The glass of the bulletin board still bore traces of last night's rain. The notice for the public welfare project was pinned to the center with a red thumbtack, the edges of the A4 paper slightly curled. Ah Yu squatted not far away beside the pothos bushes, her camera focused on the cactus on the windowsill—something Zhong Hua had been raising for five years. Its thorns were three times denser than when it first arrived, but the top was crookedly pointing towards the light, like a stubborn little old man.

With a soft click, the shutter clicked. Ah Yu stared at the image on the screen, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the camera strap—the one Zhong Hua had made from an old leather belt last year, worn smooth and lustrous. He pulled a pen from his canvas bag, leaned his knee against the bulletin board, and signed his name on the printed application form. As the pen glided across the words "Duration of Stationing: Three Months," the ink suddenly swelled in a small circle, like a tear dripping onto rice paper.

"I'll go," he said without looking up, as if reporting to a cactus, or as if convincing himself.

"The humidity is high in the mountains."

As Zhong Hua's voice came from above, A Yu was about to wipe the dust off his lens with his sleeve. He looked up and saw that the other man was wearing a faded blue shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his forearms, revealing the worn watch strap on his wrist—it was a gift the three of them had chipped in to buy when they graduated from university, a style Lin Wanqing had chosen, saying, "Durable, a good match for Zhong Hua, this old relic." Sunlight streamed through the glass of the bulletin board, casting dappled shadows on Zhong Hua's eyelashes. A Yu suddenly noticed faint dark circles under his eyes, probably from repairing cameras in the studio late into the night again last night.

“I brought a humidifier.” Ah Yu smiled, her eyes curving into crescents, a speck of chalk dust, like a tiny snowflake, clung to her eyelashes. She reached out to brush the dust off, but Zhong Hua tilted his head slightly, avoiding her touch.

The air was still for two seconds, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner's outdoor unit. Ah Yu withdrew her hand, pretending to look at the ink bleeding on the application form. Her fingertip brushed against the blurred words, and she felt a slight sting in her heart.

Zhong Hua didn't say anything more and turned to walk towards the tea room. Ah Yu watched his back and suddenly noticed that his steps were heavier than usual. Each step on the terrazzo floor made a dull sound, like a stone hitting her heart.

I. The Thoughts Behind the Lenses

The blinds in the studio were half-open, letting in slanted sunlight that cast interlaced stripes of light and shadow on the floor. Ah Yu pinned the application form to the corner of the bulletin board, directly opposite Zhong Hua's desk. He knew this guy had a habit of standing in front of the bulletin board for five minutes every morning, not to read the notices, but to count the thumbtacks on it—back in college, he always stared at the dormitory attendance sheet counting the thumbtacks, saying, "Neatly arranged things give you peace of mind."

"Fiddling with your precious camera again?" Lin Wanqing emerged from the design studio carrying a stack of sketchbooks, a pencil still tucked into her hair. She glanced at the notice board. "A charity project? You're going to the mountains?"

“Yes, three months.” Ah Yu was installing the newly replaced telephoto lens onto the camera body, the metal mount making a crisp “click” sound as it clicked. “There’s a school for left-behind children over there, and they need someone to take some documentary photos for publicity.”

Lin Wanqing put down the brochure, picked up the application form, and tapped "Three-month on-site assignment" with her fingertip: "Does Zhong Hua know?"

“I just said.” Ah Yu was adjusting the focus when a hand suddenly appeared in the frame, moving the cactus on the windowsill to a sunnier spot. Zhong Hua’s fingers were long with distinct knuckles, but he touched the cactus’s thorns with unusual gentleness, as if afraid of hurting it.

"He didn't say anything?" Lin Wanqing raised an eyebrow.

“They said the humidity is high in the mountains.” Ah Yu pressed the shutter, and in the picture, Zhong Hua’s profile was facing the light, his jawline taut. He suddenly remembered when Zhong Hua first brought this cactus back to his dorm in college, saying, “It’s drought-resistant, perfect for someone like me with a bad memory.” Back then, Ah Yu always laughed at him, saying that raising plants was like being in love, you had to think about them every day. Zhong Hua didn’t argue then, but the next day he put a small spray bottle next to the cactus, with a sticky note on it that read, “Water every Wednesday.”

"He was worried about you." Lin Wanqing took the camera from his hand. "Your chronic rhinitis always flares up in damp places. Have you forgotten how you couldn't sleep all night because of your stuffy nose when we went to Qinghai Lake last time?"

Ah Yu touched the tip of his nose, feeling a little guilty. That time in Qinghai, he got up at three in the morning to run to the lakeside to photograph the sunrise, but he encountered a cold front and developed rhinitis when he got back. He was so congested at night that he could only breathe through his mouth. In his drowsy state, he kept feeling someone applying a hot towel to his nose. Later, he found out it was Zhong Hua, who got up at five in the morning to boil water, and was still clutching the rhinitis medicine that Lin Wanqing had given him.

"I brought medicine." Ah Yu took out a small medicine box from his canvas bag, which contained various types of medicine, including cold medicine, allergy medicine, and two packs of nasal spray. He remembered that the last time Zhong Hua saw him using this spray, his brows were furrowed as if in a knot, and he said, "This stuff contains hormones, use it sparingly."

As they were talking, Zhong Hua came out of the tea room with two cups of coffee. He placed one in front of Ah Yu, the rim still steaming, and handed the other to Lin Wanqing. His fingers paused on the handle of the coffee cup, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he just picked up the lens cloth on the table and silently wiped the camera that Ah Yu had just used.

"Oh, by the way," Lin Wanqing said casually, taking a sip of her coffee, "I'm going to a curators' conference in a neighboring city next week, it'll probably last five days. As for the studio..."

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Zhong Hua replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He placed the cleaned camera next to Ah Yu, the lens cap tightly closed. “Your application needs to be submitted to the person in charge. I’ll go there this afternoon.”

Ah Yu looked up, intending to say, "I can go by myself," but met Zhong Hua's gaze. The man's eyes were deep, like a lake hidden beneath a calm surface, where undercurrents surged. He suddenly remembered when he entered a photography competition in college; it was the same story. Zhong Hua had helped him organize all the materials, and even accompanied him to the photo lab. That day at the photo lab, the owner had said, "You two work together quite well." Zhong Hua hadn't said anything then, but simply arranged the developed photos in order. The top one was a photo Ah Yu had taken of Zhong Hua by Qinghai Lake, carrying a tripod, his hair blowing wildly in the wind.

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