Winter Time Rendering

He suddenly realized Lu Qinglian was more interesting than he’d thought:

"You knew I came here often?"

"Before today, I didn’t think anyone else came here."

Unlike before, she no longer waited to swallow her food before speaking. Instead, she talked while taking small bites of rice:

"At first, I thought you needed me for something urgent. It wasn’t until you asked what I meant by ’only you would come here’ that I realized I was mistaken."

Zhang Shutong thought she was a little conceited. Just yesterday she had asked if he liked her, and now today she automatically assumed he was looking for her for something urgent.

"So everything you said after that was just you messing with me?"

"Pretty much." She took another bite of rice.

Now Zhang Shutong was confused:

"Then if you realized what was going on, why did you keep pretending...?"

"Because I don’t like being disturbed when I eat. It was a way to get you to leave," she said dismissively, as if talking to a child.

Zhang Shutong said with a laugh:

"And this morning? Was that also because you didn’t want to be disturbed while you were reading?"

"That was the only exception."

To his surprise, Lu Qinglian suddenly frowned, and the clump of rice under her chopsticks was instantly split in two.

Poor rice.

’Why is she only eating plain rice?’ He’d been watching her ever since he arrived, and all she did was take small bites of rice, and then more rice.

A glance into her old lunchbox revealed why:

The surface of the aluminum lunchbox was dented and covered in scratches. The contents were almost nothing but plain rice, save for a small pile of pickled vegetables squeezed into one corner. They weren’t the store-bought kind of preserved mustard root, but clearly homemade—a strange, dark green color and a bit shriveled.

It went without saying that she must have brought her lunch from her home on the mountain.

Then, Zhang Shutong realized why she could always pick up the rice in neat little clumps. He’d initially thought it was some special technique, but now he understood. It was simply because the weather was so cold that the rice had long since cooled, its moisture evaporated, causing it to congeal into solid lumps inside the lunchbox.

"Is this what you eat for lunch every day?" Zhang Shutong asked, sounding surprised.

Lu Qinglian seemed to understand his implication:

"It’s only this bad today."

"Oh, that’s a relief. If I had known, I would’ve asked you to join me for lunch..."

"I usually have a boiled egg." She picked up another clump of rice.

Zhang Shutong watched her for a moment, confirming that she was genuinely focused on her food when she said this, not putting on an act like before.

"Just a plain boiled egg?"

"Sometimes a duck egg."

"That’s not very nutritious."

"I know. That’s why I sign up for the school milk program every semester."

Zhang Shutong wondered if by "milk" she meant the little cartons the school handed out every day—those pocket-sized 150ml boxes of sugary water with less than 1.8% protein.

He was at a loss for words, so he just held the milk tea out to her. It wasn’t particularly nutritious, but it would at least provide some warmth and calories.

But he had a feeling Lu Qinglian wouldn’t accept it, so he quickly added:

"Ruoping really wanted to thank you for last night. Just consider it a treat from her."

"No, thank you." To his surprise, Lu Qinglian shook her head. "I don’t consider my situation to be that bad."

"It’s not out of pity..."

Zhang Shutong thought for a moment. ’How can I explain this?’ he wondered. ’Is it friendship? We’re not really friends. Gratitude? She said it wasn’t necessary. Is it because I feel bad for her? But she doesn’t even see her own situation as bad.’

"What I mean is... take you, for example. Why do you always come to the rooftop to eat? Are you afraid someone will see you?"

He didn’t even know why he’d asked. He wasn’t trying to test her pride, not exactly. It was like two cavemen communicating, not fully knowing what they were saying, relying on gestures. Fortunately, Lu Qinglian understood. Her voice was as still as water:

"There’s no reason. I just like it here."

"Out of habit?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you eat a boiled egg every day because you like it?"

"Not really."

"Then you could have something else."

"But it’s convenient."

"They can smell like chicken droppings."

"I know how to fix that."

"Exactly. And so do I." Zhang Shutong placed the milk tea beside her. He stood up and walked to the rooftop door. "So it’s not out of pity. It’s up to you whether you drink it or not. This is just..."

After all that, he still couldn’t find the right words, so he decided to leave her in suspense:

"A greeting gift."

Unfortunately, Lu Qinglian didn’t ask what he meant. If she had, no matter what she said, he could have replied, "You can think of it that way for now," giving her a taste of her own medicine.

The girl simply furrowed her brow upon hearing his words, as if pondering a difficult problem.

Or perhaps, in that instant, she no longer looked like a young girl. The woman from the black-and-white memorial photo he would see eight years in the future seemed to materialize before him again—an unsettlingly familiar sight.

But this time, Zhang Shutong was sure he understood her expression. ’This is the same silly girl who doesn’t even know what an Oreo is,’ he thought, and kindly decided to educate her:

"Don’t eat the black things. They’re milk tea seeds. You’re supposed to spit them out when you drink."

She froze at his words. The hauntingly familiar look vanished, and the girl’s gaze suddenly turned terrifying again. Though she remained expressionless, it was just like that morning:

"...Don’t treat me like an idiot."