When The Snow Falls In Autumn Chapter 28

Chapter 28

At the end of the corridor of the East End graduate student apartment, when the door closed behind him, it made a slight but definite “click” sound, like a gate that blocked out all the light, sound, and breath from the outside world, as well as the memory of that morning full of old papers, accidents, and silence.Ling Xueqing stood with her back against the cold door panel for a moment.

There are no lights on indoors.Dusk seeped in through the only window, turning the neat and almost empty room into a hazy gray-blue.The outlines of desks, chairs, and beds were silent in the darkness, like a group of static, lifeless geometric bodies.The only sound in the air was the sound of her own breathing, and the faint lingering sound of the distant basketball court outside the window.

She raised her hand and turned on the overhead light.The cold white light instantly filled the room, dispersing the twilight and illuminating every inch of details that were too regular and lacked popularity.She took off her coat and hung it on the hanger behind the door, her movements carrying an inertial precision.Then, she walked to the desk and did not sit down. She just lowered her eyes and looked at the open notebook and the thick books.

His fingertips rested on the cold edge of the table.During repairs in the morning, the moment when Ye Qiulan’s pen tip lost control was replayed again with incomparable clarity.The falling trajectory of the liquid, the cool touch on his skin when his fingers touched it, and when Ye Qiulan raised his eyes, his always warm and ignorant eyes were filled with panic and confusion.

And…the almost exploding sensation in my chest, mixed with panic, fear, and some deeper burning impulse.That impulse even overcame the years of strict control, allowing the wisp of Alpha’s pheromones with the warmth of the original wood to leak out uncontrollably.

Now, that breath has long since dissipated in the empty air of the library, and may have been taken away by the ventilation system, leaving no trace.But that feeling of losing control was like a tiny thorn piercing the barrier of self-control that Ling Xueqing was proud of, causing a continuous and subtle tingling sensation.

She closed her eyes and forcibly cut off the unpleasant flashback.His eyes fell on the notebook.After pausing for a few seconds, she reached out and opened it, finding the inner page with the old bookmark between it.

The rough edges of the cardboard rubbed against the pads of my fingers.Those two lines of childish handwriting looked particularly clear under the cold white light:

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.

“What we see is the same.”

This sentence, read at this moment, carries an almost cruel irony.In the morning, what they “saw” were really the same?What Ye Qiulan saw might be a dangerous mistake and a companion who made timely remedies.And what he “saw”… was the protective desire that almost lost control, the brief loosening of the pheromone barrier, and the dangerous fire that suddenly ignited and was extinguished in the frozen wasteland deep in his heart.

Not the same.It’s never the same.

Ling Xueqing’s fingers pressed slightly, and the edge of the cardboard left clearer indentations on her fingertips.She stared at the line of words, as if she wanted to see through the paper the Ye Qiulan who wrote it without any distractions many years ago.The “same” at that time was simple and clear, like the river named “Qingrui” that had disappeared long ago but was still “seen” by them together.

But now, “Qingru” has long since dried up or been covered, and something more complicated and unspeakable than the disappeared place names lies between them.The burden of family, gender barriers, the unspeakable undercurrents surging in their hearts, and this morning’s accident that exposed everything to a sharp edge.

She slammed the notebook shut with a small muffled sound.Lock the jammed page, along with the sentence “the same”, under the hard cover again.

She needed to do something.To reaffirm the sense of control and calm the unfamiliar restlessness in the chest caused by the loss of control in the morning.Her eyes glanced at the gym bag containing dumbbells in the corner of the room.That was her usual way of consuming excess energy and maintaining self-discipline.

But today, she didn’t go there.

Her eyes fell on the open book on the corner of the desk, a research monograph on the geographical changes in her mother’s family’s homeland.Next to it is the densely packed page of ancient place names that she wrote down last night.

A thought arises without warning.

She sat down again, opened the drawer, and took out a brand new piece of thick drawing paper.I also found a drawing ruler, different types of stylus pens, and a very thin pencil.She did not open the monograph, nor look at the list of place names.The information was already etched in her mind.

She started drawing.

The tip of the pencil falls on the paper and outlines the first extremely slight mark.It is not the regular latitude and longitude grid on the modern map, but based on memory and research, it depicts the vague outline of the homeland that my mother talked about a hundred years ago – a few undulating curves representing the mountains, a thick line that winds through the plains and finally merges into the river represents “Qingrui” (or its earlier, no longer known ancient name), scattered village locations marked with extremely small circles…

Her movements were slow and steady.Each line is carefully considered, as if it is not a drawing, but a silent evocation, summoning geographical coordinates that have long been lost in the torrent of time.The rustling sound of the pencil was particularly clear in the overly quiet room, like eating mulberry leaves, slowly and persistently.

As the outline gradually became clearer, she switched to a stylus pen and began to deepen the lines and mark place names.Every name was written in extremely neat small regular characters, with thick black ink, and fell heavily on the paper: Cangwu Ridge, Luoxiapi, Yinma River, Guiyundu… and the river that ran through the north and south, which she labeled as “Rishui” (the older name of “Qingru” she found out through research).

This is not an accurate map, but more like a spiritual picture based on broken memories and documentary fragments, re-stitched by personal emotions and academic research.It is incomplete, full of uncertain dotted lines, and in some places it is even sketched based on feeling.But it truly exists on this piece of paper, in Ling Xueqing’s writing, embodying her entire interpretation of her mother’s trance words and her silent burden of the scars of family separation.

When the last place name “Wangxiang Terrace” was marked on a dotted cliff in the upper right corner of the map, Ling Xueqing stopped writing.

She leaned back in her chair and stared for a long time at the newly born map that belonged only to her.The cold white light shines on the still-dry ink on the paper. Those lines and names are like fresh wounds and hidden blood vessels, connecting her to the distant and heavy past.

The feeling of exhaustion came up late in the day, deeper and heavier than the exhaustion after any physical training.It is a kind of exhaustion after the spirit is extremely squeezed.But at the same time, the unfamiliar anxiety and sluggishness that had been lingering in the chest since the morning seemed to be extracted bit by bit as the lines settled, and woven into this silent map.

She carefully placed the pen back on the pen curtain.Then, she stretched out her hand and her fingertips gently brushed the ink line of “Rishui” on the drawing.Cold paper, warm fingertips.This river has long disappeared from the map, and may have changed its course or dried up in reality.Just like the river between her and Ye Qiulan, named “Qingrui”, recorded by an old bookmark, about “seeing the same”.

But at this moment, on this map that belongs only to her, the “Rui River” is flowing.It originates from Cangwu Ridge, passes through Luoxiapi, bypasses Wangxiang Terrace, and finally merges into the nameless river.It has a shape, a name, an origin, and a destination.

Ling Xueqing moved her eyes away from the drawing and looked out the window.It was already dark, and the lights in the apartment building opposite were sparsely on.In the night sky farther away, there are no stars, only the dark red haze formed by the city’s nightlight pollution.

She didn’t know what Ye Qiulan was doing at the moment, whether he had recovered from the shock in the morning, or whether he had returned to the home filled with the smell of medicine and sighs.She also didn’t know whether the old bookmark that read “What we see is the same” would become another invisible question between them about whether “seeing” is “the same”.

She only knew that on this night, in this too quiet room, she used her own way to draw a river, mark a piece of homeland, and temporarily put aside the silent storm in her heart caused by the morning accident and long-term suppression.

She carefully rolled up the dried ink drawing, tied it with a string, and placed it deep in the bottom drawer of the desk.Then she turned off the desk lamp, leaving only a weak night light by the door.

The room fell into darkness again.She walked to the window and closed the thick curtains, completely blocking out the night and lights outside.

Lie down on the bed and close your eyes.The body is very tired, but the mind is extremely clear.In the darkness, those ancient place names, the lines on the drawings, the reinforcement fluid dripping in the morning, Ye Qiulan’s tearful eyes, and the phrase “What we see are the same”… countless fragments floated and intertwined in the deep sea of ​​consciousness. In the end, they gradually blurred and sank to the edge of sleep.

Only the fingertips seem to still retain the rough and real touch of the paper when touching the “Rishui” ink line.It’s like holding a silent, small but conclusive channel that belongs only to her and leads to the past and heart.