Time in the drawer
Autumn sunlight streamed through the studio's blinds, casting dappled patterns of light on the floor. Ah Yu squatted in front of Zhong Hua's desk, her fingertips tracing the wood grain along the edge of a drawer—Zhong Hua had said he needed to find a project contract from three years ago, but after searching high and low without success, he was called away by the property management to fix a leaking water pipe. Before leaving, he instructed Ah Yu: "Could you check the bottom shelf for a blue folder?"
Deep inside the drawer were piles of old notebooks, spare batteries, and several rolls of unopened tape. Ah Yu's fingers groped through the clutter when he suddenly touched a stiff corner of paper. When he pulled it out, several postcards folded into squares scattered on his lap, their edges tinged with a pale yellow, as if they had been caressed countless times.
The recipient on the top postcard was "Ah Yu," but the address was her old dorm room 302 from college. Ah Yu paused, then picked up the postcard and flipped it over—on the back was a simple sketch: leaden rain streaked across the windowpane, a camera sat on the windowsill with its lens pointed at the sycamore tree outside, and two small figures were drawn under the tree, one holding an umbrella and the other carrying a camera bag.
It's a studio on a rainy day.
He recalled last year's rainy season, when he squatted by the window taking pictures of raindrops falling on the sycamore leaves, while Zhong Hua stood under the eaves with an umbrella waiting for him. The rain soaked half of his shoulder, but Zhong Hua never urged him to hurry up.
Ah Yu ran his fingertip across the paper and pulled out another one. This time it was a cactus under the morning sun, a round, green ball with a few crooked thorns sticking out of it. The words "raised by Zhong Hua" were written on the pot, with a small smiley face drawn next to it. He chuckled—this cactus was brought back from the dormitory by Zhong Hua after graduating from university. At that time, its leaves were wilted and about to fall off. Zhong Hua would say to it every day, "You must live!" and now it had grown bigger than a fist.
The third picture shows the three of them sitting around a table. Lin Wanqing is smiling, holding her chopsticks, while A Yu is eating with his head down. Zhong Hua is putting food into A Yu's bowl, and the shape of the food looks like a piece of pork rib. A Yu's heart suddenly skipped a beat—last week, when they worked overtime until late at night, they had eaten sweet and sour pork ribs, and Zhong Hua had done the same, picking out all the ribs from his bowl for him.
"What are you looking at?"
Zhong Hua's voice came from behind her, slightly panting from running. Ah Yu looked up abruptly, meeting his smiling eyes. She hurriedly hid the postcard behind her back, but the rustling sound of the paper only made it more noticeable.
Zhong Hua walked over and squatted down beside him. Sunlight fell on his hair, gilding it with a light gold. "What were you hiding?" He reached out and picked up a card from Ah Yu's lap. "You still found it."
"These are..." Ah Yu's fingertips were a little hot, "You drew them?"
“Hmm.” Zhong Hua’s fingertip traced the university address on the postcard. “I originally planned to send one every day, starting from the day you graduate.” He paused, then turned to look at Ah Yu. “But then I thought, it’s better to wait for you to discover it yourself.”
The drawer was still open, and the old things inside gleamed softly in the light. Ah Yu suddenly remembered many things—the eraser that he always lost in college would always reappear in his textbook the next day; when he forgot his umbrella on a rainy day, he would always see Zhong Hua standing under the teaching building with an umbrella; after starting work, when his camera malfunctioned, he would always receive a repair tutorial from Zhong Hua in the middle of the night.
It turns out that those overlooked moments are hidden in time, like these postcards, waiting to be discovered.
The first letter that was never sent
“The first picture is of the sycamore tree under the dormitory building.” Zhong Hua picked up the postcard of the rainy day and pointed to the figure under the tree with his fingertip. “Do you remember? It was raining in our junior year. You squatted under the tree with your camera for two hours and said you wanted to wait for the moment when the raindrops fell on the leaves.”
Ah Yu remembered, of course. It was raining heavily that day, and his legs went numb from squatting, but the camera still couldn't capture a satisfactory shot. When he stood up in frustration, he saw Zhong Hua standing in the corridor not far away, holding an umbrella with the umbrella tilted towards him, half of his shoulder soaked through.
"Why didn't you call me then?" Ah Yu asked.
“I was afraid of bothering you.” Zhong Hua smiled. “When you’re taking pictures, all you see is the viewfinder.” He put the postcard back in Ah Yu’s hand. “Later, every time it rained, I would think of the way you squatted under the tree that day, and I would want to draw it.”
Ah Yu stroked the edge of the postcard, suddenly remembering the potted green ivy on the windowsill of her studio—last winter he said the room was too dry, so Zhong Hua bought it the very next day, and now the vines had climbed up the curtain rod. It turns out some habits started a long time ago.
"And this one?" Ah Yu held up the drawing of a cactus. "Why did you draw it?"
“Because it looks wilted, just like you, but it’s actually incredibly resilient.” Zhong Hua reached out and gently touched Ah Yu’s hair. “On the day you graduated from university, you cried while holding your camera, saying you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to take good photos in the future. I thought to myself, once this cactus survives, you’ll definitely be able to make your own way in the world.”
Ah Yu's eyes welled up with tears. He remembered that he had cried a lot that day, and Zhong Hua hadn't said anything to comfort him, but had just put the cactus in his arms and said, "If it can live, so can you." Now the cactus was thriving, his photography exhibition was going on, and Zhong Hua was still there for him.
A small tin box suddenly rolled out of the drawer. Ah Yu picked it up and opened it. Inside were a few faded glass marbles and a yellowed note. It was written in Zhong Hua's handwriting: "Ah Yu's marbles, don't lose them again."
“This is…” Ah Yu was stunned.
“In high school, you always carried marbles in your pocket, saying they could be used as props when taking macro photos.” Zhong Hua’s voice was very soft. “Once you lost your favorite blue marble and were so anxious that you almost cried. I searched for it in the grass on the playground for three evening self-study sessions before I finally found it.”
Ah Yu held the blue marble, its cool touch sending a shiver down his fingertips. He had long forgotten about it, but Zhong Hua remembered it more clearly than anyone else. Just as he had forgotten saying he "couldn't remember the parameters," Zhong Hua had filled an entire notebook with photography parameters; he had forgotten that his tripod leg had broken, but he had learned how to bandage it from the old man who repaired bicycles; he had forgotten who had wiped his forehead with a wet towel when he had a fever by Qinghai Lake, but Zhong Hua had kept that belated photo tucked inside his notebook for three whole years.
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