Reply on a Snowy Night
Before winter break, the weather was so cold that no one wanted to go out.
Thin layers of ice formed on the tree branches, and Pan Qiu continued her daily routine of traveling between the laboratory building and her apartment.
Everything was quiet, almost monotonous, until that morning—an unexpected email popped up in my inbox.
It was an email from my undergraduate alma mater in Shanghai. In just a few short paragraphs, the information was remarkably clear: the college was launching a new "Young Faculty Development Program," and the positions to be recruited were modeled after the Assistant Professor system in American universities. These were not simply teaching positions, but rather long-term career paths that allowed for continuous research, mentoring undergraduate and graduate students, applying for grants, and gradually establishing independent research areas. Those with outstanding performance during their appointments could potentially be transferred to a stable tenure-track program.
Panqiu stared at the lines of text on the screen, her heart pounding faster. The email was written so clearly and confidently, as if it were saying to her: We see you, we are willing to entrust a piece of our future to you. It was as if every bit of patience, diligence, and perseverance she had silently accumulated in a foreign land over the years had been gently confirmed by a pair of eyes halfway around the world.
She read the email header several times, feeling an indescribable tremor in her heart.
Memories of her alma mater, the path lined with ginkgo trees, and the old library where she first read her research paper were all gently awakened by this letter.
That afternoon, she went to see Chase.
The office window was half-open, and sunlight slanted in, falling between the pile of documents and the coffee cup, so warm it was almost blinding.
She told Chase about it.
After listening, Chase remained calm as always, but a slight smile appeared at the corner of his mouth—a smile that was unfathomable, as if he had known this day would come.
“I’m not surprised at all,” she said, her tone gentle yet firm. “You’re ready.”
She paused, then smiled, "Apply well, I'll write a very strong letter of recommendation."
Panqiu was both touched and a little bewildered by her tone.
She silently calculated the materials required for the application: resume, teaching statement, three letters of recommendation—these were all too familiar to her.
In the first letter, Chase had already made a promise.
The second email she received reminded her of the professor who had spoken highly of her when she was a teaching assistant. That professor had sent an email at the end of the semester to thank her for her efforts, writing:
"If you need a letter of recommendation in the future, I would be happy to help."
So the third letter became the only one that made her hesitate.
Several names came to mind, but the last one just wouldn't leave my mind—Ethan.
She wasn't sure if she should ask Chase.
Procedurally, this was perfectly normal; but emotionally, she hesitated—
After he left, she received no news from him for a year, as if he had become a shadow swallowed by time.
What if she writes an email but never gets a response?
She feared she could no longer bear such a sense of loss.
Sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds, falling between the pile of documents on the table and the coffee cup. The air was warm and quiet.
She finally mustered up the courage to say, "I'm still missing one recommendation letter."
Chase looked up as he reviewed the materials: "Have you decided who to invite?"
Pan Qiu hesitated for a moment, her voice so low it was almost inaudible: "I'm thinking about whether I should contact Ethan."
Chase twirled the pen halfway between his fingers and stopped.
She looked up at Panqiu, her expression calm, yet with a deep and focused gaze.
The silence at that moment made Panqiu's heart beat faster.
After a moment, Chase simply nodded, his tone calm: "He was your first mentor, so it's only natural to ask him to write to you. I think he would be happy to."
Her tone was devoid of extra emotion, but the last sentence carried a profound warmth—a gentle touch that was enough to stir Pan Qiu's heart.
After saying that, Chase seemed to remember something, looked at her for a few seconds, and then asked casually:
"Do you only plan to develop your career in China in the future?"
His tone was calm, without any hints or pressure, just like a mentor's most basic concern for a student.
But Panqiu was still taken aback.
"I……"
She thought for a moment before saying softly, "I think so. I hope to become an academic grandmother someday. The academic positions here... are too competitive."
That's not a complaint, it's just a fact.
Chase didn't reply immediately, but simply nodded. She pushed the coffee cup on the table forward, as if buying herself some time to think.
“Yes, it is indeed intense,” Chase said very frankly. “Especially for your generation of international students. Policy changes, limited spots, departmental budgets… you face far more challenges than we did back then.”
There was no pity in his tone, only understanding.
“But don’t limit your possibilities too much,” Chase added, her eyes gentle yet resolute. “You can go very far here, it’ll just be harder at first.”
As Pan Qiu listened, a certain part of her heart was gently touched.
Chase paused, his tone becoming cautious again:
"If you're willing, you can look for suitable opportunities once your doctoral dissertation is nearing completion."
She neither encouraged her to stay nor urged her to return to China.
They simply handed all decision-making power back to her cleanly and decisively.
Pan Qiu nodded gently: "Thank you. I will consider it carefully."
Chase looked at her and gave a very faint smile: "I knew you would."
As if suddenly remembering something, Chase's tone suddenly became warm and somewhat ceremonial. "By the way, Claire's wedding date and location have finally been set."
She turned to the side and took out a small gold card from the drawer next to her. The edges were embossed with delicate patterns and shimmered softly under the warm light.
She pushed the card in front of Panqiu, smiling gently: "This is an invitation."
Pan Qiu paused for a moment, her fingertips landing on the card. The paper was calm and warm, like a weight that had been solemnly entrusted to her.
“Early June,” Chase added softly, “not far from your graduation ceremony—about a week or two.”
She paused, looked at Panqiu, and her eyes held an indescribable sincerity.
"No matter where you decide to go in the future, that time is perfect for attending the wedding. I hope you can be there."
As if afraid that Panqiu might misunderstand, she added softly, with a hint of a smile in her voice: "To us, you are not only a student, but also family. We are all very happy to see you."
Pan Qiu looked down at the small gold card, her heart skipped a beat.
The candlelight fell on the card, like dancing on the sea.
She whispered, "I will come."
As she left the office and gently closed the door, Chase looked in the direction of the doorway, and that smile reappeared on her face—gentle, yet carrying a certain unspoken meaning.
The sunlight fell perfectly at the end of the corridor.
Pan Qiu couldn't quite describe the feeling she had for a moment—
It was as if someone had secretly opened a door for her from a place she couldn't see.
That evening, Panqiu sat at her desk.
The wind outside the window carried the smell of snow, and the streetlights downstairs swayed slightly in the wind.
The computer screen was lit, and her fingertips hovered above the keyboard, the light falling on her skin, giving it a faint white glow.
She stared at the recipient field—that familiar email address, the cursor flashing.
She had actually remembered it for a long time, but had never dared to delete it.
That year, she rehearsed countless possible beginnings in her mind.
But when the time came, I couldn't write a single word.
I typed the words several times, then deleted them.
"Dear Professor Ellery," — too distant;
“Ethan,” — too intimate.
She finally typed: "Hello, Dr. Ellery,"
His fingertips paused slightly, and he sighed.
The letter she wrote was extremely brief, almost businesslike:
I hope you are doing well.
I am applying for a lecturer position at my alma mater and would like to ask if you can be listed as one of my recommenders.
Your guidance during my doctoral studies was invaluable—I would be very grateful if you could support my application.
Best wishes,
Longing for autumn.
She read it over and over again, making sure every word was neither sentimental nor superfluous. Her tone was restrained to the point of calm.
But the heartbeats grew clearer with each beat.
She stared at the "send" button, the cursor blinking on that small rectangle.
Finally, she took a deep breath and clicked.
The moment the letter was sent, she almost heard a very soft "click" in the air—
It sounded like something being untied.
She leaned back in her chair, her heart still slightly warm.
I thought I would have to wait a few days, but almost immediately the email notification light in the upper right corner lit up.
—A new email.
She held her breath and clicked on it.
sure.
——EE
Only this line.
There were no titles or pleasantries.
Those words were as clean as if they had been blown by the wind.
But she spent far more time looking at the letter than reading the contents of the email itself.
In that instant, she could almost picture him sitting at the other end—
A desk lamp as dark as night, a half-open notebook, and that familiar, steady breathing.
It turns out he's always been there.
It's not that they've disappeared, it's just that they've fallen silent.
Panqiu suddenly felt like laughing.
She closed her laptop, and the room fell into darkness again.
Snowflakes fell on the glass outside the window, one by one, making the night even whiter.
The night was so quiet that only the sound of falling snow could be heard.
She silently felt her own heartbeat.
Looking up, I saw that small succulent plant; its leaves were still, as if they were breathing.
She said softly—
"Thank you."
The sound was extremely soft, fading into the night.
It was as if it were directed at the world, at fate, and at him.
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