In Hangzhou during the rainy season, the air is so thick that it can cause troubles.
Lin Wan from the Chinese Department has a secret: she has collected postcards of northern snow scenes for three years, but has never seen real snow.
Until I bumped into Zhou Lin from the Department of Geography in the herbarium - there were frostbite scars on his wrists, like a cracked abyss in the snow.
He leaned over to pick up the "snow crystal" she knocked over, and his voice was as cold as pine needles falling on ice: "This is graupel, not snow."
On the radio late at night, she was reading her own fairy tale about the snow country, but suddenly she encountered a mountaineering club in danger and asked for help.
Amidst the roar of electricity, his command penetrated the wind and snow: "Coordinates locked, standby in place."
After the danger was resolved, only his low voice remained on the channel: "Sorry to interrupt your snow... The story is very nice."
She buried a bookmark painted with rime beside the window of Area G of the library where he usually stayed;
The next day I found an extra line of pencil coordinates on the back: 45°N, 126°E (Harbin).
He went to Changbai Mountain for scientific research and sent back a birch bark letter sealed with ice crack tape. The moment he opened it, nasturtium petals scattered like snow.
When the once-in-a-century cold wave headed south to Hangzhou, the first snow warning came along with her birthday.
She texted tremblingly: "Senior, do you want to watch the snow together?"
Three hours later, the reply lit up the screen: "Okay. But I will wait for you at 45° north latitude."
She flew to Harbin and he returned to Hangzhou.
That night when a blizzard trapped the terminal, a strange caller rang: "Turn back."
In front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his shoulders were covered with starry snow particles: "My south is here."
"You want to see the snow, I want to see you.
Ice fields and plum rains are both exciting climates. "
