A chance encounter during the holidays
On the 28th day of the twelfth lunar month, the small town was enveloped in the languid atmosphere characteristic of the pre-Lunar New Year holiday. Lin Weixi walked along the bluestone slabs of the old street, clutching her newly purchased New Year paintings. The red paper and gold dust glowed warmly in the thin winter sunlight. She paused in front of a used bookstore, its window displaying yellowed photography albums. Just as she was about to push the door open, a wind chime chimed, and the door was pushed open from the inside.
Chen Wang came out, carrying a stack of books. His wool scarf covered half his face, his exposed eyes widening slightly in surprise. They both stopped at the store entrance, their breath mingling in the air.
"Long time no see." He spoke first, his voice a little deeper than he remembered.
A New Year picture slipped from Lin Weixi's arms. When he bent down to pick it up, his fingers accidentally brushed against her gloves. The soft touch of cashmere was like a feather brushing across his heart.
The bookstore owner poked his head out and said, "Xiao Chen, I'll save it for you next time we get new books!"
Only then did she notice that he was holding several back issues of National Geographic. The photo of the glacier on the cover reminded her of the aurora he had posted on his WeChat Moments.
They walked along the old street, their shadows stretching and shrinking on the cobblestones. He talked about his Arctic expedition at University A, and the embarrassing foggy lens made her laugh. She recounted her documentary photography in the urban village, and the story of the shoemaker at the corner of the alley stopped him in his tracks.
"You've changed a lot." he said suddenly.
"You too." She looked at the tips of his ears, which were red from the cold. "You never wore such a thick scarf before."
They sat down by the flowerbed at the intersection and shared the sugar-roasted chestnuts they had just bought. As they passed the oil-paper bag around, she noticed his neatly manicured nails and the black watch on his wrist. Chestnut shells piled up like a small mountain on the stone steps, like some kind of silent timer.
"Zhou Xu said you won't be coming back for the New Year." She lowered her head and peeled chestnuts.
"The project ended early." He looked up at the red lanterns on the street corner. "The New Year atmosphere is still strong in my hometown."
As dusk deepened, he walked her to the alley entrance. The withered branches of an old locust tree streaked across the sky, and several houses had already lit lanterns. As they parted, he pulled a small paper bag from his schoolbag. "I bought this in the North Pole. I thought it would suit you."
Inside the paper bag was a lens cloth made of reindeer hide, with an aurora pattern embroidered on one corner. She stroked the soft fur, and when she looked up, he had turned and walked into the twilight, the hem of his scarf swaying gently with his steps.
On New Year's Eve, during a family dinner, the gala was playing on TV. She absentmindedly made dumplings and flicked through photos of the lens cloth in her phone album. When her cousin came over and exclaimed, she panicked and locked the screen, spilling the filling onto her new sweater.
As the clock struck midnight, the class chat was flooded with videos of fireworks. She clicked on Chen Wangfa's video of the northern lights, a dazzling display of green light dancing like silk. Zooming in, she spotted a blurry reflection in the corner of the lens—a familiar black watch on the wrist holding the camera.
On the third day of the Lunar New Year, snow fell, blanketing the old streets in white. She went to the post office to mail a postcard, and she ran into him again, buying stamps. Frost flakes formed on the windowpane, and he melted a small piece with his breath, writing "Happy New Year" in misty ink. After sending the letter, he asked, unpretentiously, "Want some hot chocolate?"
Sitting by the window at the hot drink shop, they chatted about their high school teacher's recent situation. The rim of his cup was stained with cream, and as she handed him a tissue, she recalled the undelivered milk tea from their senior year. Outside, the snow was falling harder. A middle school couple ran by, sharing an umbrella. The girl, smiling, squeezed closer to the boy.
"Actually, I know," he said suddenly, "that's you in that photo at the art festival."
As the hot chocolate began to steam, she lowered her head and stirred the cinnamon sticks. "When did you find out?"
"I guessed it when I saw the original photos in your camera." He tapped the wall of the cup with his fingertips, "but I think it would be pointless to say it out loud."
The snow had stopped on the way home, and the lanterns cast a red glow on the snow. He walked her to the door of her apartment building, the sound-activated lights in the hallway flickering. As they said goodbye, she stumbled on the ice, and he held her arm. The snow on his gloves fell on her sleeves, quickly melting into dark dots.
That night, she dreamed of a basketball court under the northern lights, reindeer darting between the three-point lines. When she awoke in the early morning light, her phone still frozen in his chat screen. The last message had been sent at 2 a.m.: "Be careful walking on snowy nights."
She clicked on her camera and adjusted the focus on the snowy scene outside the window. In the frame, an elderly man doing morning exercises, sweeping snow, his movements like a slow-motion movie shot. As she pressed the shutter, she suddenly realized that some encounters are like winter sunshine, fleeting yet sufficient to warm the entire season.
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