When The Snow Falls In Autumn Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The windows on the west side of the library show an almost stagnant silence that is different from that on weekdays on Sunday afternoon.The angle of the sunlight is lower, and the golden color is mixed with more orange, making the shadow of the camphor tree thin and long, almost spanning the entire reading area.There were very few people. There were only two students lying in the far corner who were probably catching up on their sleep due to last night’s party, and a gray-haired old professor who was immersed in thick books.

Ling Xueqing sat in her old seat.What is open in front of me is not a book, but an open restoration record book with grid lines.The tip of her pen hovered above the paper, and the ink stains glowed with a dark luster in the sunlight.She had been in this position for a while.His gaze fell on the booklet, but it seemed as if it had penetrated the paper and landed somewhere even more empty.

After leaving the school hospital in the afternoon, she did go to the east laboratory.But he just put the book at the administrator’s desk at the door and did not go in.Then, she turned back, walked through half of the campus, and returned here.It seems that only this table, this silence wrapped in the smell of old books, can digest the too clear tactile memory left by the brief contact in front of the pharmacy window at noon – the slight coolness and trembling of the skin on the back of Ye Qiulan’s hand, the echo of the force that wants to tighten but must be restrained when his own palm covers it, clashing in the blood.

Even earlier, the remnants of the word “fight” or “litigation” that were covered up under the cinnabar of ancient books were like a subtle crack, reflecting the unreliability of historical writing itself.Ye Qiulan’s suggestion of “objective recording” was calm, professional, and kept the boundaries, but it also revealed an almost stubborn respect for “integrity” that vaguely resonated with her mood at the moment.Even that completeness contains uncomfortable truth.

The tip of the pen finally came down, making a rustling sound on the record book.She began to write today’s restoration diary, with rigorous and objective wording, describing the discovery of the cinnabar coating, treatment methods, and follow-up suggestions one by one.The handwriting was as strong and neat as ever. Only she knew that when she wrote the sentence “There may be traces of early modifications under the covering layer”, there was an extremely subtle stagnation on the tip of the pen.

After writing the diary, she closed the book but did not leave immediately.His eyes fell on the empty chair opposite.In the morning, Ye Qiulan was sitting there, lowering his head and concentrating on smoothing the paper, his side face soft in the halo like a still life painting.In the afternoon, she stood there, her face pale, her fingers unconsciously clenching the strap of her bag, like a small animal that was disturbed by sudden trouble but forced to remain calm.

Then, he held her hand.

This image is recalled with crystal clear clarity at this moment.Ling Xueqing’s Adam’s apple rolled almost imperceptibly.She picked up the half-cup of tea that had already gone cold beside her and took a sip.The cold liquid slid down his throat, suppressing the unfamiliar and burning restlessness in his heart.The instinct that belongs to Alpha, when the urge to protect or comfort arises, will always have a possessive and aggressive undertone that cannot be ignored. She needs to use double the rationality to suppress it and temper it into a seemingly harmless protective posture.She’s doing great, always great.But recently, the strength required to suppress seems to be getting bigger and bigger.

She put down the cup and ran her fingers along the side of the cup unconsciously.The porcelain cup is cold.She then remembered that she had used this cup to pour half a cup of warm water to Ye Qiulan.Is there still a faint scent of another person on the rim of the cup?This thought came in without warning, causing her fingertips to pause slightly.

In order to dispel this too detailed and disturbing association, she forced herself to turn her attention to the bookshelf next to her.His eyes aimlessly scanned the rows of book spines, and finally landed on a set of “Local Chronicles Series” with dark blue cloth cover and slightly blurred spines.This is information that Ye Qiulan occasionally consults, and it is related to her ongoing extracurricular research on folk customs in the late Qing Dynasty.

By some strange coincidence, Ling Xueqing stood up, walked to the row of bookshelves, and pulled out one of the volumes.Very thick, the paper is brittle and yellow.She returned to her seat and opened it.It’s not that I really want to read, it’s just that my fingertips need to touch something and my eyes need to have a landing point to fight against the silence in my heart that seems too empty due to Ye Qiulan’s absence.

An old piece of cardboard, used as a bookmark, was sandwiched between the pages. The edges were frayed.Ling Xueqing’s eyes glanced at the name of an organization printed on it, and when he was about to turn the page, his movement suddenly stopped.There are words on the back of the cardboard.It’s not printed, it’s handwritten.The handwriting is a bit immature, but very serious. It is Ye Qiulan’s handwriting, which should have been left many years ago.

There are only two lines:

Xueqing said that this river used to be called “Qingrui”, but now it is no longer on the map.

But the water is still flowing.What we see is the same.

No date.Probably junior high, or even earlier.At that time, they could still go to the wild rivers on the edge of the city that had not yet been completely transformed on weekends, looking at maps and vague local chronicles to look for place names that had long since disappeared.Ling Xueqing remembered the river, which was turbid and slow, with construction debris piled on the bank.But she did check the information and told Ye Qiulan that it was called “Qingru” in ancient times.She had long forgotten that she had said this, let alone that Ye Qiulan would write it down on the back of a piece of cardboard and put it in a book.

“What we see is the same.”

These words, like a piece of amber carefully preserved by time, fell unexpectedly on Ling Xueqing’s churning heart.It’s very light, but it carries an unquestionable weight that has accumulated over time.

Ling Xueqing’s fingers gently brushed over the two lines of tender handwriting.The rough texture of cardboard came to my fingertips.Outside the window, the afterglow of the setting sun was rapidly fading, the sky was dyed with rich layers of blue and purple, and the shadows of the camphor trees finally completely melted into the growing twilight.The lights in the reading area turned on automatically one by one, casting a cold white halo.

She maintained that posture of gazing down for a long time.Until the footsteps of the administrator came closer and closer, reminding me that the closing time was approaching.

She carefully took the piece of cardboard out from between the pages of the book, and did not put it back. Instead, she inserted it into the inner pages of the hard-shell notebook she carried with her, which was filled with repair logs and notes.The movement is very light, like collecting a fragile piece of unearthed porcelain.Then, she closed the “Local Chronicle Series”, stood up, walked back to the bookshelf, and put it back exactly where it belonged.

Put on your backpack and pick up your notebook.You can feel the thin cardboard inside the inner pages with your fingertips.She took one last look at the empty chair opposite, turned around, and headed for the exit.

The footsteps landed on the smooth marble floor, and the sound echoed in the empty reading area.The sky outside the window has darkened, and the street lights in the distance are shining with continuous strips of light.

She walked out of the library, the evening breeze carrying the coolness of the night dew.The hustle and bustle on campus has taken on a different texture, becoming looser and more private.She walked back along the avenue from where she came, her steps steady and her face expressionless.

Only she knew that the thin piece of cardboard with childish handwriting on the inside of the notebook was like a small, warm fire, quietly falling into the wasteland in her heart that had been frozen by responsibility, restraint and silent longing all year round.The fire was weak, not enough to melt the frozen soil, but it stubbornly shone a little light, reflecting the words sealed by time – “We see the same thing.”

The night was getting darker, engulfing her figure.The library lay behind her, like a giant box filled with silent stories.Ahead, the lights of the East District apartment flickered on and off among the shadows of the trees. What awaited her was still a night of being alone and requiring a high degree of self-discipline to calm the inner turmoil.But tonight, in that undercurrent, there may be a faint but stubborn echo from the riverside in the distant afternoon.