bit roughened by time, evoking a memory of that early summer morning. From outside the yard, I could hear Xiaochen's laughter as he chased Wangfu. It was crisp, and I suddenly remembered the day I first met Chen Wang—also in May, when the old orchard's pear blossoms were in full bloom. The wind blew, and the white petals fell onto the strawberry patch, like a dusting of fine snow.

I had just finished watering the old pear tree with mountain spring water and was squatting by the strawberry patch, picking up dead leaves. My fingertips had just touched a curled, yellow leaf when I heard a rustling sound behind me, as if drawings had been scattered to the ground. Turning back, I saw a man in a light gray shirt squatting on the edge of a field, quickly picking up the scattered pages. His hair was matted with morning dew, a few strands clinging to his forehead. In his hand, he clutched a wrinkled seed—a dark brown shell with fine lines, exactly like the "star-patterned" tomato seeds my grandfather had sketched in his notebook.

"Sorry, sorry, didn't I scare you?" He looked up, his eyes shining like stars freshly washed by morning dew. In his hand, he was holding a muddy strawberry leaf, which he had probably accidentally dropped while picking up the blueprints. "I'm here to survey the land here. I want to try growing some old local varieties."

I was stunned for a moment. I only remember his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his exposed wrists stained with black mud. He didn't look disheveled at all, but rather exuded a sense of steadiness. The strawberry leaf in his hand trembled slightly in the breeze, its light green edges glistening with moisture, like a little creature just waking from sleep. Later, I realized that was the freshest look of the old crop, and it was also the beginning of a softness in a corner of my heart.

"Which old variety do you want to plant?" I finally found my voice and pointed to the seeds in his hand. "This is a 'Star Pattern' tomato seed, right? My grandfather used to grow that."

His eyes lit up instantly, and he spread the picked-up blueprints out on the edge of the field. The pages were filled with sketches: the star-shaped fruit of a "star pattern" tomato, the cross-section of a double-kernel walnut, and the markings of an old pear tree. "Yes! I've seen records of old varieties from Qingxi in ancient books. They say the tomatoes here are sweet and the walnuts have thin shells," he said, pointing to the markings on the blueprints, his tone full of anticipation. "I want to bring back these old varieties and plant them for more people to see."

The sunlight that day was exceptionally soft, filtering through the gaps between the blossoming pear trees onto his drawings, tinting the black lines with a warm gold. I crouched beside him, listening as he described the exhaustion of working in agricultural technology in the city—working day after day at cold instruments, never touching the real earth. He recounted his delight at stumbling upon a record of an old Qingxi variety in the library, like finding a long-lost treasure. He spoke of his desire to rediscover his roots in the countryside, to allow the old varieties to take root again in the soil. The branches of the old pear tree drooped gently, a few petals landing on the drawings between us, as if listening intently, reluctant to interrupt.

"This land is very suitable for growing old varieties." I pointed to the depths of the orchard, where there were still traces of the ridges where my grandfather planted tomatoes. "You just have to be patient. The old varieties grow slowly, but they are more durable than other seedlings." Before I finished speaking, I saw the tomato seed in his hand. It had somehow rolled into the palm of my hand. The shell still had the warmth of his palm, and it was warm against my fingertips.

He was also stunned for a moment, then smiled, revealing two shallow canine teeth: "It seems that it likes you too."

We spent the entire morning at the old orchard. He helped me tie the loose strawberry racks back together, his fingers deftly twisting the twine, securing them more securely than mine. I taught him how to identify soil suitable for growing tomatoes—it should be loose and slightly sandy, clump together when squeezed, and then spread apart when loosened. As the sun set, he packed up his blueprints and was about to leave, but suddenly turned back, his ears a little red. "Can I come tomorrow? I want to try planting this seed with you."

I held the still warm seed in my hand and nodded. Then I saw a few newly ripened green fruits in the strawberry patch behind me. They were reflected by the setting sun and looked light pink, as if nodding for me.

Every time I think of that day, I can't help but smile. It turns out our fate was hidden in those tiny details: the pear blossom petals he dropped onto the blueprint, the seeds burning in my palm, the old pear tree's branches quietly drooping, and the unmistakable light in his eyes when he talked about the old varieties. These little things, which I didn't pay much attention to at the time, later became the sweetest candy in the passage of time.

"Mom, what are you laughing at?" Xiaochen ran over, holding a freshly picked strawberry in his hand, the flesh of the fruit was bright red. "Dad said this one is the sweetest, so he asked me to give it to you."

I took the strawberry and took a bite. The sweet juice spread in my mouth—exactly the same sweet fragrance of pear blossoms that filled the air on the day we first met. Chen Wang also came over, holding a bottle of freshly brewed lemon tea, still stained with water. He handed it to me casually: "What are you thinking about? You smile so sweetly."

"I'm thinking about the first time I saw you." I looked up at him. The setting sun fell into his eyes, still as bright as before. "Back then, I felt that you, this land, and these old varieties were the fate I had been waiting for for a long time."

He was stunned for a moment, then took my hand. The warmth from his fingertips passed through the pear wood ring—a ring he later made for me from an old pear tree branch, with a small tomato pattern carved into it. In the distance, at the old variety base, the tomato vines swayed gently in the wind, and the leaves of the old pear tree rustled, as if echoing my words.

It turns out some encounters are quietly orchestrated by the land from the very beginning. Just as old varieties remember the sun and rain, I will forever remember that early summer morning: pear blossoms blanketed the ridges of the fields, and he squatted on the ground, picking up blueprints, clutching a seed in his hand, his eyes filled with the hope of the entire land. He carried that seed into my orchard, and into all my subsequent lives. Together with the old varieties and the land, we grew into the most solid happiness.