At twenty-two, Jiang Nianxue opened the door to an art studio.
Moonlight fell through the skylight and settled across a man’s back. He was painting snow, and had been doing so for twenty years. She stood in the doorway, her heart missing a beat.
She thought this was where their story began.
Only later did she learn that it had begun when she was twelve.
Shen Shiyan, thirty-eight, was an art academy professor who had spent his whole life painting snow. Gentle and reserved, he always kept himself apart from the crowd. She pursued him; he retreated. She drew near; he evaded her. She thought she was the hunter, only to discover that the hunter had fallen into the trap twenty years ago.
He had remembered her face ever since he saw the photograph of her at eight.
He had promised her father he would look after her, and kept that promise for fourteen years. He had painted snowy wilderness for twenty years, and every painting held a window. Her father had once said, “Where there’s a window, there’s someone waiting.”
She pursued him to Changbai Mountain, to Milan, and finally to a place where he had nowhere left to hide. Kneeling in the snow, he asked her, “I’m not good enough for you. Will you still chase me?”
She looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed, but the corners of her mouth curled into a smile.
“Whether you’re good enough is up to me.”
