When Nanping first laid eyes on Du Ziyi, he was struck with awe. Du Ziyi was not a particularly beautiful woman—she was thin, almost frail, as if the clothes she wore were too heavy for her. The amber-colored qipao, embroidered with silver branches of plum blossoms, clung to her in a way that seemed both illusory and real, tapering at the waist, so slim it could barely be held. It was a sight that stirred one's soul with melancholy.
The qipao, as a garment, is one that requires a precise balance of age and temperament. If worn too simply, it gives off an air of immaturity; if worn with a sense of weariness, it appears tawdry and cheap. The slightest misstep, and it could look completely out of place. But on Du Ziyi, it was perfect—a quiet elegance, like a late-blooming chrysanthemum swaying gracefully in the wind.
Nanping found himself reluctant to part from her presence. Over the course of a month, he spent four weekends at "The Curtain Drawn by the West Wind" (the name of a café). Although the café was filled with refined women, sipping mocha and turning the pages of their books, creating a picturesque scene in themselves, it was Du Ziyi, who appeared like a fleeting glimpse of beauty, that Nanping most longed to see.
Du Ziyi only heard of him two months later. When she followed the waiter’s gesture, her gaze fell on a man sitting under the reed curtains, impeccably dressed. His dark jacket and deep blue shirt were like the tranquil sea in winter. Her vision blurred for a moment—the deep blue shirt was so clean, so crisp, meticulously perfect. Just like Jianyang.
When she met Gao Jianyang, she was still working as the manager of the hotel’s PR department. The front desk had learned from the check-in details that the next day was his birthday and informed the PR department. As he was a VIP, she personally delivered the birthday cake and champagne to his room.
To this day, she vividly remembered that deep blue shirt of his, carrying a faint scent of mint, clean and impeccable. He was a man of fastidious taste, where every detail was always perfect.
Upon hearing her name for the first time, he had paused briefly, then said with a slight smile: “Ziyi... that’s the name of a kind of chrysanthemum.” His gaze burned into her, with an intensity that felt almost scorching. Ziyi wasn’t someone who embarrassed easily, but for some reason, her face flushed, and she nodded softly. Indeed, Ziyi was a type of chrysanthemum, one that had earned its place in the chrysanthemum catalog.
However, what Gao Jianyang treasured most was the orchid. A cluster of deep-colored flowers, celebrated in the works of famous poets. Ziyi had once accompanied him to a flower market in Kunming, where he purchased orchids, and it was only then she realized how invaluable they were. Gao Jianyang explained: “Orchids require very specific conditions—humidity, temperature, soil—they are as delicate as daughters of noble families.”
His words were pearls of wisdom. She listened with a smile, but in her heart, she understood that no matter how fragrant the chrysanthemum, it could never compare to the orchid’s world-renowned beauty.
As time passed, she wondered whether their relationship would eventually fade into mutual boredom and an amicable separation.
Fate, however, did not give them that chance. On May 25th, it was a beautiful day. "The Curtain Drawn by the West Wind" held its grand opening, and Ziyi was so busy she hardly had a moment to breathe. The walls of the café still held a photograph taken that day—she, dressed in a pale yellow qipao with tiny floral patterns, stood among the crowd, beaming with confidence and sweetness, moments after receiving a call from him before his flight. Perhaps feeling apologetic for not being able to attend, he had said softly: “I’m sorry, I’ll be back in a couple of days. Ziyi, I love you, forever and always.”
“Forever and always,” he had said!
The vows exchanged in a moment seemed as though they could truly last until the seas dried up and the rocks crumbled to dust.
Amidst the cheerful music and applause, a red satin ribbon was cut in two, its soft strands fluttering.
It wasn’t until she got home in the early morning and saw the news on TV that she learned the flight, CI611, a Boeing 747, had crashed. He, along with 224 others, had plunged into the sea, never to return.
She never made it to Hong Kong. His affairs were handled by the wife who rightfully held the title.
As time passed, Nanping’s true character began to reveal itself. He was, at the very least, sincere in his admiration of the chrysanthemum. Each time he visited, he brought her large bouquets of fragrant chrysanthemums for her to arrange in the white porcelain vase in her office.
After they married, Nanping once asked: “Why do you buy so many deep blue shirts for me?”
She smiled silently, and he assumed it was simply because she liked the color.
Once again, the west wind grew colder, and once again, it was her birthday. Early that morning, she received a gift box. Inside was a deep purple qipao, embroidered with chrysanthemums. She picked up the card, and there, in the familiar handwriting of Nanping, were the words:
“Ziyi, I love you, forever and always.”
She looked up—the floor-to-ceiling window was draped with reed curtains. In ancient times, women would roll up the curtains during this season to admire the chrysanthemums.
The curtain is drawn by the west wind, but the person is more fragile than the yellow flowers. (This last sentence references a famous poem, suggesting that the person has become more delicate than the fading chrysanthemums.)
[The End]
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