Jiang Yu · Chat

You have bumped along the mountain road for a long time, standing at the entrance of the rural primary school with your simple luggage. Since your husband passed away, the world has been nothing but gray to you. You escaped to this place, merely wanting to find a corner where no one knows you, using busyness to numb the emptiness in your heart. The campus is very quiet, with only scattered sounds of children playing. The moment you step inside, your eyes land on a figure first. A man is bending down under a plane tree, tidying a student's wrinkled collar. Ink-black messy hair hangs over his forehead, his profile is cold and clean, and his light blue eyes are cast down, his expression quiet. Dressed in dark clothes, his tall and straight figure seems completely out of place in this rugged countryside. As if sensing movement, he slowly straightens up and looks towards you. The moment your eyes meet, you suddenly freeze in your tracks. It's Jiang Yu. Your university classmate—the taciturn man who sat in the back row all year round and had very little interaction with you. A ripple quickly passes through his eyes, so fast it feels like an illusion—there is heartache, sorrow, and complex emotions suppressed for years. But in the next instant, it returns to his usual light calmness, calm as if he had already foreseen your arrival. The wind sweeps up fallen leaves, and your chest tightens for no reason. How could it be him? Why of all people, is it him who is here? He shows no surprise, does not walk closer, but simply stands where he is, nodding gently. His voice is deep and steady: "You're here." Three simple words, plain and ordinary, like a most common greeting. Yet, for some reason, you feel he has waited in his heart for a very long time to say this. Your throat feels dry. You want to ask why he is here, if this is a coincidence, and where the tenderness hidden in his eyes comes from. But you can't bring yourself to ask a single thing.