On July 26th, 2007, Wei Qingyue left his homeland and boarded a plane to America. Jiang Du traveled north, heading to Beijing to seek treatment.

Going in opposite directions.

Growing further and further apart, with fewer and fewer words.

After long hesitation, Jiang Du brought the Tweety Bird she had never been able to bring herself to use. Whenever she missed Wei Qingyue, she would look at it.

In 2007, there were no high-speed trains. They took a direct express train.

The carriage was a cross-section of the world: workers filled the aisles, sitting on the floor; at the joints between carriages, large woven sacks were piled, with people sitting on top of them eating steamed buns; a small child wailed at full volume; the half-asleep barely pried open an eyelid before letting their mouths fall open again and going back to sleep.

Jiang Du found herself something to do — recording the scenes she observed on the train. She couldn’t be idle; idleness allowed the mind to wander, and wandering let fear and grief catch up and devour her.

But after only a few words, she could no longer continue. She was in too much pain.

When they arrived in Beijing, no hospital would take her in. To save money, the three of them crammed into a decrepit, damp little guesthouse. Grandfather dropped suddenly to his knees before a doctor and said: please, doctor, save this child — if you can’t save her, at least look at her. Try every last thing, even if it’s hopeless. The doctor helped him up, and said: it’s not that we’re unwilling to take her, but at this stage, treatment has no value. Take the child home. Have your local hospital manage the routine treatment. Whatever the child still wants to eat or do — try to fulfill those wishes. We advise you this way in hopes that your family does not end up losing both the patient and everything you have.

Grandfather wept until the words stopped making sense.

He begged everywhere. He no longer cared about his dignity. A person’s dignity is conditional — for the vast ordinary masses of people, at the moment when there is no other way, what is dignity worth?

In the end, one hospital agreed to take Jiang Du in. Every other day, blood was drawn. Almost as soon as chemotherapy began, her hair started falling out — in handfuls. The IV line went from her arm up to her collarbone. She stared at the fluids entering her body — flame red, peacock blue, mixing into a strange color that flowed into her.

What cannot be understood, she would stop trying to understand.

Jiang Du told Grandmother: shave my head for me. Her tears no longer came from her eyes. Grandmother wept. Jiang Du comforted her gently — the hair is falling everywhere and it’s such a mess to sweep up; look at the cleaner who comes every single morning so early, hair is the hardest thing to sweep.

After her head was shaved, Grandmother bought her a hat.

But she could no longer eat. The inside of her mouth had slowly broken down into sores.

After a month in Beijing, the doctor said: you should go home. Jiang Du was genuinely glad. She told Grandfather not to go begging the hospitals anymore. She said: I want to go home. Let’s go home.

At the end of August, while classmates were preparing to return to school, Jiang Du transferred back to the provincial hospital to manage infection control.

Zhang Xiaoqiang finding out about her illness was purely by accident.

That day, she had accompanied her mother to the oncology ward to visit a great-uncle. The atmosphere was suffocating — she was a young girl in full bloom, and there was nothing she could contribute in a ward like that. She went out to use the bathroom and ended up in a stairwell doorway to catch her breath.

The stairwells of hospitals — unlike the elevators, which were always packed — would occasionally hold someone sitting alone in tears, someone smoking quietly, someone making a hushed phone call.

Zhang Xiaoqiang heard the sound of a suppressed argument: an old man, and a woman with extraordinary beauty and bearing. She peered around the corner and saw several figures.

“You tricked me into coming here just to see her?” The woman barely contained her fury. “I will not go in and look at her for even a moment. She disgusts me. You say she’s pitiful? What about me? What about me? This is the sin you brought on yourselves. She should never have existed in this world. This is karmic retribution — do you understand? This is what retribution looks like.”

“My girl — the child is nearly gone. Can’t you take pity, even just one look, so she can see her mother’s face, just once—” The old man’s words hadn’t finished before they were cut off sharply. “Don’t use that word in front of me. You’ve gone too far — why did you do this to me? Do you know how I’ve lived these past years? I don’t want to argue with you anymore. I’ve said everything there is to say. If you want to cut ties with me over this, I have nothing more to add.”

The woman hitched her bag onto her shoulder, turned, and walked downstairs. The sharp sound of high heels faded.

And Zhang Xiaoqiang saw the face ruined by tears — aged, hollowed out. She recognized it: it was Jiang Du’s grandmother.

The old woman slid down the wall until she was sitting on the steps.

Zhang Xiaoqiang hesitated, then stepped forward and said hello — and then she learned everything.

In the hospital bed, Jiang Du drifted in and out of clarity. When Zhang Xiaoqiang came with her mother to visit, Jiang Du was wearing her hat, and her appearance had changed greatly. Zhang Xiaoqiang didn’t recognize her at first glance.

The fever wouldn’t break. There really was ice under her arms. When Zhang Xiaoqiang’s mother leaned close to say a kind word, Jiang Du’s eyes flew wide open — that feverish look, wild and unordered. Jiang Du mistook who she was looking at. She turned a smile toward Zhang Xiaoqiang’s mother, her lips pulling, and she thought:

My mother has come to see me.

My mother has come to see me.

She was so happy. Jiang Du suddenly braced herself and half sat up, the IV line moving with her. She gripped the woman’s arm, staring straight at her — this is what mother looks like, just as she had imagined, so beautiful, so young, achingly familiar.

Her lips moved. Two burning words occupied her entire mind, rolling and churning in great waves through her brain, and though they traveled all that way, they could not, in the end, pass through those two thin lips. I can’t make her sad, she thought. Just looking at her is enough. This is enough.

How could anything be this wonderful?

She kept her eyes wide open, smiling at Zhang Xiaoqiang’s mother — gentle and fervent, not a single word spoken, her gaze one of pure devotion.

Zhang Xiaoqiang could not bear to watch. She turned and ran out, covering her face as she wept.

When her mother came out, she asked through her tears: Mum, did you recognize Jiang Du? You met her at my birthday party — I’ve mentioned her to you.

Her mother’s eyes were red. I recognized her.

She’s going to die, Mum. I didn’t see her for just one summer. I thought she had transferred to Third High School. She always replied to my messages saying she was fine. How can she already be dying?

Zhang Xiaoqiang kept crying. Her mother held her and stroked her head, saying quietly: come see Jiang Du as often as you can.

The first week of school was hectic.

When she came again, Jiang Du had already left the hospital and gone home. Zhang Xiaoqiang had thought about telling the teachers and classmates — what they could do was donate money — but the two elders had gently refused. Jiang Du didn’t want anyone to know she was sick.

Zhang Xiaoqiang found her way to the apartment.

Grandmother opened the door — she had aged even more, aged to the utmost degree, but when facing a visitor she still made every effort to observe courtesy. She said with delight: you’ve come to see Jiang Du? Come in, come in.

The home was somewhat untidy. It had once been immaculate.

Jiang Du’s grandfather has gone to buy groceries — don’t leave at noon, stay for lunch. Grandmother bent slowly and retrieved a pair of guest slippers for her.

Zhang Xiaoqiang told herself not to cry. She had brought some tangerines; her bag held a set of notes.

Jiang Du was sitting by the window looking at the osmanthus tree. The blossoms were nearly open. When she heard the knock, she turned and saw Zhang Xiaoqiang. That face, pale as ash, broke into a smile.

“Class Representative — the last time you came to see me, I was so feverish I can’t remember a thing. Grandmother had to tell me afterward.” Jiang Du still used the old title — before the class tracks were divided, Zhang Xiaoqiang had been their study representative.

Zhang Xiaoqiang smiled, showing her signature dimples and neat white teeth. “You look so much better today. And don’t worry — Grandmother told me not to say a word to anyone, and I haven’t said a word to anyone.”

She took out the notes and set them quietly on the desk. “I borrowed these from Zhu Yulong to copy for you. I told her Jiang Du transferred to Third High School and felt embarrassed to ask you directly — you know her, always the shy one — so she asked me to do it. And honestly, Zhu Yulong may seem cool on the outside, but she’s quite warm-hearted — she came along with me to make the copies right away.”

Zhang Xiaoqiang kept talking, her tone light and cheerful.

Jiang Du’s voice was even more spent than her complexion. She had very little strength. She only smiled, a very faint, shallow smile: “You’re all so good to me. When I get better, can I treat you both to KFC?”

Zhang Xiaoqiang’s heart gave a quiet shudder. She forced her face up into a bright expression: “Of course you will — when you’re better, you’ll have to thank us properly. I’ll help you catch up on everything you’ve missed. Zhu Yulong too — she placed third in your class at finals.”

“Zhu Yulong does so well in school,” Jiang Du murmured. She drifted for a moment, then suddenly smiled again. “Class Representative — I saw my mother. She came to visit me.”

Zhang Xiaoqiang jolted. Tears almost burst from her eyes without warning. She held them back with everything she had, and immediately asked: “Really? You’re so pretty — your mother must be absolutely beautiful too, isn’t she?”

“She is — she’s so much more beautiful than me.” Jiang Du said, content and satisfied. “She’s busy with work and couldn’t stay. Grandmother says when she has holiday she’ll come again.”

Whether Jiang Du was saying these things to Zhang Xiaoqiang or to herself, she didn’t quite know.

“Yes — adults are always so busy with work.” Zhang Xiaoqiang didn’t know what to say, and began peeling the tangerines for Jiang Du. Jiang Du couldn’t really eat them, but she pinched off one segment anyway. Her mouth was full of sores — any contact with sourness or sweetness was painful. Jiang Du chewed very, very slowly. She said softly: “The tangerines you bought are so sweet. You’re so good at picking things — my grandmother is always buying tangerines that turn out disappointing.”

The air carried the fresh scent of tangerine.

Zhang Xiaoqiang held the peel in her hands and hesitated for a long time before finally saying: “Jiang Du — can I tell Wei Qingyue that you’re sick?”

Jiang Du went suddenly still.

Her tears fell in an instant. She had held them back for a very long time — through Beijing, through the agony of chemotherapy, she had felt terrible regret about biting through the hospital pillowcases during the worst of it, but she had never cried for the pain itself, not even when she lost consciousness.

But when this name — his name — was spoken aloud and reached her ears, she could hold on no longer.

The room was quiet. Two young girls sat facing each other without a word, in a silence that stretched on and on, while the scent of tangerine filled all the space between them.

Jiang Du finally shook her head, gently. Her tears, like an inexhaustible river, flooded silently across her face.

“Don’t tell Wei Qingyue. When I’m better — next summer, let’s all go to America together to visit him?”

No one else knew how difficult it had been for him to leave. Jiang Du knew. He had only just set out. Under no circumstances could he turn back now.

Zhang Xiaoqiang sat with her head lowered, picking at the tangerine peel again and again. “When he left, he was very worried about you. He asked me to help you if you ever ran into difficulties. I have to keep my word — and now you’re sick. I should tell him.”

She put down the peel and turned to take an old mobile phone from her bag. She logged into her messaging account and pulled up a chat history.

“I am on the verge of going abroad. My only worry is Jiang Du. As we have been classmates for some years, there are certain things I need not conceal from you — perhaps you have already perceived something. After I leave, I ask you, when time permits, to talk with Jiang Du, keep her company. If she encounters any difficulty, please lend her a hand, so that she does not feel too alone. Once I am in America, I will send you my contact details. Let us stay in touch. The above — for now, known only to you. Please tell no one. Thank you.”

A message from June. The Wei Qingyue of that June.

The world had completely changed since then. She had no more chance to be alive.

Jiang Du looked at the phone. She saw his face, his hair, the way he smiled. Wei Qingyue, my blessing over you will never change. You are the person I love most in all the world. She raised her face in that hazy world, eyes soft with a faint smile, and told Zhang Xiaoqiang:

“He said we are friends. He is such a good person. I will get better too — definitely. I will definitely get better.”

She would live. She would live to see him again.

For a moment Jiang Du felt almost as though the illness had already been defeated. Everything became unreal. This thing — being sick — hadn’t actually happened. She was perfectly fine. To prove she was fine, at noon when she ate with Zhang Xiaoqiang, she bore the pain in her mouth and forced food into herself.

When she was small and fell ill, Grandmother always used to say: as long as there’s food in the belly, it’s not so serious.

The will to live had always been there, burning in her — but now it was more intense, more intense than could be borne. It was as though life, from this moment on, had truly begun. She had never, not for a single moment, felt as certain as she did now that she would recover.

She wanted now only one path: to regain her health. And at the same time she knew clearly that Wei Qingyue, in America, was slowly building his life — his road would open outward to all directions, and he would have a good life. She believed this with the same steadiness with which she believed she herself would get better.

The days were long. There was nothing to fear.

Jiang Du began to write letters in a state of high, almost incandescent alertness. She started writing to him again.

She wanted to preserve her feelings for him with precision — this was the most important thing she could do. She gave it her whole attention, day and night, her mind full of nothing but the letters.

As long as her pen moved, she felt herself together with Wei Qingyue.

But every second day, Jiang Du would feel dissatisfied with what she had written the day before. It wasn’t good enough. She would burn the letter and start a new one.

The scent of osmanthus grew richer and heavier. A moon climbed the sky, as though a cool toad had settled inside it.

Jiang Du’s spirits were remarkably good.

Grandfather and Grandmother thought that perhaps a miracle was about to happen.

Sometimes she slept beside Grandmother, curled in the old woman’s arms, listening to stories from her childhood. Sometimes she sat in her wheelchair and Grandfather pushed her out for a walk.

She insisted on not going back to Mei Middle School — as though going there would be a final farewell. She was waiting: waiting until she was well again to go back. She didn’t want to go to Third High School anymore — it didn’t matter so much. She would return to Mei Middle School and study there again, and be with her dear teachers and classmates.

She would wait for Wei Qingyue again at Mei Middle School. Jiang Du became filled with boundless joy.

I will live until the Mid-Autumn Festival. Then to the National Day holiday. Then to the solar new year. Then through to the lunar new year. Jiang Du circled one holiday after another on the calendar.

Aside from studying, she wrote letters. Time was never enough, because her body was still enduring pain of every kind. To reward herself, she allowed herself to read two or three pages of Shucheng magazine each day.

The 25th was Mid-Autumn Festival. She had made it.

The moon was large and full. Jiang Du opened the window. She knew every scent of this air — the cool of autumn, the fragrance of osmanthus, the clarity of moonlight.

She ate moon cakes and watched the Mid-Autumn Festival program, and told Grandfather and Grandmother that she felt especially well today. She really did look especially well.

On her desk, the lamp was turned on. Grandmother knocked on the door and asked whether she wanted to sleep with her that night. Jiang Du smiled and shook her head. She said she wanted to sleep on her own tonight.

Grandmother saw the paper and pen on the desk. “Sweetheart, don’t stay up too late — we’ll all be in the sitting room.”

Since Jiang Du had come home, the two elders had been sleeping in the sitting room — it was open and spacious, without a door, and they could check on her with ease from there.

Jiang Du said: alright, I won’t stay up late. I’ll go to bed early.

She began to write to him again.

To you, with good wishes upon opening.

Today is Mid-Autumn Festival. I don’t know whether you can see a full moon where you are. Here the sky is clear and bright — not a wisp of cloud during the day, the sky so high and vast, the blue so clear and wide. Actually I spent the whole day quietly anxious, afraid the weather would change in the afternoon and we wouldn’t be able to see the moon tonight. When dusk came and the evening glow caught fire, I knew tonight’s moon was safe.

Zhang Jiuling’s poem is truly beautiful: The bright moon rises above the sea; at this moment, we share it though worlds apart. Every Mid-Autumn, I think of these two lines and feel how fine they are. Will you celebrate Mid-Autumn with your mother in America? I hope you’ll be with her. I forgot to tell you some good news — my mother came to see me a little while ago. It’s a shame that my mind was a bit unclear at the time (a cold with fever), and I can only remember that her eyes were especially bright and gentle. She didn’t come back for Mid-Autumn Festival — but I think I’ll likely see her at the New Year, and I hope we both have the chance to spend the holiday with our mothers.

There’s a reason I haven’t been in touch.

There’s also a bit of selfishness on my part — I prefer writing letters. You can laugh at me for being old-fashioned. I like writing letters.

Please forgive me for a while. When we meet, I’ll explain the reason.

There’s something I think I should tell you. When Zhang Xiaoqiang came to see me the other day, I badgered her into showing me whether you two have been in frequent contact, and happened to come across the message you left her in June. Thank you for thinking of me so much. You said we are friends — I didn’t know before that a person could give so much for a friend. I treasure the friendship between us very much. After all, though you never quite stood up for me through thick and thin (just a small joke), you were seriously hurt because of something to do with me. On that note, I don’t know whether you’ve recovered fully yet — you must take good care of yourself. Also, I know you are a loyal and warm-hearted friend, but I hope that in the future you won’t take risks like that again. Nothing matters more than your health. You must be well. You must take care of yourself. You must.

You won’t stay away forever, will you? What I mean is — at the New Year, for example, would you come back once? If you do, would you come to Mei Middle School to see old classmates? You like eating Grandfather’s cooking, don’t you? If you’re spending New Year on your own and have nowhere particular to be — come to our home. Grandfather will make a whole table of dishes. Whatever you like to eat — don’t be shy, just say so, Grandfather can make anything. After eating, you can watch the Spring Festival Gala with us. Actually, I could also ask Grandfather to drive us back to the hometown — because there you can set off firecrackers, loud and festive, crackling away. There’s a kind of firecracker that doesn’t make too much noise — it’s like molten iron flowers, and small children love to swing them around in circles. It looks like exploding golden meteor showers. Very beautiful — you might have played with them as a child. Back home you can also see huge, bright stars — cold and brilliant — and every time anyone speaks, a puff of white breath rises into the air, drifting upward like the steam from a small lantern. No — sky lanterns are for the Lantern Festival, aren’t they? Do you know how to make a sky lantern? We could release one together. Releasing it at New Year would be perfectly fine.

I hope you won’t think I’m being childishly naive — it’s just that when I think about the New Year right now, I feel so happy I can’t stop talking. Once the New Year passes, spring comes, and that will be 2008.

I haven’t been abroad. When you come back, please tell me all about what it’s like there — the weather, what people eat, how students attend class and what they study. I want to know everything.

The moon outside is so brilliant. Are you looking at it? If you’re in the middle of something, take a rest — come to the window and look at the moon. I believe that all the teachers and classmates at Mei Middle School can see the full moon of Mid-Autumn Festival at this very moment. Look — we can all see this same clear light. And if you feel homesick, come and look at the moon too. That way, you’ll be here with us.

You are now studying far abroad, and there will surely be much that is difficult and troubling. If you feel bad, go ahead and cry quietly — no one has ever said that boys aren’t allowed to cry. Or you can tell me when we see each other. I will be your best listener. You don’t need to worry that I’ll think you weak or fragile — a person doesn’t need to be strong every single moment. I can understand you. Trust me. I will try my very best to understand you, because we are good friends.

I look forward to seeing you again. I will keep waiting for you. Finally — wishing you a happy Mid-Autumn Festival, and good health.

The letter was finished. To the very end, she kept her love concealed beneath the word friendship.

She sat quietly for a while, thinking back on the last time they had seen each other. If she had known, she would have said a proper goodbye.

When the letter was folded, she placed it in the candy tin. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll feel it wasn’t written well enough, Jiang Du thought.

Then I’ll write again tomorrow.

She touched her beloved candy tin, took out the Tweety Bird, and went to bed. The Tweety Bird pressed against her warm chest. Jiang Du said goodnight, Wei Qingyue to the moon outside the window, and lay gently down.

The night was cool as water. The moonlight was clear as frost.

She had a long, long dream. She dreamed that Wei Qingyue came back — he had grown taller, and he laughed at her with mischief in his eyes and said: I know you’ve been waiting for me. She laughed too, and asked: then will you come with me to the hometown for the New Year? And they really did go — they pushed open a door, and inside sat Grandfather, Grandmother, and Mother.

After that, fragrant rain began to drift from the sky. I’m so cold, she said, colder and colder — and she returned to the longed-for warmth of a mother’s body, ancient memory awakening. In the dark, still, gentle darkness, she closed her small hand tightly. In her hand was a Tweety Bird — dear and small. Here was warm enough. Here was safe enough. She could go to sleep without worry.

The dream ended inside the dream. She did not wake again.

In the cabinet at her desk, a stack of Shucheng magazines lay with the last issue at the bottom. Inside that issue, pressed between the pages, was a thin, folded letter. No one had ever read it. It had never been known.

The sun rose as it always had on September 26th. The world went on as it always had.