"This...should we take it with us?" Chen Mo's voice was a little hoarse as his fingertips traced his mother's smiling face in the photo. Little Wang leaned over to look and accidentally knocked over another piece of paper from the envelope—it was a drawing from kindergarten, with a crooked crayon drawing of a sun and a house, and in the corner written in pencil, "Mom, I love you," the handwriting already somewhat blurred.
Aunt Zhang took the drawing paper and gently wiped the dust off with her sleeve. "Take it with you. Put it in my bag; it won't wrinkle." She tucked the drawing paper into her blue cloth bundle and stuffed a wad of cotton inside. Uncle Li was tying the last hemp rope to the rattan trunk, the bamboo strips making a soft creaking sound in his hands. The clothesline in the yard swayed in the wind, and the hem of his blue cloth shirt brushed against the moss at the base of the wall.
Suddenly, a cry of "Ouch!" came from the kitchen. When Ayu rushed in, Wang Xiaodi was squatting on the floor picking up the broken glass jar—he was trying to put the preserved plums and tangerine peel into a portable box, but had accidentally knocked over the jar. Brown plums were scattered all over the floor, covered with shards of glass, and Wang Xiaodi had cut his finger, with beads of blood seeping out.
"Don't move!" Ayu rummaged through the drawer for band-aids and then swept the broken glass together with a damp cloth. Chen Mo, who had somehow gotten a broom, was silently sweeping the broken glass in the corner. Sunlight streamed through the screen window, illuminating the fine beads of sweat on the back of his hands. Lin Xiaotang squatted down to blow on Wang Xiaodi's fingers. The curling iron in his hair wasn't completely removed, and a few strands of hair were scattered around his cheeks.
"It's nothing, it's nothing," Wang Xiaodi sniffed, "It's just a pity about the preserved plums." He looked at the broken glass on the ground, his eyes a little red. Aunt Zhang came back from the well with an enamel basin, in which freshly picked mint was soaking: "Silly boy, there are plenty of fresh fruits in town, I'll take you to the market to buy some tomorrow." She took the mint out, water droplets dripping from the leaves onto the bluestone slab.
Uncle Li suddenly stood up and walked to the old wardrobe in the corner. He opened the wardrobe door and took out a locked wooden box from the bottom shelf; the brass lock gleamed dimly in the sunlight. The old man took out the key from his pocket, his hand trembling slightly, and it took him three tries to unlock it. Inside the box were several neatly stacked thread-bound books, and on top of them was a blue cloth bundle containing a wolf-hair writing brush.
"Take this with you too." Uncle Li handed the brush to Ayu. The brush handle was engraved with the four characters "Made by Songxuezhai," and it had been worn smooth by countless touches. Ayu knew this was the old man's most treasured possession. Last year, his grandson wanted to use it for painting, and Uncle Li had been nagging about it for half a month. At this moment, the sunlight shone on the brush hairs, making the snow-white wolf hairs gleam softly, like a layer of shattered starlight.
The sun was gradually setting in the west. The blue cloth shirt on the clothesline was completely dry, fluttering in the wind. Ayu fastened the last canvas bag and suddenly noticed an extra cloth bag on Chen Mo's wicker trunk—it contained the book "Mountain Dwelling Years," with a maple leaf bookmark sticking out like a butterfly about to take flight. Wang Xiaodi's aluminum lunchbox was finally closed, tied with a crooked knot of hemp rope.
Aunt Zhang was stuffing oil paper packets into everyone's bags, containing freshly brewed mint tea: "Brew this on the road if you're thirsty; it'll cool you down." Her blue cloth bundle had an extra patch, made from the blue-printed fabric that Chen Mo's mother had loved most. Uncle Li carefully placed the wolf-hair brush into the rattan box, then covered it with a clean white cloth, as if to prevent the brush tip from touching something.
Suddenly, Lin Xiaotang pointed to the sky and exclaimed, "Look!" A white egret was flying over the courtyard wall, its wings brushing against the clothesline, creating a gentle breeze. The blue cloth shirt on the clothesline swayed gently, and sunlight filtered through the fabric, casting shimmering spots of light on the bluestone slabs, like scattered gold dust.
Chen Mo suddenly squatted down and tied a red rope to the side of the wicker box. A copper bell was tied to the other end of the rope; it was one his mother had hung on the windowsill before she died. When the wind blew, the copper bell jingled softly, startling the sparrows on the grape trellis. Little Wang looked up, counting the wings of egrets; Aunt Zhang stuffed the last piece of osmanthus cake into a tin box; and Uncle Li was wiping the handle of his wolf-hair brush with a soft cloth.
Ayu stood in the middle of the courtyard, clutching the crumpled itinerary in her hand. The pencil writing on the paper was blurred by sweat, and the circle in the "Commonly Used Medicines" section had smudged like ink dripping onto rice paper. She looked up and saw a freshly picked jacaranda blossom on the windowsill of the west wing, its purple petals still glistening with dew in the setting sun.
Dusk gradually crept over the courtyard wall. Uncle Li fastened the last rope to the wicker trunk, and the copper lock clicked shut, startling the swallows on the beam. Little Wang sat on the steps, clutching his aluminum lunchbox, counting the pieces of braised beef inside. Chen Mo leaned against the grape trellis, holding the kindergarten drawing paper in his hand, his fingertips gently tracing the words "Mommy, I love you."
Lin Xiaotang suddenly raised her phone: "Everyone, look at the camera!" Ayu quickly stood in the middle, Aunt Zhang handed the tin box to Uncle Li to hold, Little Wang jumped to the front holding the aluminum lunchbox, and Chen Mo carefully put the drawing paper into his pocket. The setting sun was falling on the courtyard wall, gilding everyone's silhouettes, the blue cloth shirts on the clothesline swayed gently in the evening breeze, and the scent of camphor balls mixed with mint from the camphor wood chest slowly dissipated in the twilight.
"Three, two, one!" Lin Xiaotang pressed the shutter. The five people in the photo stood on the bluestone slab, with a courtyard wall covered in wisteria behind them. The blue cloth shirts on the clothesline looked like small flags. Uncle Li's tin box reflected the setting sun, Wang Xiaodi's aluminum lunchbox still had some oil stains, Chen Mo's lips were slightly upturned, and Ayu had a freshly picked jacaranda flower tucked in her hair.
Just then, the sound of a tofu pudding vendor's clapper echoed from the depths of the alley, the "thump-thump" sound growing louder as it approached. Little Wang suddenly jumped up: "I'm going to buy a bowl!" He'd only taken two steps when he turned back and shouted, "Sweet or savory, please?" Aunt Zhang smiled and shook her head. Uncle Li began tidying the hemp rope beside the wicker trunk. Chen Mo gazed in the direction of the setting sun, unconsciously stroking the copper bell in his pocket.
Ayu glanced down at her itinerary; tomorrow's date was circled in red. The edges of the camphor wood chest softened in the twilight, and the brass ring on the lid gleamed softly. She took a deep breath, inhaling the coolness of mint, the sweetness of osmanthus cake, and the faint scent of camphor wood—the aroma of time's sedimentation, mingled with the anticipation of her upcoming departure, slowly brewing into a wine of "distant places" in the twilight of June 18th.
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