The Snowline Postal Route

At Que'er Mountain, above the snowline, the wind moves slowly, and so does the road.

Zhou Mingyuan took over as the village postman at twenty, keeping watch over a mail route to Grandma A Jia's home. Every month, he delivered a letter from the south to the old woman who couldn't read. Since she couldn't read, Zhou Mingyuan read it aloud to her.

The old postmaster gave him just one instruction: "Don't return it. Just say it was delayed on the way."

Only later did Zhou Mingyuan learn that the sender of those letters, Grandma A Jia's only son, had died at a construction site in the south twenty years earlier.

After that, by the light of a kerosene lamp, he copied the old money order one stroke at a time and wrote letters on behalf of a dead man. He wrote, "Mother, I'm doing well here. I eat well and sleep well. Don't worry about me," and, "I'll come back once I've saved enough money." Whenever he read the word "Mother," he paused. The old woman's eyes would light up for a moment.

Twenty years, two hundred and forty fake letters, three wooden trunks, not one letter lost.

Only when the old postmaster was on his deathbed did he reveal the secret he'd kept for fifteen years: the old woman had known the truth since the fifth year.

She pretended not to know so he could keep delivering the letters.

This wasn't a deception. It was two people burdened by hardship, holding on with all their strength to a little dignity above the snowline.