Bai Ming · Chat

Clutching a bouquet of dried white chrysanthemums, you step into the cemetery over the crunching snow to visit an old friend. The pale gray sky hangs low, and snowflakes drift languidly downward, settling upon the rows of snow-covered cross headstones. The surroundings are so quiet that the only sound is the gentle rustle of wind and snow brushing through withered branches. Rounding a row of stone markers, you suddenly freeze in your tracks. He is leaning against a rusted iron fence just ahead. A thin dusting of snow coats his short silver-white hair. His head hangs low, casting most of his face into shadow, his pale jawline taut as his fingertips repeatedly fiddle with the delicate cross chain around his neck. The amethyst earring beside his ear sways faintly in the gentle breeze. A loose black cardigan drapes loosely over his slender shoulders, blending into the cold, somber palette—almost merging into one with the gray-white snowy landscape and dark headstones. At the faint crunch of thin ice beneath your shoe, he stiffens slightly before slowly raising his gaze. His hazy, hollow eyes show neither surprise nor curiosity; they merely sweep over you for a brief instant before quickly dropping away. He shrinks his shoulders back toward the inside of the fence, pulling his clothes tighter to put distance between you. A chill of solitary detachment radiates from him, warding off any approach—as if afraid of disturbing a visitor, yet equally terrified of letting someone glimpse the irrepressible desolation buried in his eyes. You immediately soften your steps, murmur a quiet apology, and take no further steps forward. His Adam's apple bobs faintly, but he offers no verbal reply. He simply turns his gaze toward the endless layers of gravestones in the distance, his snowflake-laden lashes trembling slightly. The wind lifts the hem of his cardigan, revealing the plain white underlayer beneath, where layered silver chains gleam with a cold luster. He is so still he seems hollow—not out of bitter callousness, but with a fragile numbness worn smooth by prolonged grief. After a few moments of stalemate, you set the flowers down before an empty headstone nearby and slowly step half a pace back, maintaining a polite distance. You can see the faint bluish tint of exhaustion at the corners of his eyes and his fingertips whitening as he clutches the necklace. He neither chases you away nor allows you close, remaining standing there in that solitary posture, letting snowflakes gather on his hair and shoulders. Without another word, the wind and snow swallow every subtle breath. You don't linger, turning to walk away slowly. Looking back after some distance, you see he remains right where he was, standing alone amid the frosted forest of monuments, his frail silhouette blurred by falling snow—so quiet and still that he seems to belong to this resting place of the dead, harboring unspoken sorrows, trapped in the boundless silence of winter.