Summer glimmer
The cicadas' chirping during summer vacation was even louder than at school, seeping in through the screen window and weaving a dense, impenetrable net. I set up my easel by the window and began sketching the old locust tree outside. The paints mixed in the palette, a deep, somber green, like unresolved worries.
My mother would occasionally push open the door, glance at my paintings, and say expressionlessly, "Don't always stay cooped up in the room, go out for a walk."
"I don't want to move." Without raising my head, I traced the outline of the tree shadows on the canvas with the tip of my pen.
It's not that I don't want to move, it's that I don't know where to go. I used to love going for walks along the river with Zhang Ya and browsing stationery stores with Li Ting and the others, but now those places have become off-limits, and every step feels like walking on shards of glass.
Zheng Yiming, on the other hand, would occasionally appear at the alley entrance.
He seemed to have enrolled in a physics competition class, and every day he would hurry past the alleyway with his backpack on. Once, I happened to be changing the water by the window when our eyes met. He paused for a moment, slowed his pace slightly, and finally walked past with his head down, his ears slightly red.
Like two hedgehogs avoiding each other, they deliberately maintain a safe distance even though they live under the same roof.
One evening in mid-July, I went downstairs to the convenience store to buy soy sauce. On my way back, I bumped into him at the alley entrance. He was holding a delivery box, and his bangs were damp with sweat, sticking to his face. When he saw me, he stopped in his tracks.
"Buy something?" he asked first, his voice a little strained.
"Hmm." I held up the soy sauce bottle in my hand; my fingertips were a little cold.
"Are you drawing?" he asked again, glancing towards my window.
"Um."
The conversation stalled, the cicadas' chirping amplified in their ears, making the situation particularly awkward. His fingers, gripping the delivery box, twitched as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he only mumbled, "It's hot, go home early," before turning and walking away quickly.
I stood there, watching his figure disappear around the corner of the stairwell, the soy sauce bottle in my hand a little hot.
The next morning, I found a physics competition problem set on the windowsill. The cover was a bit old, and on the title page was written "Presented to Shen Zhixia, may you enjoy solving problems," in Zheng Yiming's handwriting, with a small sun drawn at the end.
There was a note tucked inside the book, written in his handwriting: "I saw you reading this book in the studio last time, so I bought an extra copy. It might be useful to you."
I hugged the book to my chest; the warmth of the cover seeped through the fabric, making me feel a little uneasy. Inside, I found several sticky notes with explanations of common mistakes, written in neat handwriting, even more meticulous than his usual notes.
Like receiving anonymous candy as a child, it's sweet and carries a hint of inexplicable anticipation.
When I was painting in the evening, I added a little more orange-yellow to the paint box to add a few more rays of sunlight to the shadows of the trees.
In early August, it was the anniversary of my grandfather's death. I bought a bunch of white chrysanthemums and went back to my hometown alone. The gate to the old house was unlocked and opened with a gentle push. The weeds in the yard had grown to knee height, but the pomegranate tree that my grandfather had planted was laden with fruit, which was bright red.
I squatted down in front of my grandfather's grave, put down the white chrysanthemums, and murmured, "Grandpa, I'm doing well. My drawing has improved, and I can understand physics now... I just miss you a little."
The wind rustled through the wheat field, sounding like Grandpa's response.
On the way back, my phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number, but the location was local. I hesitated for a moment before answering.
"Is that Shen Zhixia?" It was a girl's voice, and it sounded somewhat familiar.
"I am."
"I'm Lin Xi from Class 1, Grade 11. I'm the one who wrote you that note during self-study last time." She paused, a little embarrassed. "I heard from Zheng Yiming that... you went back to the old house today?"
I was taken aback: "He told you?"
"Yes, he said you might go, and asked me... to ask if you need any help." Lin Xi's voice was very soft. "He was too embarrassed to call you."
My heart felt like it had been hit by something; it was a little sour, a little soft. "I'm fine, thank you."
"It's good that you're alright," she smiled. "By the way, a few of my classmates and I are going to the art museum this weekend to see an art exhibition. Do you want to come? I heard there are a lot of Impressionist paintings. Don't you like painting?"
Holding my phone, I looked out the window at the wheat fields passing by and suddenly felt that this summer wasn't so unbearable after all.
"Okay," I heard myself say.
After hanging up the phone, sunlight streamed through the car window, falling warmly on the back of my hand. The distant sky was as blue as a transparent pane of glass, and the wispy clouds drifted slowly, as if someone had slowed their pace.
Perhaps some wounds don't need to be healed deliberately, and some distances don't need to be bridged deliberately.
Just like now, with the cicadas chirping and the evening breeze blowing, feeling that faint warmth, I slowly walk forward.
The road ahead is still long, but it seems... I'm not so lonely anymore.
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