The old sandalwood door of the library made a familiar "squeak" sound. Lin Xiaoman hugged the three books in his arms tightly, like holding a fragile celadon vase. The spine of the book "One Hundred Years of Solitude" at the top has a worn pale gold color, which was the paint that was rubbed off when she renewed it for the third time. The early autumn afternoon sunshine is cut into diamonds by the diamond-shaped glass windows, flowing on the dark green terrazzo floor, and the fragrance of ink floats in the air. She suddenly stopped when her canvas shoes stepped on the crack of the third floor tile - sitting on the dark green velvet sofa was a young man in a white shirt. His whole body was stuck in the intersection of light and shadow, his left hand was supporting his chin, and his right hand was turning the pages of the book. A beam of setting sun passed through the gaps between his fingers, casting amber light spots on the pages of the book. The convex curvature of the wrist bones was like the crescent moon of a jade carving. Lin Xiaoman took half a step back unconsciously, and the heel of his canvas shoe hit the brass standing lamp. The sound of metal trembling was particularly clear in the silence. The young man raised his head when he heard the sound, and his fine forehead hair was lifted by the draft, revealing a small light brown mole between his eyebrows. She recognized those eyes. When she spoke as a freshman representative at the opening ceremony, these eyes looked like obsidian dipped in a cold pool under the ceiling light in the auditorium. "Classmate?" His voice was clearer than in memory, like the freshly thawed stream behind the library. Only then did Lin Xiaoman realize that he was staring at the other person in a daze. When he hurriedly lowered his head, the book "Love in the Time of Cholera" suddenly slipped from his arms. The dark blue book jacket drew an arc in the air, but was firmly caught by slender fingers before it touched the ground. She saw the watch exposed under the other person's light gray cuffs, and the sound of the second hand beating suddenly became deafening. "Garcia Márquez." When the boy handed the book back, his fingertips inadvertently brushed against the back of her hand, "I just finished reading "A Pre-publicized Murder" yesterday." Lin Xiaoman felt a small electric current spring up from the touched skin, and the tips of his ears instantly burned. This was the first time she heard someone say the author's full name in real life. In the past, her classmates would always say "the one who wrote magical realism." She mustered up the courage to raise her eyes and found that what was spread out on the other person's lap was the original Portuguese version of "The Autumn of the Patriarch", with lavender post-it notes densely pasted on the edges of the pages. "Would you like to sit down?" The young man suddenly moved to the left, and the dark green velvet sofa made a subtle friction sound. "The sun is going to hit where you are standing." As he spoke, his Adam's apple was looming in his collar, and a thin silver chain leaked from the second button he loosened. Only then did Lin Xiaoman realize that he was standing in an area where the sun was gradually spreading, and the tips of his hair were already hot from the sun. When she sat down hesitantly, she smelled the cool cedar scent on the other person's body, mixed with the unique smell of old paper in the ancient books section of the library. The sofa was narrower than expected, and she leaned stiffly against the armrest, hearing her own accelerated heartbeat making her chest hurt. "Lu Xingye." He suddenly spoke, holding a dark blue bookmark between his slender fingers and handing it over, "Your bookmark fell off." Lin Xiaoman took the bookmark printed with an iris pattern and found that there were thin calluses on the opponent's fingertips from piano practice. She opened her mouth, but her voice was stuck in her throat. At this moment, a flock of white pigeons suddenly passed by outside the window, and the flapping sound of their wings startled the green radish hanging on the window lattice. The shadow of the hanging vines just covered half of the boy's face. "Lin... Lin Xiaoman." She finally found her voice and stroked the raised patterns on the bookmark with her fingertips. This was an eighteenth-year-old gift given to her by her mother before she died. There are still traces of tears on the iris petals that are so faint that they are almost invisible. Lu Xingye suddenly chuckled, and fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes: "Xiao Man, the cutest name among the twenty-four solar terms." When he said this, he stretched out his hand to push away the green radish vine that swept over her shoulder. The tail ring on his little finger flashed cold light, "At three o'clock tomorrow afternoon, there will be a golden rain here." Lin Xiaoman looked up blankly and saw his fingertips pointing at the century-old ginkgo tree outside the window. The golden fan-shaped leaves were rustling in the wind, and a few pieces fell on the windowsill, like stationary butterflies. When she turned around again, Lu Xingye had already stood up and left, and there was still residual warmth in the recess of the sofa. There was a note written by Zhang Moxiang on the Portuguese novel: "When the ginkgo leaves fall on the 37th floor tile, shall we discuss Marquez's reincarnation narrative? - Lu Xingye." There was a simple ginkgo leaf drawn in the corner of the note, and the vein pattern of the leaf was surprisingly similar to the iris pattern on her bookmark. Lin Xiaoman tucked the note into page 137 of "One Hundred Years of Solitude", where it was written: "The past is all false, and there is no way back in memories."
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