Winter Time Rendering

"Because you..."

Stared at by those captivating eyes, Zhang Shutong felt his breathing slow for a beat.

Then, the girl suddenly tilted her head, finishing her sentence in confusion:

"Because you said I should listen to all your commands and hide no matter what happened."

Her tone was so earnest, like a penguin that struggled to swim ashore, only to find itself bewildered as a giant white bear wandered past.

"Or did I misunderstand?"

Zhang Shutong was at a loss for words. ’I do think I said something like that,’ he thought, ’but who knew you could fight so well?!’

He bit the inside of his cheek.

"That’s not what I meant at the time..."

But before he could finish, Zhang Shutong was surprised to see a flicker of life on Lu Qinglian’s perpetually expressionless face. It was, however, truly just a flicker.

Her small lips curved slightly, tracing a subtle, fleeting arc.

When he looked again, the girl had already reverted to her usual faint expression. She turned and walked straight away, as if the image he’d just seen was a hallucination born of fatigue.

Zhang Shutong watched her back as she left. She walked with her back perfectly straight, not like ordinary girls who might walk with their hands behind their backs, taking the carefree steps of youth.

Girls who walked like that often wore pretty little skirts and tight jeans, exuding a vibrant energy with every move.

But Lu Qinglian had none of that. Zhang Shutong had only ever seen her in a school uniform or a blue robe.

The impression she gave seemed to perpetually waver between those two images.

But then Zhang Shutong remembered the strawberry-flavored milk, the cream-filled Oreo cookies, the cheerful fish swimming in a bucket. Piece by piece, these images came together, outlining the shape of the iceberg hidden beneath the sea’s surface.

They soon reached the foot of the mountain.

The mountain was imposing. Every few steps, they saw withered trees, and a faint mist swirled around them. Zhang Shutong escorted Lu Qinglian to the entrance of the mountain path.

The snow at the entrance had not yet melted, reflecting a cold, silver light under the moon. The faint glow illuminated a winding, rugged path, its roughest parts shrouded in a pitch-black darkness that hid the way forward.

In the night, it looked like an entrance to another world.

All was silent. Zhang Shutong offered her a flashlight, but the girl just shook her head, refusing it.

And so, they said their goodbyes.

She left.

...

「It was nearly nine o’clock when he got home.」

First, he let his close friends know he was safe.

He locked up his bike and looked at the gray-white walls of the dorm building. They were just as he remembered.

Zhang Shutong was particular about houses. Most people are particular about their beds, but for him, it was the house itself. It was the only way he knew where he was when he woke up each morning.

The stairwell had a voice-activated light that turned on with a cough. Zhang Shutong figured Gu Qiuyan’s dad must be a bit of a romantic. ’Why else would he have installed warm yellow light bulbs?’

The handrail on the concrete stairs had been freshly painted. The faint smell of iron and paint drifted into his nostrils. Zhang Shutong usually hated that smell, but now he took a few extra sniffs.

Scientifically speaking, it was probably some volatile aromatic hydrocarbon that some people liked and others hated. But he felt his reaction had no logical basis.

It was more like memories are partially sealed away by scent. You might have long forgotten what happened at a certain time and place, but one day, you catch a certain smell, and it suddenly reconnects with your nerves, making everything so clear.

The scent of home was a little cold and empty.

He pushed open the door and turned on the light. Of course, no one was inside. His parents were usually too busy to be home and would surely never guess what had happened to their son, but Zhang Shutong was already used to it.

He casually turned on the small color TV, fumbling with the remote for a good while before aiming it at the receiver. The characters on the screen immediately started squawking their lines. He didn’t actually watch it; he just felt it made the living room a little livelier.

His phone BUZZED. He opened the group chat and saw it was Ruoping. She had sent a picture: a bowl of sweet congee with red dates and white fungus on a dining table. She said she didn’t mean anything by it, just wanted to show off her mom’s cooking and make them all a little jealous.

Qingyi said he was in his room reading, but his dad was watching TV outside—a notoriously bad movie, no less—and it was incredibly noisy.

Du Kang’s parents owned a restaurant, so he never lacked for things to eat. His dad had packed him a container of fish congee to take home, along with stir-fried river snails and marinated beef. Ruoping’s attempt to show off her food backfired, so she muted Du Kang in the chat.

Zhang Shutong’s mouth watered as he watched. He went to the kitchen and rummaged around. His family’s fridge always smelled very fresh; they never kept leftovers. But Zhang Shutong wished there were some leftovers to eat. After searching for a long time, he finally found half a broken-off steamed bun in the dim, cold light of the fridge. He also put some water on to boil for an egg, adding a few drops of vinegar to the pot.

Back in his first year of middle school, he had figured out a trick to get rid of the "chicken poop smell" from boiled eggs. He had been quite pleased with himself for this discovery, but he later found out that his classmates didn’t eat boiled eggs at all. They ate fried eggs, scrambled eggs, and soy-sauce-marinated eggs made by their mothers.

Zhang Shutong was clueless about the latter three. After all these years, he still ate plain boiled eggs. They were simple and convenient, and his egg-boiling technique was now perfected.

The water hadn’t boiled yet, so he used the time to go back to his room and change his clothes.

His room was quite small, with very little furniture—just a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk.

There was no particular style or color scheme to speak of. He also didn’t have the habit of putting up posters on his walls like other boys his age. In fact, you could say the color of his room was whatever color his bedsheets were that week.

The house had heating, so a single long-sleeved shirt was enough. His frozen face felt a faint burning sensation as it warmed up. He then went out to the balcony, clothes in his arms and a toothbrush dangling from his mouth.