wake up
I woke up suddenly from my sleep, my heart pounding as if I had just struggled out of deep water.
My cheeks were damp, and the pillowcase was stained with dark water stains. The morning light filtered through the gaps in the undrawn curtains, carving slanting beams of light through which dust rolled silently.
It was that dream again.
In my dreams, I always see him at the end of that long, coldly lit corridor, his arms clutching a book, suddenly bumping into me. He looks up, his eyes bright, his smile apologetic and slightly flustered. Sunlight falls on his hair, and the air is filled with a faint, clean scent, like jasmine and laundry detergent.
Then the picture suddenly shattered into the pale walls of the hospital, the shrill long beep of the monitor, and his last look at me, his eyes filled with endless tenderness and sorrow, which were gradually blurring.
"Spring will expire..."
His last breath was like a feather, falling gently, but it made a loud bang in my heart.
I sat up, pulled my knees together, and buried my face in them. My shoulders shook uncontrollably, and when I woke up, my face was wet with tears. A vast, fresh wave of grief washed over me once again, like a tidal wave. It was as if he hadn't been gone a year, but had just breathed his last, right here in this room.
That hollow feeling of loss is sharp and real, never dulled by the passage of time.
I cried for a long time until my tears dried up, leaving only dry pain and empty fatigue.
I looked up, my gaze fixed on the bedside calendar. It was spring again. Outside the window, buds were sprouting from the branches, and birds were chirping.
His prediction sounded like a prophecy.
He had tried his best to freeze time with money, to create for me an eternal spring that would be untouched by wind and rain. But he had forgotten, or perhaps he had long understood but was powerless to change it—spring itself is the most fleeting and ephemeral thing.
Just like him.
I threw back the quilt, stepped barefoot on the cool floor, walked to the window, and pulled open the curtains.
The sunlight rushed in, instantly illuminating the entire room and stinging my red and swollen eyes.
I looked at the increasing flow of people and cars on the street downstairs, and looked at this world that was still bustling and running, never stopping because of anyone's sadness.
On the neck, the ginkgo leaf necklace was against the skin, cold, and then slowly warmed up.
I took a deep breath of the cool morning air, which was mixed with the saltiness of tears and a certain... determination.
What he left me was not a fortress for me to indulge in.
It's a choice.
A reason that would allow me to not have to compromise for survival, to be able to purely suffer, to miss, to remember, and then... to pick up the paintbrush again with his share.
The tears continued to flow, but I slowly, ever so slowly, walked to the easel.
On the canvas is the unfinished painting "Path", with chaotic colors and stagnant brushstrokes, just like my mood over the past year.
I picked up a paintbrush and dipped it in a rich, almost glaring emerald green.
Then, he drew the first stroke boldly on the gray background.
Spring will expire.
But love doesn't.
Memory does not.
Nor will the freedom to cry and paint, which he bought for me with his life.
The morning light fills the room, and the tears are still wet. The rustling sound of the paintbrush across the linen is the only and best eulogy in the silent room.
The sound of the brush sliding across the linen was hoarse and continuous, like a stubborn whisper, fighting against the silence in the room.
I painted for a long time, until that piercing green ceased to be a solitary cry, but gradually blended into other colors—the blue of his school uniform in my memory, the golden hue of ginkgo leaves in the sun, the pale curtains of the hospital ward, and even the gray in his eyes in his final moments that I couldn't define but was deeply engraved in my mind.
I no longer attempt to depict specific images, but instead pursue the colors of emotion, the trajectory of feeling: the scarlet of anger, the indigo of sorrow, the paleness of powerlessness, and… and those fragmented moments of warmth masked by immense grief, the soft, almost imperceptible warm yellow and pale pink.
They intertwine, collide, cover and penetrate.
My fingers cramped, my back ached, and my body was covered in mottled paint, like a messy war.
When I finally ran out of strength, dropped my paintbrush, staggered back a few steps and looked at the canvas, I was stunned.
That was no longer the original "Path".
Beneath the chaotic hues, a strange inner order is emerging. Intense emotions burst forth, yet they are enveloped and precipitated by something deeper. It's not merely a mourning for the lost, but more like a... struggling rebirth. A most sincere questioning and answering of life and love, painstakingly built upon the ruins.
My heartbeat, after a long period of numbness and dull pain, for the first time, began to beat so violently and vividly.
---
A few days later, I took the rare initiative to contact Zhou Yu's special assistant, Mr. Lin, who always had a serious expression and was extremely efficient.
"I want to set up a foundation," I told him, my voice still a little hoarse, but my tone clearer than it had been in a long time. "I want to use some of the funds he left behind to support young artists engaged in pure art creation. Especially those creators...who may not be favored by the market but are sincere and have a spirit of exploration."
Mr. Lin on the other end of the phone was silent for a few seconds, seeming a little surprised, but he quickly regained his professional attitude: "Okay, Mr. Zhang. Please let me know the specific name of the foundation. I will immediately handle the relevant legal and procedural matters."
I looked at the newly reborn painting on the easel and whispered, "Let's call it... the 'Overdue Spring' Foundation."
---
The "Expired Spring" Foundation was quietly established.
I didn't hold a big launch event, but simply posted a short call for submissions through art schools and independent galleries. The judging was done anonymously by me and some trusted artist friends.
After the first round of grants were finalized, I received email after email from all over the world. Some were written with youthful excitement, others with calmness and restraint, but between the lines were filled with gratitude for being seen and recognized, as well as the eagerness to finally take a breath and devote themselves to creation.
Looking through those emails, I seemed to see countless Zhang Chenzhis struggling to persevere in their cramped studios, caught in the cracks of life. It was also as if I could see another parallel universe: if someone had helped Zhou Yu back then, would he have avoided the desperate rush toward that cold and cruel battlefield?
Amidst the deep sorrow, my heart felt a strange comfort.
---
It's another evening.
I stood in the middle of the studio, surrounded by scattered sketches and finished and unfinished works, the air thick with the familiar smell of turpentine and paint.
I picked up my phone, opened the address book, and lingered for a long time on the number I would never call again. Then, I opened a new memo.
I started typing, very slowly.
"Zhou Yu, it's raining in Beijing today. I remember you hated rainy days the most, saying that being wet makes you feel gloomy."
"The first child supported by the foundation sent me photos of his new work today. The drawings are clumsy, but they have a kind of reckless power, just like when you were doing case studies."
"I tried that expensive paint you bought yesterday, and it's true... the saturation is different. You have good taste."
"I dreamed about you again. I didn't cry this time."
"It seems like spring is almost over again. The magnolias are almost gone."
"I still miss you."
The words were fragmented and disorganized, just like the small talk we used to have on the phone every night before bed.
I know he will never receive it.
But writing this down is like putting these heavy emotions into a specific place. They no longer clash in my chest in disorder, but become something I can touch and preserve.
This may be what he ultimately wanted to leave me - not frozen time, but the courage to travel through time, continue to live, continue to feel, and continue to record.
Outside the window, the rain had stopped at some point. The setting sun pierced through the clouds, casting a thin golden light.
I put down my phone and picked up my paintbrush again.
The canvas is silent, the colors are silent.
But I know that something is continuing silently and tenaciously.
Like life.
Like love.
Like every spring, it will eventually expire, but will come back again.
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