Sunset in a Tin Box
Ah Yu squatted in the storage room of the studio, his fingertips tracing a dusty iron box. The paint on the edge of the lid was curled up, revealing the copper color inside, like an old bone gnawed by time. As he dragged the box out, Lin Wanqing was passing by carrying a stack of old picture books, her heel kicking the scattered cardboard box with a "clang".
"What are you flipping through?" Lin Wanqing bent down to straighten the tripod that had tipped over. "We're going to photograph an old bookstore this afternoon. If we don't leave now, we'll miss the light."
Ah Yu didn't look up; her fingers had already unfastened the clasp of the tin box. The contents tumbled out: half an eraser wrapped in cellophane, a notebook with the school emblem printed on it, and a stack of letters tied with red string. The top letter had no stamp; the three characters "Zhong Hua" on the envelope, soaked and dried, resembled limp, soggy noodles, stuck together.
“Hey, isn’t this your ‘Unsent’ series from college?” Lin Wanqing tapped the envelope with her fingertip. “Back then, after you and Zhong Hua had a fight, you sat on the playground for half the night with this box in your arms. I thought you were going to burn it.”
Ah Yu chuckled, clutching the envelope. The paper was as brittle as a biscuit, crumbling at the slightest touch. “Back then, I was young and impetuous,” he said, shaking the letter. The dark blue ink had faded to a pale gray over time. “I clearly wanted to apologize, but I insisted on writing, ‘You didn’t get a picture of the sunset by the lake, I’ll make it up for you tomorrow’—going through all that trouble. If he had seen that back then, he would have definitely called me pretentious.”
The words had barely left his mouth when the door to the storage room was pushed open. Zhong Hua stood in the doorway, holding a roll of backdrop cloth, a speck of dust still clinging to his forehead. "Who are you calling pretentious?" His voice was slightly breathless from climbing the stairs, and he paused when his gaze fell on the letter in Ah Yu's hand.
Ah Yu handed over the letter, her movements carrying a hint of inexplicable joy, like a child waiting to be praised. "Here, your old grievances."
Zhong Hua's hand was steady as he took the letter, his fingertips brushing against the creases of the paper as if caressing something fragile. He read slowly, his eyelashes drooping, casting a small shadow beneath his eyes. Ah Yu counted his trembling eyelashes and suddenly remembered that argument in college, also on a similar afternoon—in photography class, he had lost the lens cap that Zhong Hua had borrowed while trying to take a picture of a backlit lake.
“That lens cap was left to him by his father,” Lin Wanqing said, grabbing the furious Ah Yu. “Would it kill you to say less?”
But he insisted, "Just buy another one if you lose it, why are you making such a fuss?" Zhong Hua didn't say anything at the time, just turned around and walked away with his bag on his back, the straps digging into his shoulders until they turned white. That evening, Ah Yu squatted by the lake for a long time, watching the sunset dye the water orange-red, and suddenly remembered that Zhong Hua had said he "wanted to take a complete picture of a sunset." Her pen flew across the letter paper, but she didn't dare to slip the letter under the door until the lights were turned off.
"Your handwriting is better than before." Zhong Hua folded the letter into a neat square, his movements as gentle as if he were folding a fallen leaf. He didn't mention the argument, nor did he say whether he had noticed the hidden apology back then. He simply put the letter back in the tin box, leaving a small gap when he closed the lid.
"Why don't you cover it up properly?" Ah Yu reached out to press it down, but Zhong Hua gently pressed her wrist down.
“Keep it fresh to let it breathe,” Zhong Hua said, his fingertips slightly cool. “Old letter paper is susceptible to dampness.”
Lin Wanqing chuckled as she held the picture book: "Back then, some people turned their dorm room upside down looking for this box, saying, 'I lost something important.'"
Ah Yu's ears burned a little. She snatched the tin box and stuffed it into the back of the storage cabinet: "This is old news. Hurry up and go to the bookstore to take pictures."
The old bookstore was deep in an alley, the brass rings on its wooden door gleaming from being touched so much. Ah Yu walked in, camera in hand, Zhong Hua following behind, brushing away the drooping cobwebs for him. Lin Wanqing was on the phone at the door, a call from the publisher inquiring about the layout of a picture book. Her voice drifted in on the wind: "Zhong Hua, remember to bring a reflector. Ah Yu always likes to use side lighting when photographing ancient books..."
Ah Yu was squatting in front of the bookshelf, taking a picture of the title page of a thread-bound book, when she suddenly heard the sound of pages turning behind her. Turning around, she saw Zhong Hua holding an old photo album, his fingertips tracing over one of the photos—a group photo of the three of them from university. Ah Yu was smiling, revealing her tiger teeth, while Lin Wanqing was holding two sketchbooks. Zhong Hua stood on the far side, his lips tightly pursed, but when he looked at the camera, a hint of unconcealed light shone in his eyes.
"You said this photo was blurry and insisted on deleting it." Ah Yu leaned closer to look; the album pages were yellowed, and the edges of the photo were curled.
“It’s not blurry,” Zhong Hua turned to the next page, which was a sunset photo taken by Zhang Ayu, with the lake surface shimmering. “You squatted by the lake for two hours that day, and you were so cold that you sneezed. You got a fever when you got back.”
Ah Yu suddenly remembered that when he had a fever, there was always a bowl of porridge at the perfect temperature by his bedside. Zhong Hua had gotten it from the cafeteria and brought it back in a thermos. There were even some scallions that Ah Yu didn't like floating on top of the porridge—though they had been carefully picked clean. At the time, he thought Lin Wanqing had made it, until one night when he woke up and saw Zhong Hua squatting in the dormitory hallway, breathing on the thermos, his fingers red from the cold.
"Have you taken enough photos?" Zhong Hua closed the booklet and handed over the reflector. "The lighting is about to change."
Ah Yu took the reflector, its metallic surface reflecting her own image, next to Zhong Hua's profile as he adjusted the camera settings. He suddenly raised the camera, the shutter sound particularly clear in the quiet bookstore.
"You're taking pictures of me again." When Zhong Hua looked up, there was a bit of dust on her eyelashes, like a layer of fine snow.
“This is called documentary,” Ah Yu said, flipping through the photos. In one of the photos, Zhong Hua was looking at her, his eyes shining brighter than the sunlight outside the window. “Lin Wanqing said that our album should have a ‘behind-the-scenes’ section.”
On the way back, we passed the old university site. The gate had been renovated, but the sycamore trees at the entrance were still the same, their branches stretching high. Ah Yu suddenly stopped: "Shall we go take a look at the lake?"
Zhong Hua didn't say anything, but took two steps towards the lake, then turned back to wait for him. Lin Wanqing smiled and waved her hand: "I'm going to buy a cup of milk tea, you two take your time."
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