When he was five, he fell out of a tree. She was three, and she blew on his knee. He said it didn’t hurt anymore. It actually hurt like hell, but he remembered that little breath for twenty-three years.
They were next-door neighbors, childhood sweethearts, and the two people everyone thought would “end up together sooner or later.” But then her parents took her to Shanghai, while he stayed in Suzhou. Three hundred kilometers, three years, and more than a hundred letters.
She waited for his letters. He studied with all his might to get into a school in her city. At the train station, she held up a crooked cardboard sign to welcome him. He made his way through the crowd to her.
The first thing she said was, “I missed you for three years.”
This is a story about waiting, finding your way to one another, and never letting go. From 1978 to 1993, from the old stone-paved alleys to bustling Shanghai, from muddy knees at five to a silver ring at twenty-three. The morning glories bloomed season after season. They lost their way and argued, but they were never truly apart.
Because some people have already decided to spend their lives with you from the day they first blew on your injury.
Do you believe it? A five-year-old’s first flutter of love can last a lifetime.
