I Haven't Thought of a Name Yet

[I have nothing in my pocket but a single rose, and a long, hard road lies ahead]

In the late summer of 1989, the plane tree leaves at the middle school for children of the Jiangnan Cotton Mill began to turn yellow.

At dusk, he would always swing onto his old bicycle, its bell ringing three times. Then that person would dash out of the apartment block and hop lightly onto the back. They rode along Textile Road all the way to the river, watching the white sails of the cotton boats soak up the sunset. In an old textbook, a torn sheet of homework paper held a line written in fountain pen, the ink seeping through to the other side: "Once we get into art school..."

On the first page of his sketchbook was a crescent-shaped stain of blue ink, like the cheap grape wine they had secretly tasted that year, spilled on a collar. He learned to keep a piping-hot aluminum lunchbox warm by hiding it inside an enamel mug. He learned to pretend to pick up an eraser while passing notes during morning reading. He learned to use old equipment from the factory radio station to record "Love Song 1990." Back then, he had no idea that this cassette would become the only evidence left ten years later.

Then one stormy night, flashlight beams sliced through the warehouse, and two admission letters gathered dust on the windowsill. He watched the other person crouch by the communal tap, rinsing canvas shoes as soapy bubbles streaked with blood flowed into the drain. One morning, a bicycle ticket suddenly appeared in the bottom drawer of the chest, while half a page of a farewell letter, crumpled by tears, lay beneath the pillow.

Fifteen years later, in a secondhand bookstore on Paris's Left Bank, he happened upon a photography collection published in China. On page 37 was a yellowed bicycle seat, with a dried rose resting on it.

Theme: .