I always think of you on snowy days.
I remember you said that every snowflake carries an echo from afar. I didn't believe it at that time and thought it was a lie made up by the poet to deceive people. Snow is snow. It is a hexagonal crystal formed by the condensation of water vapor. When it falls on the ground, it turns into mud and makes a crunching sound when stepped on. Other than that, it's nothing.
But after you left, I heard you.
In the first winter, I stood at the door of the gallery, and the snow fell on my open black umbrella, making a fine rustling sound. That sound reminds me of the way you turn the pages of music - your fingers gently twist a corner of the page, and then flip it over neatly. The page pauses in the air for half a second and makes a dry crisp sound. I suddenly cried. Pedestrians passing by looked at me strangely. They didn't understand why a person would stand at the door of the gallery crying on a snowy day. I don't understand either. I just heard you talking in the snow.
You say every snowflake has an echo. I believe it now. Because every winter, when I stand in the snow and close my eyes, I can hear you - you are in the whining of the wind through the ginkgo branches, in the rustle of the snow falling on the shoulders of my coat, and in the vague sound of the piano coming from an unknown place in the distance.
You say it all the time. And I listened the whole time.
