The lens in the mountain wind

Ah Yu's fingertips paused on the phone screen for three seconds, the warmth of her fingertips making the small glass surface scorching. The photo that had just popped up in the WeChat group still had the afterimage of being sent, like a crumpled and barely smoothed-out candy wrapper, wrapped in the earthy yellow sunlight unique to a mountain afternoon.

He was squatting on the studio floor sorting film, his knees digging into a pile of undeveloped film canisters, making him wince in pain. His cell phone slipped out of his pocket, landing screen-down on the carpet, thankfully unbroken—it was a new model Zhong Hua had given him just last week, saying the instant camera function was convenient and would allow children in the mountains to see their reflections instantly.

The "ding-dong" notification sound was particularly clear in the quiet room. When Ah Yu picked up the phone, her fingertips brushed against the anti-slip texture on the edge, which Zhong Hua had specially asked the shop to engrave, saying that he always liked to drop his phone in his camera bag.

The moment he clicked on the image, he suddenly forgot which roll of film he was looking for.

The photo shows a patch of uneven, yellow earth, scribbled messily by children's footprints. A dozen or so children, looking like little mud balls, squat on the ground, clutching twigs of varying thicknesses, engrossed in drawing something. In the front row, a little girl in a red cotton-padded jacket holds a twig aloft, the tip of her pen suspended in mid-air, the red ribbon at the end of her braid fluttering slightly in the wind. And on the ground beneath their feet, the crooked, haphazard drawings blend together, resembling the claw marks left by fledgling birds just learning to fly.

"She's writing." Lin Wanqing walked over carrying two cups of hot cocoa. Her sweater sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing a silver bracelet on her wrist that matched the ones Ah Yu and Zhong Hua wore—the three of them had chipped in to buy it after graduating from university, and it was engraved with the initials of their names. She placed the cups on the coffee table scattered with photos, the ceramic cups clinking lightly against the tabletop.

Ah Yu's thumb enlarged on the screen, his fingertip tracing the childish strokes. "It's 'thank you,'" he said softly, his voice a little strained, "and...my name."

In the bottom right corner of the photo, there's a crooked "玉" (jade) character, with the last stroke dragging out like a little tail. Next to that character, there's a square object. The camera is far away, so the image is a bit blurry, but Ah Yu recognized it at a glance—it's a camera with a protruding lens and a small shutter button drawn on it.

"He remembers you loved taking these pictures." Lin Wanqing pointed to the camera icon with her chin, stirring the cocoa spoon in her hand to create a small swirl. "Last week, before Zhong Hua left, didn't he flip through your green-covered photography notebook? You wrote in it that you most wanted to capture the light in children's eyes, saying it was brighter than any scenery."

Ah Yu's fingers paused.

He remembered the day Zhong Hua flipped through his notebook. The sunlight was particularly bright that afternoon, casting stripes on the floor through the blinds. Zhong Hua sat in his usual wicker chair, his fingertips gripping the edge of the notebook, turning the pages slowly. Ah Yu was hunched over the table repairing a camera lens when she heard the rustling of the pages and casually asked him what he was looking at so intently.

"Refer to the composition," Zhong Hua said without looking up, sunlight falling on his eyelashes and casting a small shadow. "The light in the mountains is different from that in the city. Look at how you used to handle backlighting."

Ah Yu laughed at him at the time, saying that only science students pay attention to these things when taking photos, while he relied entirely on intuition. Now that I think about it, those pages, slightly curled by the sun, contained more than just composition techniques.

He suddenly remembered something from his university days. That year, in order to photograph the lotus flowers at five in the morning, he squatted by the lake and waited all night, his trouser legs soaked with dew, and he developed a fever the next day. Zhong Hua carried him to the school hospital, scolding him for not taking care of his health on the way, but while he was receiving an IV drip, she secretly went to the lake and picked that newly opened lotus flower, keeping it in a mineral water bottle by his bedside.

"Look," Zhong Hua said, handing him the flowers, her ears slightly red, "so you won't worry about them."

As the phone screen gradually cooled in her palm, Ah Yu realized she had been staring at that photo for a long time, so long that Lin Wanqing's Cocoa was almost cold. The sky outside the window darkened, and the light from the streetlights shone through the glass, casting the shadow of the window frame on the wall, like a picture frame, framing the quiet of the room.

"He messaged me yesterday saying the kids keep asking how to use the camera." Lin Wanqing picked up a cookie from the table, one she'd just baked that afternoon, its shape crooked and uneven. "He said there's a little boy who carries a twig around every day and draws a camera on the ground for you to see."

Ah Yu didn't say anything, but opened her chat window with Zhong Hua. Scrolling up, she saw nothing but trivial daily chatter: "The starry sky in the mountains is especially bright, it's a pity I didn't bring your long exposure camera"; "I picked wild strawberries today, they're as sour as that expired candy you ate last time"; "The kids asked when the photographer is coming."

His finger hovered over the text box, typing and deleting. He wanted to say "Take care and keep warm," but felt it was too wordy; he wanted to say "Come back soon," but was afraid it would seem too urgent. In the end, he only typed three words: "The photos are good."

I received a reply almost instantly after pressing the send button.

"Tomorrow we're filming the kids flying kites. Do you think shooting from a low angle would be better?"

Ah Yu laughed, her fingers flying across the screen: "Remember to use burst mode, kite strings are easy to blur." She thought for a moment, then added, "Don't always stay up all night editing photos, it's cold in the mountains."

The reply was "OK," followed by a camera emoji.

Lin Wanqing looked at the smile on his lips, picked up her cocoa and took a sip, her eyes reflecting the warm yellow light: "You two, you even have a camera on you when you talk."

Ah Yu didn't refute, but simply set the photo of the children writing as his wallpaper. The instant the screen went dark, he seemed to see the crooked camera icon move slightly, as if it were winking at him.

The film canisters on the floor were still waiting to be tidied up, but he suddenly didn't want to move. He just wanted to sit there, listening to the wind outside the window, imagining whether Zhong Hua was also under the eaves in the mountains, flipping through his photography notebook by the light of a kerosene lamp.

This chapter is not finished yet. Please click on the next page to continue reading the exciting content!