When the seventeen-year-old Ye Ci fell in the snow in the twelfth lunar month, he was still holding in his arms the red rope bracelet he had knitted for Wen Shu - the coral beads he bought with the breakfast money he saved for half a month. There was a tassel specially left on the end of the rope, saying that "when the wind blows, it's like calling your name." The moment he pushed Wen Shu out of the alley, the bracelet slipped from his clothes and was as red as blood falling on the snow. Wen Shu fled to the south with Ye Ci's bankbook hidden under the brick. The oil from the auto repair shop soaked his fingernails black, but he could not wash away the faint red rope mark on his wrist. In the winter of the sixth year, he returned to the alley and opened a studio. On the wall hung Ye Ci's unfinished snow scene - two young men with hunched shoulders in the painting, one of whom had a vague red tassel floating on his wrist, like an unfinished thing hanging in time. The fire on Christmas Eve reflected Wen Shu's calm face. He dug out the red rope that he had been looking for for six years from the drawer, and the tassels were rubbed until they shined. When I tied it to the corner of the picture frame, snow was falling into the crack of the window and fell on the wrist of the boy in the picture, as if it was weaving the six-year gap into the red rope and continuing it into its original appearance.
Intention: The trivial connections in youth