We Heard the Same Snowfall

The winter in the county is always long, and the snow falls silently, like some unspoken thoughts. Song Zhiwei is a glimmer of light on a northern winter night, wearing old canvas shoes, holding toffee in her mouth, riding a bicycle through the dilapidated streets. She clamored to go to Beijing and see the bigger world. But in the end, she failed to leave and stayed in this small town, while I went to Beijing for her. Youth is a dream without an answer. We think the future is long, but we are separated at a fork in the road. Twelve years later, I returned to the county and found that nothing had changed here. The only thing that had changed was that we were no longer teenagers. In front of the fried skewers stall, Song Zhiwei handed me a skewer of fried chicken tenders and said with a smile: "It still tastes the same." But we all know that some things have already changed.