In the autumn of 1995, he went to the south.
A small house on the sixth floor without an elevator, jasmine on the windowsill, two red and blue enamel cups, the moon of the Mid-Autumn Festival, and the floor on a rainy night. Those were the best days of his life, and hers too.
They agreed to stay together.
Later, he returned to the north and she stayed in the south to study. Eight hundred kilometers apart, the two wrote letter after letter. He doesn't talk about suffering, and she doesn't talk about thinking.
In the spring of 1998, he went on a business trip to see her. After she graduated half a year later, he wrote a letter saying: The transfer order has been issued and will arrive next Wednesday. Not leaving this time.
She went to the station to pick him up. All the people at the exit of the station were gone, and he didn't come.
She waited until dark.
That summer, he failed to come.
She later got married and had a daughter. She put the train ticket into the iron box and never opened it again.
What she didn't know was that he was always there.
Standing out of sight, watching her get married, watch her give birth to a daughter, watch her grow old.
He never left again.
Intention: The evening wind is still blowing. It's not that he can't come, it's that some love is not meant to arrive. It just blew, blowing past Jasmine on the windowsill, blowing past her fifty-three-year-old back, and kept blowing.