Boiling Snow on an Empty Mountain, Living up to the Rest of Your Life

On that day when the mountain was closed by heavy snow, the plum blossoms in Kongshan Villa bloomed. The red calyx reflects the snow, and the cold fragrance penetrates the bones. As usual, I swept away the snow on the stone steps, lit the charcoal stove, and waited for the pot of water to boil slowly. Ten years. Every winter is spent like this - clearing the snow, making tea, writing posts, and waiting for someone to come through the snow. I didn't look up when the courtyard door was pushed open. The footsteps trampled on the broken snow, from far to near, carrying the unique crisp breath of winter. The visitor gently placed the things on the porch. They were a bag of new tea and several rolls of rice paper. The corners of the paper were still stained with dust from the mountain. "The snow this year is heavier than in previous years," he said. The voice is as gentle as jade, neither urgent nor slow, like the only unchanging scenery in this empty mountain years. I looked up at him. Shen Yanzhou was dressed in white, standing in the snow. He has elegant features and a calm demeanor. Ten years of time seems to have left no trace on him - except for the occasional undercurrent that I have never understood in the depths of his eyes. "You've spent money again." I poured him a cup of hot tea. "The rice paper from last time hasn't been used up yet." He took the tea cup and smiled slightly: "Your post is the most paper-consuming, so it's always good to prepare more." This is a very common conversation between us. It's so ordinary that I never thought that such an ordinary day hides such an unusual secret.