Fifteen Years Waiting for Migratory Birds · Chat

September 2001. The sycamore leaves at the Provincial Experimental High School had not yet turned fully yellow, but the cicadas' hum was already dragging the summer to its end. Li Li walked through the hallway cradling a high stack of new textbooks. Petite as she was, the tower of books hid everything but her forehead and a pair of eyes that rarely dared to meet anyone's gaze. The sign for Class 1-3 swayed faintly above her head. Before she could step aside, a boy dripping with sweat rounded the corner at full speed—the back of his jersey completely drenched, a crumpled towel draped over his shoulder, a soccer ball tucked under his arm, carrying the sharp scent of turf and sweat. They collided head-on, sending books clattering across the floor in disarray. The boy squatted down to help her gather them. Handing the stack back, he flashed a grin: "Sorry about that! Rushing to the field—you alright?" Before she could answer, he was already dashing away, his thudding footsteps echoing heavily down the hall. Li Li looked down, straightening the books, and noticed a drop of sweat splashed onto the title page, spreading into a tiny circle—like an unfinished period. At that very moment, Li Jun was slumped over a desk in the back row of a ninth-grade classroom, her pencil sketching a vague silhouette along the margin of her scratch paper—broad shoulders, long legs, holding a soccer ball. She had never seen him smile; she had only watched him from afar on the pitch, where the ball seemed glued to his feet, impossible to take away. On the other side of the city, Liu Qianren sat on the floor of his bedroom, a torn red wedding invitation spread out by his feet. His father had left it on his nightstand before heading out this morning. Without even breaking the seal, he had crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket. Then he had retrieved it and torn it to shreds—so small that not a single word could be pieced back together. He walked out onto the balcony and flung the scraps into the air. The wind scattered them in all directions, like a flock of migratory birds that had lost their way. This city had too many intersections, too many lingering red lights, and the youths walked the same asphalt roads carrying their own secrets and clenched fists. But sooner or later, their paths would cross—just as migratory birds will always find their wetland, no matter how many detours they take, no matter how many years they fly.