Episode 336: The Unopened Letter
Ah Yu's fingertips, holding the postcards, were slightly warm. In the postcards, three people sat around a dining table, and Zhong Hua, in his drawing, was pushing his bowl towards Ah Yu. The crooked curve of the bowl's rim reminded him of how Zhong Hua used to scoop food onto his own plate back in college. He looked down and counted them—a total of thirty-seven postcards. The dates on the back of each one were consecutive, from early spring last year to last week, like a period of time quietly measured.
"Why a university dormitory?" Ah Yu's voice was a little hoarse as his fingertips traced the number "Building 3, Room 402" in the address bar—that south-facing dormitory room. The clothesline he nailed on the balcony still remained. Zhong Hua always said the rope was crooked like a snake, but every day he would move his dripping shirt to the sunniest spot.
Zhong Hua snatched a sheet from his hand, his fingertip tracing the address bar: "I always felt there were some things that should have been said back then." His fingertips were slightly rough, making a soft rustling sound as they brushed against the paper, like turning the pages of an old photo album. Outside the window, the sycamore leaves were swept across the glass by the wind, and Ah Yu suddenly remembered that year in his junior year of college, when Zhong Hua had saved him a library seat for the entire semester, always keeping his favorite lemon tea hidden in the drawer of his desk, the date on the label always the same day. Once, he casually mentioned that the iced tea was too cold, and the next day the tea was lukewarm, a thin layer of condensation forming on the cup, like someone quietly exhaling white breath.
Deep inside the drawer was a kraft paper envelope, blank on the cover, its edges worn rough, as if it had been repeatedly handled. Just as Ah Yu was about to touch it, Zhong Hua suddenly pressed his hand down: "This… next time." His palm was warm, calloused from years of holding a camera, and a faint scar on his knuckles—a mark from when he'd retrieved Ah Yu's art supply bag from the wind in college, snagged on a wire. Ah Yu smiled, looking down, and gently tucked the postcard back into the drawer: "Okay, next time."
As the drawer closed, the metal slide made a soft "click," like a hidden response. Zhong Hua turned to pour water, and as the bottom of the glass touched the table, Ah Yu suddenly said, "That Polaroid photo from Qinghai, you were always touching the creases on the edges, weren't you?"
The sound of running water paused. Zhong Hua turned around, holding the water glass, sunlight casting dappled shadows on his eyelashes: "When you had a fever, you always grabbed my sleeve and said you were cold, and the photo was under my pillow." He paused, his fingertips unconsciously tracing the inside of the glass, "Later I tried to smooth it out, but the more I tried, the deeper the creases became."
Ah Yu gazed at the watch on his wrist—an old digital watch with a crack in the strap, mended with matching thread. He'd said it was accurate back in college, and Zhong Hua had worn it for seven years. The second hand ticked slowly, as if counting the silent gap between them.
"Are you going to the photography exhibition tomorrow?" Ah Yu suddenly changed the subject, her fingertips tapping a light rhythm on the edge of the table. "Lin Wanqing said there's an old camera exhibition, and they have the film camera you want."
Zhong Hua's eyes lit up, like the surface of a lake after a pebble has been thrown in: "Why didn't she tell me?"
“I was afraid you’d say you’re ‘too busy with work’ again.” Ah Yu smiled as she stood up. As she passed the bookshelf, her fingertips brushed over the cactus—Zhong Hua had brought it over last year, saying it was to protect against radiation, but whenever he was up all night editing photos, she would secretly stick a fresh little daisy into the pot. At this moment, there were still some water droplets on the petals, probably from watering it that morning. Even the position of the water droplets was the same as yesterday, as if someone had carefully arranged them.
As Zhong Hua tidied up the postcards behind him, Ah Yu heard him sigh softly as the drawer closed again, like a fallen leaf finally landing on the ground.
The late autumn photography exhibition was held in an art museum converted from an old factory building. The red brick walls were covered with withered ivy, and sunlight streamed in through the high windows, casting long patches of light on the floor. Ah Yu's exhibition area was at the very back, with his photos of Qinghai Lake hanging on the wall—the lake surface was tinged with blue at dawn, prayer flags fluttered in the wind in the distance, and a small figure was tucked away in the corner, Zhong Hua holding up his tripod that had been blown askew by the wind.
Next to the exhibits, there was an unfamiliar Polaroid photo, clipped to the wall with a black clip: the sunset over Qinghai Lake was as red as molten gold, and he was wrapped in Zhong Hua's down jacket, huddled in a tent, his cheeks flushed from sleep, a fever patch on his forehead. The label, written in Zhong Hua's slightly messy handwriting, read: "A photographer's exclusive landscape."
"Sneaking in exhibits isn't considered a violation, is it?" Zhong Hua's voice came from behind, tinged with amusement. When Ah Yu turned around, she saw him holding two cups of hot cocoa, with fine water droplets clinging to the sides of the cups, like stars secretly scattered by someone.
Sunlight filtered through Zhong Hua's eyelashes, casting a small shadow on the tip of his nose, much like the profile in that unnamed folder from Qinghai that year—in the photo, he held a camera, the sunlight turning his nose bright red, and the light spots from Zhong Hua's lens fell on his hair, like a string of unspoken longings. "Foul," Ah Yu took the cup, her fingertips touching his, the warm touch sending a shiver down her spine, "but it's forgivable."
The two stood side by side looking at the Polaroid photo. The sweet aroma of hot cocoa mingled with the smell of old wood in the exhibition hall, reminding them of winters in their university dormitory. Back then, they would always squeeze onto one chair to watch old movies. Zhong Hua's military overcoat would wrap around both of them, and in the poorly heated room, their breaths would carry a hint of chocolate sweetness—instant cocoa that Zhong Hua had saved up to buy with his meal money, always saying, "Drinking this will warm you up."
“Actually, you had a fever of 39 degrees that day,” Zhong Hua suddenly said, his gaze falling on the furrowed brow in the photo. “I carried you to find a clinic, and you kept repeating ‘Make sure the aperture is right.’” He lowered his head and smiled, his fingertips tracing the water droplets on the rim of the glass. “At that time, I thought, how can this person value his camera more than his own life?”
Ah Yu recalled the hand he had grasped in his dazed state, its knuckles distinct, its palm rough and warm. He thought it was a dream at the time, until the next day when he saw the red marks on Zhong Hua's wrist—marks from where he had grabbed him. "Later I realized, you're more important than the camera," Ah Yu said softly. The steam from the hot cocoa blurred his glasses. He didn't dare look at Zhong Hua's expression, only hearing the person beside him gasp, as if burned.
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