Spring, 1950. In years past, this time of year was usually marked by sandstorms. This year, however, was quite different. Right outside the banquet hall's Roman-style windows stood a Yutang Chun tree, its white flowers poised gracefully on the branches like gentle young women in qipao. The deep blue night sky was free of even the slightest trace of sand or wind. On such a lovely night, Zheng Yuanzhe easily found himself drifting into memories. Spring breezes carried Russian laughter and conversation through the banquet hall. Everyone raised their glasses, and the sharp edges of the champagne flutes broke the crystal chandelier into countless flecks of light. Zheng Yuanzhe heard himself swallow. He bent his ring finger, where a plain silver wedding ring...
