In the summer of 1937, a fine snow fell at the Shen family mansion on Xiafei Road in the French Concession in Shanghai.
Shen Yanqiu's hand holding the silver scissors was hanging in mid-air. The morning dew on the rose branches was rolling down the jagged petals, leaving little water marks on her moon-white cheongsam. This "Paris Peace Conference" was brought back from Marseille by my cousin who returned from studying in France at the spring equinox last year. The flowers as big as a bowl bloomed heavily, and the edges of the rouge-colored petals were tinged with pearly white. It looked very much like the picture of a lady that Brother Yanzhi had drawn for her when she was sixteen.
"Yanqiu!" The sound of a car horn came from outside the carved iron fence. The black Buick parked in front of the gate covered with wisteria. A young man in a dark green gown poked his head out. Under the brim of his hat was a pair of eyes filled with broken stars. "Hurry up and wrap up the flowers you cut. Mr. Wu's painting exhibition must be installed before noon."
With a tremble of her fingertips, the silver scissors cut off the most blooming flower branches. There are three roses wrapped in oil paper, two red and one white. The red one is called "Fire Peace" and the white one is called "Snow Queen". They are all treasures in the Shen family's flower house. When Lin Yanzhi took the bouquet, their fingertips touched lightly on the oil paper, like touching a newly fallen cherry petal, and they moved away in an instant.
When the car turned out of the alley, the newsboy on the corner was waving a newspaper with wet ink: "War in Zhabei! The 19th Route Army repelled the Japanese attack last night -" Yanqiu looked at the French plane trees passing by the car window, the leaves turning gray in the morning breeze, and suddenly thought of the missionary he met on Xiafei Road three days ago. The cross on the man's chest glowed coldly in the dusk, saying that the snow was God crying.
