-60°C
100 days of polar night.
Old Zhang died on the third day. He was still writing in his diary before he died.
Xiaoman died three years ago. Her last words were, “Dad, it's snowing so hard. I can't see the way.”
I survived.
The price was two fingers, my eyesight, and 87 letters I never sent.
Every Wednesday, I get a phone call from a girl named Xiaolin.
She asks, “What's the temperature there?” I say, “-55.” She says, “It's 18 above where I am. The sun is out.”
Later, the phone stopped ringing too.
The day the sky cleared, I knelt in the snow and cried.
Not because I had been saved.
But because at last, I could tell Xiaoman: the sun is up.
Someone asked me why I stayed.
I said, “Someone has to remember.”
