When one’s conscience is uneasy, the mind races with all kinds of thoughts. Under normal circumstances, if someone asked Jiang Du what “ghostwriting” meant, she would patiently explain it — after all, it was just a word, a matter of one sentence, far simpler than a math problem.

But Jiang Du’s reaction was anything but normal. She felt as though something had split her skull open — dazed and disoriented — yet like the most alert little fox, she immediately made the connection to her own online username. Some things had to be kept hidden; she would sooner die than let a single hint slip.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you look it up in a dictionary?” she said quietly. It was the middle of winter, yet her palm was slick with sweat — how embarrassing.

Yet Jiang Du’s appearance was that of a girl in full bloom — not the sort who would tell lies. Her face was written all over with innocence and purity.

Wei Qingyue’s smile grew more pronounced. He said nothing, whether he believed her or was simply too lazy to expose her, not even uttering a single “Then how did you score so high in Chinese?” Instead, he stepped toward the window and pointed out the large tree in front of the library, saying:

“It doesn’t look like a person anymore, does it?”

Jiang Du nearly leapt out of her skin. Wei Qingyue was practiced at this kind of probing game — smooth and unhurried, with the most casual tone imaginable. She played dumb:

“What?”

Wei Qingyue turned his head to look at her. She dared not meet his gaze; the moment their eyes connected, hers began to dart about, blinking rapidly, her voice barely a whisper.

The boy tilted his head, studying her with quiet curiosity, and smiled again — a smile that made one’s skin prickle. Jiang Du suddenly realized this person smiled an awful lot. She stood there, the picture of gentle propriety, not knowing whether to step forward or turn and leave, her body rigid with indecision, mentally calculating: if he stops talking to me, I’ll just go.

And indeed — Wei Qingyue said nothing more. He withdrew his gaze and leaned against the window, letting the cold wind blow over him. His hair was handsomely styled, rather long — longer than any other boy’s — and each strand seemed to carry the same quality as the person himself.

“I should be going first—” The words had barely left her mouth when Wei Qingyue had another question: “Will you be spending New Year’s alone?”

Jiang Du paused, her gaze drifting involuntarily to his face. “I’m not sure. I might go to my great-aunt’s on New Year’s Eve, or I might stay in my hometown — but after that I’ll be able to spend it with my grandparents.”

The New Year wasn’t just New Year’s Eve and the first day; it was an emotional expanse. Jiang Du tactfully emphasized that she would not be alone — she didn’t want him pitying her. Being pitied, needing someone’s sympathy — that simply wouldn’t do.

“What about your mother and father?”

The girl’s face fell for a few seconds. She rubbed her nose and said, “I don’t know. I’ve always lived with my grandparents. I’ve never met them.”

A silence settled between them.

Outside, the sky was blanketed in heavy, formless clouds — layered and dark, offering not a single ray of sunlight.

“What about you — how are you spending New Year’s?” Jiang Du decided to ask in return.

Wei Qingyue answered with complete composure: “Same as always. Throw something together to eat, play games, read a bit. Not sure if my mom will come back this year. I do have a mother and father, for the record.”

Throw something together to eat — that phrase was difficult to describe. Jiang Du guessed it meant no one would be cooking for him.

Another long silence.

She managed a thin smile: “Do you think I’m pitiful — for not having a mother and father?”

“Did I say that?” Wei Qingyue frowned. “I don’t think I conveyed that. But objectively speaking, compared to most people, yes, that’s a harder lot.”

“I’m a normal person too, you know. Have you ever seen the documentary Fortune Teller?” Jiang Du’s cheeks flushed as though she were trying to correct something.

Wei Qingyue raised an eyebrow. “Fortune telling?”

“Not the kind you find under a bridge,” Jiang Du said, then quickly shook her head. “Well — maybe in a way. It’s a documentary about a fortune teller. He can’t see, and one of his legs is disabled. His name is Li Baicheng — a rather poetic name.”

She paused here, uncertain whether Wei Qingyue actually wanted to hear more.

Wei Qingyue waited a few seconds, then looked at her with mild curiosity and smiled: “Why did you stop? I’m listening.”

“Alright then,” said Jiang Du in that unhurried way of hers, as if she were only continuing out of obligation: “The fortune teller has a group of friends who are beggars. The director asks him — these people have nothing to live for, so why do they keep on living? Do you know what he said? He was quite indignant. He said, What kind of talk is that — if you have nothing to live for, you shouldn’t be alive? That’s a heartless thing to say.“

Wei Qingyue looked at her thoughtfully, made a quiet sound of acknowledgment, and a faint smile crept back to the corner of his mouth: “You watch that kind of film?”

His expression made it clear he was surprised — he had assumed girls were busy watching romance dramas.

“It’s a wonderful film. That group of people — they all live with such fierce resilience. You can’t imagine how tattered his clothes were. He—” A sudden pang rose in Jiang Du’s chest; she pressed it down hard. She thought: I simply don’t have parents — Li Baicheng is the true hero of life. But she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud — it sounded too bookish and rather embarrassing. So she let it trail off vaguely: “After watching that film, I came to understand that some people live that way — and still fight so hard to keep living.”

Wei Qingyue kept that faint, steady smile throughout — a smile that was starting to irritate Jiang Du. She felt vaguely disgruntled. She was not the sort of person who got fired up by inspirational speeches, and she very much wanted to clarify that — but then she realized she’d already said far too much. She glanced around: “Well then, I should be going.”

Once again she wore that slightly shy, slightly stiff expression. Wei Qingyue gave a small nod: “Done talking?”

Jiang Du drew a quiet breath. She pressed her lips together and said softly, “I should be getting home.”

With that, she clutched the plastic bag of books tightly to her chest and walked away at a brisk pace — barely able to believe she had just said all of that to Wei Qingyue, all that meandering, aimless conversation. The wind stung her eyes; the cold gripped her throat — and yet the corners of her mouth curled upward, again and again, entirely beyond her control.

Winter break had begun.

This single conversation would be enough to savor for the entire holiday.

Her grandfather went to fill the sausage casings and hung them on the balcony — as every household did. The cold wind blew over them, leaving the sausages hard and dry. But steamed together with rice, a single bite yielded something fragrant and tender. Or stir-fried with fresh garlic shoots, it became an entirely different pleasure. Jiang Du followed her grandmother to the market; prices had risen in the days before the New Year, but there was no question of not stocking up.

The fish could be chosen live. Her grandmother pointed cheerfully at the fish darting around in the large basin, calling out this one, that one. The shopkeeper’s wife scooped them up swiftly, delivering several firm blows with the back of a cleaver — water splashing in all directions. Jiang Du always thought in these moments: no wonder the ancient sages said the gentleman keeps his distance from the kitchen — seeing such killing really is cruel. But fish eat mayflies, and people eat all things — it was the natural order of the world. She could only hope the fish didn’t suffer too much in the end.

“Darling, what are you thinking about?” her grandmother called to her affectionately. Jiang Du came back to herself and shook her head with a smile.

Several fish were purchased — one to be cooked fresh that day, the rest cut into pieces by her grandfather, marinated in scallions, ginger, garlic, salt, and cooking wine, and hung out on the balcony as well. By the time he was done, the balcony had taken on a wonderfully cluttered, abundant appearance.

A full table was laid out — meat and vegetables, cold dishes and hot soup. Her grandmother packed a little of everything into a lunchbox and asked Jiang Du to bring it across the hall to the elderly lady next door.

The neighbor across the way was eighty years old, living alone; her husband had passed long ago, and her only daughter was overseas. Jiang Du’s family and the old woman had been neighbors for many years. The old woman liked to keep her door slightly ajar — as though security were not much of a concern — and inside, the sound of the television never stopped.

When Jiang Du stepped in, she called out, “Grandma Weng.” The old woman was sitting quietly in the living room, leafing through a photo album. Hearing the sound, she asked by reflex: “Is that Jiang Du?”

“It’s me.” She walked over and set the food down on the dining table. “Grandmother asked me to bring this over. Please eat it while it’s still warm.”

The old woman rose quickly to thank her and, unwilling to let her leave, brought out a very pretty box — snacks her daughter had mailed from America. Jiang Du’s first instinct was to refuse, but remembering her grandmother’s words, she accepted it.

“Is your grandfather home?” The old woman looked slightly embarrassed. Jiang Du understood immediately and offered: “Is something broken at your place? I’ll send my grandfather over — he can fix anything.”

Sure enough, the bathroom faucet had broken. Jiang Du went to the hardware shop outside the complex, bought a matching replacement, and told the old woman: “Once my grandfather is back, he’ll come and swap it out for you. No need to worry.”

The old woman was effusive with gratitude, taking Jiang Du’s hands and telling her: come to my place whenever you want snacks, child; you must never stand on ceremony.

She had forgotten that Jiang Du had grown up — that she was no longer a small child who could dash unabashedly to the neighbor’s for a bite of something.

Skin dry and slack, all elasticity long gone — it lay so clearly over Jiang Du’s hands. That was the feeling of old age — undeniably real. When she turned to go, she looked back once: the old woman had settled quietly back into her seat. The television played a long, overwrought family drama, loud and clamorous.

But it was the only living presence in that room.

Jiang Du could not explain it, but that single glance filled her with an unbearable sadness. She turned back. “Grandma Weng, what were you looking at just now?”

The old woman’s eyes lit up. In that instant, it was as if some hidden mechanism had been touched — and she came alive.

And so Jiang Du stayed and listened to the old woman tell the stories of her photo album for a full half-hour. Midway through, her grandmother came looking for her; food goes cold quickly in winter. But when her grandmother saw that scene, she quietly withdrew.

On the twenty-eighth, the household remained uneventful. Around noon, her grandmother’s mobile phone rang. The moment the call connected, she glanced instinctively at Jiang Du. Jiang Du pretended not to notice and ate her meal in peace. After a while, her grandmother retreated to her own bedroom; only the low, muffled sound of a voice could be heard from within.

Her grandfather, meanwhile, was telling Jiang Du about herding cattle as a boy. His voice was thunderous — she suspected that when he spoke, half the apartment complex could hear him.

Whenever he recalled the past, every wrinkle on her grandfather’s face came alive. He told her: the young calves loved to rub up against the mother cow endlessly; and the mother cow would lick the calf over and over in return. But once the calf was sold, the mother cow would cry without stopping — tears running down her face — and everyone marveled at it. But marvel all they might, the sale had to be made.

Jiang Du poked at her rice without a word. Her grandfather told the story with great absorption, ending it with a long sigh: he himself had become an old cow, he said — nearly out of strength.

“Always going on about the same old things — who wants to hear that?” Her grandmother emerged from the bedroom complaining, rapping her grandfather’s bowl. “Eat your food.” Then she kicked him lightly under the table and muttered: “Little Fen says she won’t be coming after all — the weather is bad, heavy snow expected.”

“If she’s not coming, she’s not coming — no great matter. Every time she comes, it’s one commotion after another.” Her grandfather said the words, but his eyes drifted involuntarily toward the balcony — where the cured meats and sausages hung. Homemade is the cleanest kind — that was his favorite saying.

It was a sensitive subject. Jiang Du, very sensibly, rose from her seat: “Is there still rice in the pot? Let me go get a little more.”

She went into the kitchen and looked up — only then noticing how bare and forlorn the osmanthus tree looked outside the window.

This New Year’s Eve, she ought to have been overjoyed not to have to go to her great-aunt’s house. Was that truly how she felt?

The weather forecast proved accurate. On New Year’s Eve, heavy snow fell.

Her grandmother had wanted to bring Grandma Weng over to spend the evening with them and watch television, but Grandma Weng was unusually stubborn this time — absolutely refusing.

The snow was thick, and the whole world took on a gentle, hushed stillness. In some windows, warm light glowed and laughter gathered; in others, a single solitary figure sat alone through the vast snowy night. The Spring Festival Gala was lively on screen. Jiang Du, tired of watching, got up to use the bathroom. She pushed the window open — a gust of snow-swept wind swept in, cool and clean beyond measure.

Grandma Weng is alone, she thought.

And then — had Wei Qingyue’s mother come back?

Just past midnight, the chat group burst with New Year’s greetings, one after another. The city had banned fireworks; something of the festive spirit was missing.

At the moment the television host counted down to one, Jiang Du said it silently in her heart: Happy New Year.

Like those letters — no salutation, no signature. Only the snow outside falling without end, quietly covering the world.