“You remember it so clearly,” Lin Wanqing’s fingertips traced the camera lens. “Back then, he got lost chasing migratory birds, and you carried him for three kilometers back to the guesthouse.” Zhong Hua paused, the zipper on his backpack stuck halfway. As he bent down to fiddle with the zipper, his voice was muffled: “He has photos of us together on his camera. He can’t lose them.”

The train station was much brighter than it had been ten years ago, with train information scrolling on electronic screens, replacing the handwritten blackboards of yesteryear. Ah Yu kept snapping photos, and amidst the shutter clicks, Zhong Hua suddenly pulled three thermos cups from his backpack, filled with ginger tea that Lin Wanqing had brewed in the early morning. "Back then, you had a stomachache the whole way from the cold mineral water at the train station," Zhong Hua said, shoving the cups into Ah Yu's hands. His fingertips accidentally brushed against Ah Yu's palm, burning him so much that Ah Yu jerked his hand away.

As the train started moving, Ah Yu pressed her face against the window, watching the platform recede little by little. Zhong Hua leaned back in his chair, flipping through a map, when he suddenly heard Ah Yu exclaim "Ah!" He turned around and saw him holding a camera, pointing it out the window. The lens captured vast fields of rapeseed flowers, a golden sea of ​​blossoms surging in the sunlight, like a secret unspoken ten years ago, finally blooming in the wind.

“Look,” Ah Yu held the camera up to Zhong Hua’s eyes, “it’s even better than the pictures I saw in the album back then.” Zhong Hua’s gaze fell on the screen, and he suddenly noticed that there was still red ink stuck in Ah Yu’s fingernails—it was from when she was circling the map that day, and even after washing it for so many days, the traces were still there. He didn’t say anything, but just took out a pack of wet wipes from his backpack, pulled one out and handed it to her, the action as natural as if he had done it a thousand times.

Lin Wanqing was flipping through a book next to her when she suddenly burst out laughing: "You two, after ten years, you're still the same. One of you loves to joke around, and the other loves to worry." Ah Yu's face flushed red. She lowered her head and pretended to wipe the lens, but in the viewfinder, she saw Zhong Hua looking out the window with a slight smile on his lips, like a kiss from the sunlight.

As the train passed Lanzhou, rolling mountain ranges began to appear outside the window, their bluish-gray ridges appearing and disappearing in the clouds. Ah Yu was asleep, his head resting on the small table, his breathing even, his eyelashes casting faint shadows beneath his eyes. Zhong Hua took off his coat and gently draped it over him, his movements so light as if afraid of disturbing his dream. Lin Wanqing watched this scene and suddenly remembered that on a train during her university years, Ah Yu had also slept like this, and Zhong Hua had sat stiffly all night just to make sure his head was comfortable.

“He always says you’re rigid,” Lin Wanqing said in a low voice, “but deep down he knows better than anyone that you’re afraid he’ll be wronged.” Zhong Hua’s gaze fell on A Yu’s hand clutching the camera. That hand, once red, swollen, and oozing pus from searching for a lost lens in the snow, still smiled and said, “It’s good that I found it.” He sighed softly and pulled the camera that had slipped from A Yu’s hand closer to his chest: “As long as he’s happy.”

When they arrived in Qinghai, the sky was an unbelievable blue, with wispy clouds hanging in the air. Ah Yu had just stepped out of the station when he grabbed his camera and ran off, with Zhong Hua chasing after him carrying the three of their backpacks. Hearing Lin Wanqing calling from behind, "Slow down," he suddenly remembered a scene from his university days—the same sunshine, the same shouts, only back then Ah Yu was chasing the sunset, now he was chasing the returning birds, and the backpack in his hand was much heavier than it had been then, but also much warmer.

The wind at Chaka Salt Lake carried a salty, astringent scent, causing Ah Yu's scarf to flutter wildly. He chased after migratory birds, camera in hand, his trouser legs covered in white salt crystals, like an early snowfall. Zhong Hua sat on a rock by the lake, watching Lin Wanqing straighten Ah Yu's windswept scarf. Suddenly, he noticed the crooked stitches on the cuffs of Ah Yu's windbreaker, which shimmered in the sunlight like scattered stars on the fabric.

“Look at this,” Lin Wanqing leaned closer, holding up her phone for Zhong Hua to see. The screen showed Ah Yu’s running figure, with the sky reflected in the distant lake like a giant sapphire, and his shadow stretched long, falling right at Ah Yu’s feet. “How wonderful,” Lin Wanqing said softly, “the three of us have finally made up for the regrets of that year into a perfect ending.”

Zhong Hua didn't speak, but took out a thermos from his backpack. As he unscrewed the lid, the steam from the ginger tea condensed into white mist in the cold wind. He watched Ah Yu run towards the center of the lake with her camera in hand, and suddenly felt that the past ten years were like the reflection on the lake's surface, seemingly ethereal, yet already rooted in his heart, growing into a warm shape.

As the sun set, Ah Yu finally stopped and sat cross-legged on the salt flats, looking through the photos on his camera. Zhong Hua sat down next to him, handed him a thermos, and watched him gulp down ginger tea, his nose red from the cold. "Look at this one," Ah Yu said, shoving the camera into Zhong Hua's hand. The screen showed Lin Wanqing's profile standing by the lake, the setting sun gilding the edges of her hair. "Doesn't it look like the one we took by the lake at university?"

Zhong Hua's fingertips traced the screen, and he suddenly recalled an evening from his university days. It was a sunset just like that; Lin Wanqing stood by the lake feeding the swans, Ah Yu squatted on the ground with her camera, and he stood under the willow tree carrying the three of their schoolbags. The wind was filled with the scent of grass. But now, the wind, besides the saltiness of the grains of salt, seemed to carry something else, like wine brewed by time, growing sweeter with each sip.

On the train back, Ah Yu was transferring photos from her camera to her laptop when she suddenly exclaimed "Huh!" and stared at the screen, stunned. Zhong Hua leaned over to look. In the picture, he was bending down to help Lin Wanqing pick up her fallen sunglasses. Sunlight formed soft halos around their shoulders, and Ah Yu's shadow, holding the camera, fell right at the edge of the halo, like a perfect period.

“This needs to be developed,” Ah Yu’s fingertip tapped lightly on the screen. “It’s like the three of us have built our lives like a jigsaw puzzle; not a single piece can be missing.” Zhong Hua looked at the screen and suddenly felt his eyes well up with tears. He turned to look out the window. Qinghai Lake in the night was like a sleeping sapphire. He knew that some things were more precious than jewels, such as the warmth in the carriage at this moment, such as the two noisy people beside him, and such as the roots that had quietly taken root over the past ten years.

The train moved forward in the darkness, the sound of its wheels hitting the rails like a gentle song. Ah Yu was asleep, leaning on Zhong Hua's shoulder, breathing evenly, still clutching the windmill pendant in his hand. Zhong Hua looked down at his sleeping profile and suddenly remembered that before leaving, while mending his windbreaker, he had accidentally pricked his finger, and a drop of blood had dripped onto the fabric, spreading into a small red dot, like a heart hidden in the stitch.

He gently adjusted his posture to make Ah Yu more comfortable, then took out the world map from his backpack. By the light of the passing car lights outside the window, he looked at the red circle and suddenly realized that the so-called "rooting" is never about staying in a certain place, but about having people you want to cherish by your side. So every step forward becomes a warm homecoming.

Just like now, the scenery outside the car window keeps receding, but the people around him are always there. This is probably the best gift of time—allowing wanderers to finally find the warmth to take root.