Ginkgo leaves along the Seine

The late autumn in Paris always carries a damp chill. When Lin Wanqing handed the last thick coat to the little boy wrapped in a tattered blanket, her fingertips were already red from the cold. Across the Seine, the Eiffel Tower was flashing its lights, its hourly flicker like scattered stars, but its light couldn't penetrate this makeshift refugee camp.

“Merci.” The little boy rushed into the tent, his pigtails still covered in breadcrumbs as he held up his coat. Lin Wanqing bent down to pick up his fallen crayon; the sky-blue pen had deep crescent-shaped marks from being bitten by teeth.

“Ms. Lin, the medicines in the truck need to be inventoried.” Volunteer Mary waved to her, holding up a list, raindrops clinging to her eyelashes like scattered diamonds. Lin Wanqing stuffed the crayons into her canvas bag, and as she turned away, the old injury on her lower back throbbed faintly—it was from when she was hit by a baton in prison while trying to seize evidence against Gu Yanming.

The warehouse, converted from shipping containers, was piled high with supplies. Lin Wanqing squatted down to check the drug batch numbers, and the smell of iodine suddenly reminded her of a cocktail party three years ago. That day, A Yu wore an ill-fitting rented suit, with red wine stains on the cuffs; Zhong Hua was snapping photos everywhere, the lens cap still on. She stood at the entrance of the banquet hall watching them awkwardly clink glasses, the crystal chandelier casting crisscrossing light spots on their backs, like an oil painting that hadn't quite dried.

“There’s a box of expired children’s fever reducers here.” Mary’s voice pulled her back to reality. Lin Wanqing held the medicine box, checking the production date, her fingertips brushing against the cartoon bear printed on the packaging—the same kind she had given to Zhong Hua’s daughter. Her phone vibrated in her pocket; it was an email from her lawyer: Gu Yanming’s second trial upheld the original verdict, Gu’s assets had been liquidated, and the victims’ compensation had been received.

She went outside into the warehouse for some fresh air; the cold rain felt like tiny needles on her face. She took out her phone to message Ah Yu, and as she unlocked it, the screen lit up: the three figures leaned slightly in the warm glow of the party, Ah Yu's hand resting on Zhong Hua's shoulder, the tip of her own high heels just touching Ah Yu's. She had taken this photo when they weren't looking, and it later became her phone's wallpaper, helping her through the most difficult nights in prison.

"Remember this?" Mary suddenly handed over a ginkgo leaf-shaped cookie. Lin Wanqing took a bite, and the aroma of butter mixed with nuts wafted out—it tasted very similar to the one Ah Yu used to buy downstairs from the newspaper office.

“Last winter, a Chinese journalist came to interview us and brought this brand of cookies.” Mary pointed to a bench in the corner of the camp. “She said she was looking for someone named Lin Wanqing and that you owed her a voice recorder.”

Lin Wanqing's heart clenched. She remembered the pen Zhong Hua had clutched in the ICU, containing evidence of Gu Yanming's confession to bribing the arsonist. That day, she had handed the pen to A Yu through the prison glass; his fingertips met hers on the glass, as if completing some solemn handover.

The rain was pouring down, making a crackling sound as it hit the tent canvas. As Lin Wanqing helped reinforce the tent ropes, she saw a little girl in a floral dress picking up ginkgo leaves in the mud. The child carefully pressed the golden leaves one by one into an old book, her movements as devout as if she were collecting sunlight.

"What are you doing?" Lin Wanqing knelt down to help her brush the mud off her skirt. The little girl held up a book for her to see; on the title page, written in crooked French, was the following: "Mommy said that fallen leaves will turn into butterflies and fly to places where there is no war."

As dusk settled, the camp suddenly came alive. Volunteers lit a campfire, and the refugees brought out their treasured instruments—a guitar with a missing string, an accordion with chipped paint, and a boy even tapping out rhythms from an empty can. Lin Wanqing leaned against a shipping container watching them dance. Someone tossed her a red scarf, and as she caught it, the tassels brushed against the back of her hand, much like the fountain pen Zhong Hua always liked to dangle during interviews.

“Someone’s looking for you.” Mary ran over, holding a satellite phone; the signal was intermittent. When Lin Wanqing took the phone, she heard a familiar cough mixed with the static—it was Ah Yu’s voice, hoarse from the Tibetan plateau.

"Is it cold in Paris?" Ah Yu's voice suddenly became clear. "Zhong Hua tied a red string to the prayer wheel and said he tied one for you too."

Lin Wanqing stared at the crackling firewood in the campfire, her throat tightening: "Tell her I have ginkgo leaves here, which are more resistant to freezing than red rope."

The phone rang out as Zhong Hua snatched the phone, his voice tinged with laughter and panting: "Wanqing, we saw the news about you doing charity work in Tibet. The coat you're wearing in the photo is the one I gave you..."

The signal suddenly dropped. Lin Wanqing stood holding the phone for a long time until the screen went dark, revealing her mud-splattered face. She subconsciously stroked the group photo on the screen. In the photo, Ah Yu's shoulders were slightly leaning forward, as if protecting Zhong Hua beside her, while she herself stood a little further away, her skirt billowing in a beautiful arc in the wind.

While taking stock of supplies late at night, Lin Wanqing found a photo album in a box of donated old books. Turning the yellowed pages, a postcard fell out—a panoramic view of Notre Dame Cathedral, with the words written in Chinese on the back: "Waiting for you to come out, we'll go take pictures of a real sunset." The handwriting was bold and flamboyant, Zhong Hua's.

She remembered the time after the party that year, when the three of them scrambled to see the photos Zhong Hua had taken in the parking lot. Ah Yu accidentally stepped on her camera strap and broke it, and Zhong Hua chased after him, hitting him. She stood by, laughing, with a note in her pocket that Gu Yanting had given her, which read, "Beware of Gu Yanming." Back then, they all thought that the future would just be a few more nights they could drink together.

As dawn approached, Lin Wanqing received a multimedia message from an unknown number. It was a picture of Zhang Xueshan, with Zhong Hua standing in front of a prayer wheel, red prayer flags fluttering behind her, and two red ropes tied around her wrists. Ah Yu wasn't in the photo, but she recognized his usual windbreaker, draped over a stone next to the prayer wheel, a ginkgo leaf clinging to the hem.

She set the MMS as her new screensaver, covering the original group photo. Then she took an envelope out of her canvas bag and stuffed it into the supply box destined for Tibet—inside were two plane tickets to Paris, with a flattened ginkgo leaf tucked inside, which she had picked up at the camp the night before.

As the first rays of sunlight crossed the Seine, Lin Wanqing was already sitting in a freight car bound for Marseille. Marie handed her a piece of hot bread, and when she broke it open, she found a ginkgo leaf inside, the butter making the leaf's veins glisten.

“It was the little girl who was picking up leaves who put it there.” Mary pointed out the car window, where the little girl was waving at the truck with her red scarf, which had a ginkgo leaf brooch pinned to it—the one Lin Wanqing had picked and pinned to her pigtails yesterday.

As the truck drove away from Paris, Lin Wanqing took one last look at her phone. On the new screensaver, Zhong Hua's smile was brighter than the red string of the prayer wheel. What she didn't know was that behind the stone in the corner of the photo, Ah Yu was secretly tying a third red string to the prayer wheel, with a small ginkgo leaf specimen hanging from the end of the string.

The wind whistled through the gaps in the truck, carrying the distant sound of church bells. Lin Wanqing pressed her face against the window, her breath blurring the scenery outside. She remembered Gu Yanting's last words to her in prison: "Some debts must be repaid with a lifetime of sunshine."

She looked down at the ginkgo leaf in her palm and suddenly understood that true redemption is never about walking alone, but about turning the warmth given by others into light for more people. Just like now, the bonfire on the banks of the Seine has gone out, but millions of ginkgo leaves are quietly transforming into butterflies in different places.