The Wind Still Waits on the Mountain Peak; I Long to See You Again

The Wind on the Mountain Is Still Waiting: I Really Want to See You One More Time I When the March wind blows sand against the iron door of the butcher shop, I always think of the first time Lin Xiaomei came to the market with me. She wore an off-white knit sweater and stood by the pork stall, pinching her nose as she laughed, “The pork fat smell on you could marinate anything.” But her fingers quietly hooked around my sleeve, speckled with oil. We closed early that day and walked along the moat. She suddenly stopped and said, “You said you went out of town to buy stock last time, but you actually went to play cards with your friends, didn't you?” Her voice was as light as willow fluff floating on the water. My heart lurched, but I stubbornly replied, “Don't make things up. I went to Shijiazhuang with Wang Qiang. I have a train ticket.” The ticket was a discarded one I'd picked up at the station the night before, its corners worn and curled. She stared at me for a long while, the light in her eyes fading bit by bit like a candle blown out by the wind. “I actually saw your electric scooter parked outside the old cinema,” she said, turning to walk back. “If you'd just said, ‘I wanted to take a break,’ I wouldn't have asked.” I didn't chase after her. Back then, I always thought that in love, whoever gave in first lost. II During the first winter after we split up, I found the notebook she'd left behind while rummaging through my rented room. On the last page, she'd drawn two simple little birds. Beside them she'd written, “The day he learns to tell the truth, I'll take him up the mountain to watch the clouds.” The pen had pierced the paper, like the sob she hadn't let out back then. I started looking for her on QQ. The words “typing...” would linger in the chat box for ages, but in the end, all I sent were things like “How have you been?” and “It's cold, dress warmly.” Every few days, she'd reply with “Pretty good” or “Just got off work.” ...