Echoes of a Small Town: The Wrinkles of Time When Luggage is Buttoned Up

The wheels of the canvas suitcase made a dull thud on the stone pavement, like a sigh unwilling to disturb the morning mist. Lin Xia squatted down to fasten the last zipper, her fingernails rubbing against the metal buckle, leaving fine white marks. Sunlight slanted through the carved eaves, cutting across the back of her hand. The tan line left from cycling around Qinghai Lake last year hadn't completely faded, but now it was fragmented into mottled gold by the shadows of the sycamore leaves in the town.

"Please put another scarf in your pocket; the mountain breeze is chilly at night," Chen Mo's voice came from behind, hoarse from just waking up. He was dangling a blue and white tie-dye scarf in his hand, bought three days ago from an old woman's stall at the alley entrance. The old woman had slipped a warm boiled peanut into Lin Xia's hand, saying the color suited her eyes. As Lin Xia took the scarf, her fingertips touched the thin calluses on Chen Mo's fingertips—marks left from years of pressing the camera shutter, now gleaming softly in the morning light.

The wooden staircase on the third floor creaked as Su Man descended, carrying a stack of drawing paper, a few specks of undried cobalt blue still clinging to the ends of her hair. She paused at the corner, her gaze sweeping over the wooden window at the end of the corridor, carved with lotus blossoms—it was there yesterday evening that she had been painting the sunset, the cadmium red and orange-yellow in her palette spreading across the canvas to create the fiery clouds unique to the small town. Meanwhile, the sound of Zhao Lei playing the guitar drifted up from downstairs, the melody of "Southern Girl" mingling with the aroma of sweet and sour pork ribs wafting from the kitchen, weaving a soft net in the twilight.

"Is Zhao Lei still working on his guitar strings?" Chen Mo took the drawing paper from Su Man's arms, his fingertips brushing against the dried paint particles on the edge of the paper, like touching a scab of time. Last night, they sat around under the old pear tree in the courtyard. Zhao Lei clipped his newly bought capo to the guitar and tried playing a piece he had written himself. The intro had the sound of morning dew falling on the leaves, the interlude had the shouts of a tofu pudding stall at the end of the alley, and the outro was the splashing sound of the setting sun sinking into the river. Lin Xia was leaning against the pear tree trunk at the time, counting the knots in the leather bracelet on Zhao Lei's wrist, and suddenly noticed that the moonlight stretched everyone's shadows very long, as if carving an indelible inscription on the bluestone slab.

A soft clinking of porcelain came from the kitchen as Sister Zhang packed up the remaining dried plums. She polished the glass jar until it gleamed, the spoon handle striking the jar with a clear "tinkle," startling the sparrows pecking at rice on the windowsill. For the past two weeks, Sister Zhang's apron had always been stained with the smell of cooking firewood. She was at the stove at five in the morning, cooking porridge; the aroma of rice in the clay pot mingled with the scent of gardenias outside the window, becoming their fixed alarm clock. Yesterday, she taught Lin Xia how to pickle plums. The rock sugar in the rough earthenware jar melted among the green plums, and sunlight streamed through the wooden lattice window, casting their shadows on the earthen wall covered with New Year's paintings—a scene strikingly similar to the faded "New Year's Offerings" painting in the main room of their old home.

"This... do you still want it?" Su Man held up a pebble the size of a fist. A crooked smiley face was painted on it with acrylic paint. Zhao Lei had insisted on giving it to her the day before yesterday when they were sketching on the riverbank. At the time, he was squatting in the shallow water looking for stones, his trousers rolled up unevenly. When the water reached his ankles, it startled a school of silverfish, but he held up this stone and exclaimed, "Look at these lines, don't they look like wrinkles from a smile?" Now, Su Man's fingertips traced the smiley face on the stone. The paint, damp with moisture, blurred slightly, like a tear accidentally dripped into time.

Chen Mo's camera was still set up on the second-floor terrace, its lens pointing towards the distant mountain valley. There, a patch of wild roses, discovered just yesterday, still held the morning dew on its petals, sparkling like countless tiny diamonds in the morning light. He remembered Lin Xia crouching among the flowers taking pictures yesterday, the hem of her white dress brushing against the thorny branches, a pinkish-white petal falling from her hair; Su Man sitting on a rock not far away sketching; Zhao Lei sitting by a tree root tuning his guitar; and Sister Zhang picking a bunch of wild mint, saying that adding a few leaves to the porridge that night would help cool them down. The sunlight was perfect then, bathing everyone's figures in the sweet fragrance of roses, like a jar of plum wine slowly fermenting.

The suitcase zipper finally clicked shut. Lin Xia subconsciously pressed the lid, as if trying to suppress some surging emotion. She remembered her first day there; the cobblestone streets were just like this, only back then the suitcase wheels were spinning so fast, and everyone was stunned by the sudden sight of the town—houses with blue tiles and white walls nestled at the foot of the mountain, an old woman in a blue cotton shirt sitting on the doorstep sewing shoe soles, an old locust tree at the alley entrance drooping with strings of white blossoms, and the aroma of rice wafting from someone's kitchen. Chen Mo had spun around in place with his camera then, the lens cap falling to the ground with a thud, startling a gray pigeon perched on the wall.

"Put this in." Sister Zhang handed over a paper package containing freshly baked peach shortbread, the paper still exuding a warm, oily aroma. She watched Lin Xia stuff the package into the side pocket of her backpack, then suddenly reached out to smooth her wind-blown bangs. "Next time you come, you should eat bayberries. Bayberries at the end of June are soaked in ice water; when you bite into one, the juice will splash onto your nose." Lin Xia suddenly felt a stinging sensation in her nose, remembering how Sister Zhang had taught her to distinguish between male and female bayberries yesterday, her fingertips tracing the serrated edges of bayberry leaves—that rough touch still lingered on her skin, like a subtle itch.

Zhao Lei finally came down with his guitar, a new scratch on the case from when he accidentally bumped it against a rock while tuning it on the riverbank yesterday. He gently placed the case on the ground, took a small cloth bag from his pocket, inside was a smooth pebble with "2025.6" written on it in marker. "Put this in my camera bag?" he asked, handing the bag to Chen Mo. "I found it by the river yesterday; the pattern looks just like the map we pieced together in the café the first time." As Chen Mo took the bag, the coolness of the river water still lingering on the stone reminded him of their first night at the café called "Time Capsule," where they wrote their travel wishes on postcards, put them in a glass bottle prepared by the owner, and promised to open them ten years later.

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