Spring had long since arrived, and the sounds of birds chirping on the branches brought a bit of brightness to the day.
Shao Xue’s alleyway was close to several tourist spots, and it wasn’t uncommon for sightseers to wander in by mistake. A student stood at the entrance of the alley, peeking inside, then turned to a friend and said, “Looks like someone from this house passed away.”
Shao Xue rode by on her bike, frowning unconsciously.
Auntie Jin was buried at Babaoshan Cemetery. Forty years of life reduced to a moment of ashes. Many of her colleagues came, but the one who cried the hardest was her teacher, Luo Huaijin. The old man, in his sixties, was burying a student far younger than himself, and no matter how much people tried to console him, they couldn’t lift him from the ground.
Zheng Su Nian, dressed all in black, stood stiffly, greeting the people coming and going. Yu Dong Ge, unable to bear the sight, went over to support him, saying, “This child hasn’t slept in days. Go rest for a while.”
He lifted his eyes, his face, which closely resembled Jin Ning’s, looked pale and slightly blue.
“There’s no need, Auntie. I’m fine.”
The wind blew bitterly cold. Spring here seemed to arrive later than elsewhere. Shao Xue and Zhang Qi sat far off, with Shao Xue hugging her knees, unable to say a word between her sobs.
“Cry it all out before you head back. Don’t let Su Nian see,” Zhang Qi advised.
She coughed a little, wiping her tears and snot on her sleeve. Her face was flushed red from the wind.
“Must be nice, being able to cry,” Zhang Qi shook his head. “If only Su Nian could cry too.”
Three days had passed since Aunt Jin’s death, and Zheng Su Nian hadn’t shed a single tear. He hadn’t attended classes, busy helping his father with the funeral arrangements, barely closing his eyes at all.
In this world, perhaps the saddest thing isn’t crying, but having no strength left to cry.
Shao Xue and Zhang Qi had school the next day, and the adults sent them home. As they approached the alley, they saw the black cat they had raised, sitting at the entrance and meowing heartbreakingly. The cat had been scrawny and frail when they first found it, but the kids had saved it. Jin Ning had liked it too, naming it “Dark Cloud on Snow” and even setting up a small fund for the children to contribute spare change for its care.
Shao Xue crouched down and stroked its head, whispering, “You miss her too, don’t you?”
The cat seemed to understand, lowering its head dejectedly and collapsing into her hand.
The best person in the world, Aunt Jin, was really gone.
The world’s ability to heal from grief seemed far faster than Shao Xue had imagined. Aunt Jin’s departure had torn a deep wound in everyone’s life, but time moved on as usual, and for most people, the scar would fade just like a bandage being peeled off, leaving only a faint red mark.
Suddenly, the weather warmed up. It felt like just yesterday they had been standing in the cold, bundled in down jackets, and now, spring was here, bright and blooming. Shao Xue, slow to adjust, only realized in mid-March, standing on the street, sweating and dazed, as she shed her heavy coat.
Spring was in full bloom, and life continued.
As Shao Hua passed by the ceramics restoration room, he saw Dou Si Yuan planting a tree.
“Look at our university student here,” Shao Hua chuckled, standing at the doorway with his tea cup. “Not even in his twenties yet, and already into gardening. Your mindset’s practically ancient.”
“Come on, Teacher Shao, don’t say it like that,” Dou Si Yuan protested, feeling a bit wronged. “There’s an old saying: ‘The older generation plants trees for the next generation to enjoy the shade.’ I’m planting a tree to mark the start of my career.”
“Not a bad idea,” Shao Hua took a sip of his tea. “The trees in this courtyard were planted by palace maids or eunuchs. Now you’re right there with them, adding to the historical significance.”
Sun Qi Rui, overhearing, couldn’t take it anymore and stepped out. “You’re so annoying,” he grumbled. “My apprentice plants a tree, and you have to criticize. At your age, can’t you cut him some slack?”
He gave Shao Hua a glare and then remembered something.
“By the way, did your clock restoration group hire anyone yet?”
“Do you think it’s that easy?” Shao Hua sighed. “We need someone with a bit of engineering knowledge. But who with a proper mechanical background would want to do this?”
“The times have changed. Back then, we all wanted to learn a craft, knowing we wouldn’t starve. Now, who cares about that?”
After a pause, Sun Qi Rui asked, “How’s young Zheng doing?”
“Same as before,” Shao Hua shook his head. “He’s been focusing entirely on clock repairs. He’s always been quiet, but now he’s practically mute. Barely eats, and he’s just skin and bones.”
“Poor Su Nian.”
“Yeah, and it’s right in the middle of his second year of high school. In just two months, he’ll be starting his final year. I don’t know what he’s planning to do.”
“What about his grades? Weren’t they good? I remember Jin Ning saying he wanted to study materials engineering at Beihang University.”
“What grades? His teacher came for a home visit, said his rank dropped by more than 300 places. Can you really blame him for that?”
Shao Hua continued on, but Sun Qi Rui couldn’t quite shake off the news. Of all the children of the Palace Museum staff, Zheng Su Nian was his favorite. After some thought, Sun Qi Rui picked up his tea and wandered over to the painting reproduction group.
“Master, where are you going?” Dou Si Yuan asked, looking up.
“None of your business.”
The painting group’s lead was Luo Huaijin, who had joined the Palace Museum the same year as Sun Qi Rui. The two had been competing their whole careers. Now that they were older, they had less energy to argue, but seeing Sun Qi Rui sneaking around the doorway still got Luo Huaijin riled up.
“What are you up to now?”
“I need to talk to you,” Sun Qi Rui replied. The room was empty, so he set his cup down with a sharp clang on the glass table. “It’s about Su Nian.”
That spring, Zheng Su Nian spent most of his time in a disused courtyard near the restoration room.
He didn’t do much—just sat there, lost in thought. He thought about his childhood, about Jin Ning, and about the future. His grades had plummeted, and his teachers had taken turns talking to him. But when he sat in front of them, he couldn’t say a word. He hated the concerned looks they gave him, because every time he saw that look, he thought of Jin Ning.
He felt like he was sick, like the world owed him a huge debt. Shao Xue and Zhang Qi wanted to stay with him, but he avoided them with a few words. He didn’t want to hear anyone’s advice. In his mind, he thought, “Your parents are still alive, how could you possibly understand me?”
So, when Luo Huaijin walked in, Zheng Su Nian was at a loss.
Jin Ning had always respected Luo Huaijin. While his mother seemed easygoing, deep down she had a strong sense of pride, and few people met her standards. But for Luo Huaijin, even in private, she never uttered a word of disrespect.
Luo Huaijin asked, “What are you doing?”
Zheng Su Nian stood up, stammering a bit.
“Nothing much, just looking at the trees.”
“Looking at trees?” Luo Huaijin smiled kindly. “So young, in the prime of your life, and you’re sitting in this old courtyard, just looking at trees.”
Zheng Su Nian was speechless.
“Come on, let me show you something more worth your time.”
The towering red walls of the palace loomed above as they walked beneath the shade of the trees. Zheng Su Nian looked up in surprise—when had the trees turned green?
Jin Ning’s painting restoration group was tucked away, so Zheng Su Nian rarely visited. Luo Huaijin led him into the restoration room and handed him a scroll.
The yellowed paper slowly unfurled, revealing a landscape painting with bold ink strokes. Jagged mountains, winding rivers, and soft, drifting clouds.
It was a magnificent painting. The brushstrokes were decisive yet tender, filled with a vastness that suggested the artist held the entire world in their heart. Jin Ning had copied it beautifully; her strokes were as broad and profound as the original artist from a century ago.
But the bottom third of the painting was only lightly sketched, left as an unfinished outline—a clear sign that it had been abandoned halfway through…
Perhaps that’s when she had passed away.
Zheng Su Nian felt all his strength drain from his body. He reached out to touch the incomplete painting, and behind him, Luo Huaijin began speaking softly.
“A person’s life always comes to an end, sooner or later. These relics may not be alive, but when you pour your heart into them, you become one with the objects. If someone leaves behind something in this world, then their presence remains. As long as these things still exist, they still exist.”
Zheng Su Nian’s nose tingled. His fingers traced the delicate lines of the paper, as if through it, he could feel Jin Ning’s grip on the brush from across time.
“The dead are gone, but life goes on,” Luo Huaijin pressed a hand on his head, his voice filled with the compassion of an elderly sage.
“You’re only seventeen. If you need to cry, cry. Don’t worry about losing face.
“Cry your heart out, and live well for your mother. That’s what Jin Ning would want to see.”
As the final months before graduation approached, all art and physical education classes for third-year students were canceled.
Even the math teacher was frustrated, yelling at a few disgruntled students, “Do you think I enjoy taking away your P.E. time? Have you even looked at your grades? Out of the entire year, your class’s math scores are the worst. Do you know how much extra effort I have to put in because of you?”
“Who cares about her,” Zhao Xinran muttered next to Shao Xue, “she’s probably just cranky from menopause.”
Shao Xue pressed her lips together without replying. Suddenly, someone called from the back door, “Shao Xue, someone’s looking for you at the school gate!”
She had been caught off guard. Steeling herself, she asked for permission to leave from the teacher, who gave her a hard glare.
Outside, she saw Zheng Su Nian.
She was startled. “Don’t you have classes?”
Summer had arrived, and Zheng Su Nian seemed to have regained some spirit. His face no longer had the pallor of winter, and he didn’t look as gaunt as before.
“I switched to the arts.”
“Did Uncle Zheng allow it?”
“Yes.”
“And what did your teachers say?”
“They had something to say, but I still wanted to switch.”
“What’s your plan?”
“To study art, then go into ancient painting restoration.”
“Switching in your second year of high school, are you sure you can get in?”
“Don’t you believe in me?”
“Of course, I believe in you.”
He smiled, and Shao Xue was taken aback. It had been six months since she had last seen him smile.
“So, you’re really going to become a craftsman?”
“Yeah, I’m going to finish what my mom didn’t.”
“Go ahead and do it,” Shao Xue was even happier than he was. She reached out and patted his head. “If you believe it’s the right thing, then go for it.”
His mood, which had been bottled up all day, suddenly lifted. A row of birch trees grew along the school’s edge, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting golden hues on Shao Xue’s hair. Her thick hair was blown high by the wind, and her pupils, a light brown, reflected the endless beauty of Beijing’s early summer.
Though Zheng Su Nian eventually studied art, at heart, he was still a practical person, not one for flowery descriptions. However, once, an art theory student had pointed at a painting and said, “This painting has a peaceful, timeless feel.”
At that moment, his mind filled with the memory of that afternoon.
Shao Xue’s long hair flowing in the wind, the scent of her hair lingering in the air, and memories of that spring day in 2004 washed over him like a song from the past.
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