Lin Wanqing ran over, camera in hand. In the lens, their shadows were close together on the wall, warm light bathing their clasped hands—the temperature was just right. She suddenly exclaimed, "Hey, where's that photo you took back in college? I've searched the whole studio and can't find it!"
Zhong Hua laughed, pulling a yellowed photograph from his pocket, its edges badly curled, as if it had been tucked away for a long time. It was a photo of his university graduation ceremony; he and A Yu were squeezed into the crowd, the background a chaotic mess, yet the two of them were grinning foolishly at the camera—A Yu's graduation cap was askew, and Zhong Hua was reaching out to straighten it, his fingertips hovering above the brim, not daring to touch his hair. "It's been hidden," he said, slipping the photo into A Yu's palm, his fingertips brushing against his hand inadvertently. "You'll find it next time you go through my drawers."
Ah Yu gripped the photo tightly. The rough texture of the paper mixed with the warmth of her palm. Suddenly, she remembered the stack of postcards that had never been sent, the insulating tape on the tripod, and countless moments that had been quietly recorded: the water droplets on the edge of a floral umbrella during a typhoon, the hastily written photography parameters in an old notebook, the milk that was repeatedly heated in a thermos late at night, and the temperature on the cup wall that was just right now.
It turns out that some feelings don't need to be spoken. Just like Zhong Hua always remembers that he doesn't like cilantro, remembers the model of his camera, and remembers every casual remark he made. These small moments are like stars, connecting to form a galaxy over the long years, gently enveloping each other.
The exhibition hall clock struck ten, and the sunlight shifted eastward, stretching their shadows longer until they finally overlapped completely. Ah Yu lowered his head and took a sip of hot cocoa, the sweetness spreading from the tip of his tongue to his heart; the temperature was just right, neither too much nor too little. He knew that those unspoken words, those secrets hidden in the drawer, would be slowly unraveled in the days to come, like opening letters with stamps, each page filled with the gentle warmth of time.
The Finale
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