The year Jiang Du died, she was sixteen. She would not grow up. She would not grow old. The world would accelerate forward, and none of it would have anything to do with her.

Outside the window, the osmanthus was in full, heavy bloom.

Li Suhua — Wang Jingjing’s mother — helped handle the arrangements afterward. It was only then that Wang Jingjing learned Jiang Du had passed away from her illness. She stood in stunned disbelief for a long moment, unable to take it in — then broke down into heaving, uncontrollable sobs. I’m sorry she repeated to herself again and again. The subtle tension between the two girls dissolved, like spring floodwater receding, along with death.

She handed over Wei Qingyue’s one and only reply letter — still in its envelope — weeping, to the two elders. She told them it was something of Jiang Du’s, which she had been keeping for her all this time.

There were not many belongings: clothing and shoes, school things, small trinkets. Two large boxes were enough to hold everything.

Li Suhua was also crying. Why didn’t you tell us sooner? None of us got to see the child one last time. Grandmother shook her head. If she cried any more, her eyes would give out. She took Wang Jingjing’s hands and said: child, please don’t say anything to the teachers or classmates. Now that she’s gone, I’m afraid people will start talking behind her back about who knows what. Let her rest in peace.

Wang Jingjing couldn’t speak. She just kept nodding.

According to Jiang Du’s last wishes, half of her ashes would be interred at the city cemetery, and half would be taken back to the hometown. She couldn’t bear to leave Mei Middle School, and she couldn’t bear to leave Grandfather and Grandmother — while the two elders, when their time came, planned to return to their roots and rest forever in their native soil.

“Grandmother — if, just if, if I ever really don’t make it — split me in two. I want to be with my teachers and classmates, and I want to be with you and Grandfather forever.”

That was what she whispered into the old woman’s ear the last time they slept together. She didn’t forget to remind Grandmother: “I also made a promise to Lin Haiyang from the old Class Two — he wanted a charm pouch. When you go to the temple at the New Year to burn incense, please ask for a charm pouch for Lin Haiyang. I promised him.”

Grandmother’s tears wouldn’t stop. “Foolish child — your classmate has probably long forgotten.”

Jiang Du smiled faintly. “But I haven’t.”

Her plans at that time had reached far ahead. When the New Year came, she would go with Grandmother to the temple, light a peace lantern, and secretly write Wei Qingyue’s name on it — without letting anyone know.

There was no New Year. There was nothing.

The neighbor from across the hall, old Grandmother Weng, stayed with Grandmother and wept alongside her. Together, they escorted Jiang Du to the funeral home, silent tears all the way.

She had been simply dressed — wrapped in burial clothes, her expression peaceful, the area above her brow already slightly changed in color, somewhat like eyebrow pencil drawn on. The handful of people present gathered around her remains to say goodbye. Wang Jingjing didn’t dare look. She held tightly to a corner of Li Suhua’s clothing the entire time.

When the moment came to slide her into the furnace, Grandmother suddenly erupted in a heart-tearing cry: “My darling — my darling — my darling —” One cry after another. She threw herself forward, trying to stop the workers from touching Jiang Du. Grandfather held her back, saying over and over: what are you doing, what are you doing, don’t do this — while the corners of his own mouth twitched without stopping.

Grandmother pressed her face against Jiang Du’s face in a final kiss. Why isn’t it me? she said. Why isn’t it me?

Afterward, Li Suhua, Grandfather, and old Grandmother Weng helped her out. Wang Jingjing looked on, her expression blank with grief. She turned back and glanced one last time at Jiang Du lying there — and then Jiang Du was pushed into the furnace. Wang Jingjing suddenly felt a cold shudder move through her: how it must have hurt.

She stood outside with the adults, watching the smoke rise white from the chimney.

Is that Jiang Du? Wang Jingjing thought in a daze. Even now, she didn’t know what death truly was.

In the end, they received two urns — the ashes divided separately. Jiang Du was gone. She had never grown up; her bones hadn’t finished forming — when cremated, the ashes were few. Grandmother wrapped both urns in red cloth. She held one. Grandfather held one.

Grandmother held her close, and said: there now. Let’s go home.

After the cremation, Grandmother received a call at home from Zhang Xiaoqiang, who wanted to come and see Jiang Du. Grandmother said: good child, truly thank you — but you don’t need to come and see Jiang Du anymore.

Zhang Xiaoqiang had not been there to see her one last time. When she arrived, Jiang Du had already moved into her urn. She had always known this day would come — and still she couldn’t believe it. Jiang Du had tried so hard. She had wanted so desperately to live — forcing herself to eat, forcing herself to keep up her studies, always saying I will definitely get better.

She had said to Zhang Xiaoqiang: if I’m not here anymore, please don’t tell Wei Qingyue. He is a good friend to all of us. I don’t want him to grieve for me. Zhang Xiaoqiang’s heart ached with a deep and piercing sadness. She said: Jiang Du, can you really not see it? Wei Qingyue likes you — the way he is with you is different from how he is with the rest of us. How can you not see? This isn’t just about being good friends. Jiang Du smiled — shy, and pale — and pressed her lips together with mild embarrassment, saying: I don’t know really — we’re just good friends, him and me. And you, Class Representative. We’re all good friends. Then she sighed, a long quiet sigh, and said: I had a little falling-out with Wang Jingjing. I hope she’s not still upset with me. Zhang Xiaoqiang reassured her gently: Wang Jingjing has definitely forgiven you long since — it’s just that since the class split you don’t see each other as often, that’s all. Don’t think too much about it. I won’t say anything to Wei Qingyue — because you’re going to get better, and when you do, we’ll all go sing karaoke together! We’ll bring Lin Haiyang too — he’s a mic hog, we’ll all go together!

They talked for a long, long time, and were very happy.

The soft glow of sunset fell gently on the girls’ faces.

Jiang Du’s belongings — the candy tin was left untouched, and sent back to the hometown with the urns and her textbooks to be buried with the casket. No one knew there was an unsent letter inside. The two girls suggested to Grandmother that Jiang Du’s outside-reading books not be burned: she had treasured them most, and perhaps the two of them could each keep some, as a remembrance.

And so: those issues of Shucheng magazine — Wang Jingjing was the first to ask for them. She knew it was Jiang Du’s favorite publication. Zhang Xiaoqiang, searching through the pile of books, found an old-envelope-colored diary. She asked: Grandmother, may I have this?

Reading someone else’s diary is a wrong thing to do. They would never again be able to ask Jiang Du for permission. While Li Suhua and Grandfather spoke about Jiang Du’s illness, the two girls paid little attention to the conversation about how Classroom 1 and the dormitory had been repainted and renovated during summer break in 2006 — they could only vaguely recall that when they moved back in, everyone said the dormitory looked quite new.

They sat in silence, catching a sentence of the adults’ conversation here and there.

Wang Jingjing was the first to speak: “If this is Jiang Du’s diary, neither of us should read it.”

“I know. Jiang Du’s matters — we don’t speak of them to anyone. And this diary —” Zhang Xiaoqiang rubbed her swollen, aching eyes — “I’ll keep it always. The secrets inside — since they belong to Jiang Du, they will belong to her forever.”

This was not the last time they gathered to speak of Jiang Du. After the university entrance exams, Lin Haiyang invited Zhang Xiaoqiang out for a meal, and in what seemed like an offhand remark mentioned: Jiang Du hasn’t been in touch since she transferred to Third High School — should we invite her along? Can you reach her?

Zhang Xiaoqiang fell apart at that moment. It was the evening of July 8th, 2009. Jubilant post-exam students were everywhere, unsupervised and celebrating freely. By then the two elders had already moved, and no one knew where they had gone.

She stopped concealing the truth. She said: do you know — Jiang Du has actually been gone for almost two years. She’s not here anymore. Lin Haiyang, I know you had feelings for Jiang Du, I always knew — running back to get her scarf, always trying to get her attention, I saw it all. But Jiang Du has been gone from us for a very long time. You didn’t know, did you? Now you know. She suffered terribly at the end. You want to know what she looked like? Her hair was all gone. In the end she had to have pethidine. Do you know what pethidine is? It means her illness caused so much pain at the end — every second of every minute was pain — that she needed pethidine to manage it. You didn’t know that either. I wish I didn’t know it either. I wish I had never had occasion to learn any of this.

She was crying so hard her nose ran. Lin Haiyang wept alongside her, and said: how is that possible? Wang Jingjing passed along a charm pouch for me, and said it was something Jiang Du had promised to get for me.

The exams were over. Neither of them felt any happiness at all.

Afterward, everyone went their separate ways. Jiang Du became a person who lived only in memory.

Zhang Xiaoqiang had always believed she had successfully concealed the truth from Wei Qingyue. Every lie she had maintained began with Jiang Du’s words — only when she said this is what Jiang Du wanted would the Wei Qingyue on the other end of the line accept it. She had woven her lies alone, like weaving a shroud. Until Wei Qingyue returned to China for good in 2015 — she couldn’t sustain it anymore, and she also felt that things needed to be brought to some kind of resolution. So much time had passed; time would have blunted, at least to some degree, the shadow of death.

She told him the truth: that Jiang Du had, in fact, died long ago.

Wei Qingyue was calmer than she had expected. He said: I understand. No tears. No further questions. Just three words: I understand.

Zhang Xiaoqiang had braced herself for him to be unable to bear it. Instead she found herself almost disturbed by what looked like indifference.

Not long after, she received his phone call in the middle of the night. The moment it connected, she was met with a torrent of abuse from a man — calling her a petty, small-hearted person, accusing her of sabotaging everything, of orchestrating years of silence between them, saying he had completely misjudged her, that she was vicious, that she was lying to him now, telling him Jiang Du was dead. He forced her to say Jiang Du was not dead. Zhang Xiaoqiang wept without sound and did not defend herself with a single word.

When she saw him again, Wei Qingyue was perfectly composed — as though he had completely forgotten the night he had screamed at her. He only said he was thinking of buying a property; he had earned a sum of money in America and wanted to secure the apartment first. He asked her what kind of dressing table to get, whether she had any reference opinions, and based on what she knew of Jiang Du, what style Jiang Du might have preferred. He said this with an easy expression and a quiet smile — his customary composure and self-assurance intact — and at the end, couldn’t resist a self-deprecating remark: I’m not really very good at understanding what girls think, and I hope you can help me with that.

It was at this point that Zhang Xiaoqiang began to dimly suspect that something had gone wrong with Wei Qingyue. He really was ill. Only, he had been ill for much longer than she had known.

In the summer of 2009, Wei Qingyue returned to China. The night before he arrived, he had a dream of Jiang Du. He came to Mei Middle School and of course didn’t find her there — then went directly to the housing complex where she had lived. Two years had passed, but he could still find the apartment on the first try. The place was empty. Even the neighbor across the hall had changed. Wei Qingyue remembered that directly opposite her door had lived an old woman who lived alone.

He asked everywhere. The security guard had been replaced. Only the old men who used to play chess with her grandfather were still there.

A group of old men shook their heads and sighed at him.

They told him: Old Jiang’s granddaughter is gone. They moved away — must be about a year and a half ago?

They told him: Old Jiang’s granddaughter was just a girl, only in her teens. The chemotherapy made all her hair fall out. She used to walk around this area wearing a little hat. Such a pretty girl. By the end, the illness had ravaged her. Such a pity.

Wei Qingyue’s illness began at that moment — cognitive dissonance, depersonalization.

The world, to him, was as though seen through frosted glass.

He moved through the frosted glass and did what needed to be done — studied, worked — appearing no different from a normal person. Whenever alone, he passed back through the frosted glass to this side, and from behind it regarded the world from afar.

But he chose, still, to go on believing Zhang Xiaoqiang’s words. He trusted Zhang Xiaoqiang. If he couldn’t trust her, he didn’t know what he would do.

He existed inside a fractured context, his world of thought coming apart at the seams.

There were no signs of improvement. Zhang Xiaoqiang watched him get worse and worse. Once, when he came to tour the automotive company and she was hosting him, he wandered off mentally for a moment and got his hand caught in the car door when he was getting in — a heavy blow. She saw his brow crease in an instant and rushed over anxiously: that must hurt badly — do you need to go to the hospital for an X-ray?

Wei Qingyue didn’t make a sound. The muscles at his jaw clenched faintly with pain. He stood there frowning — and then, incredibly, looked up and told her with a smile: that was good. I’d like to do it again.

He was completely serious.

Zhang Xiaoqiang said: are you out of your mind? Wei Qingyue suddenly said: was she in pain like that too? Every second, every moment, pain like that?

Zhang Xiaoqiang knew immediately who he meant. Before she could find any response, the topic had been started and ended by him alone.

She tried to coax him into seeing a therapist. He only slept.

He became fond of making educational videos — he had many followers, and gradually some people called him an internet personality. The interview Huang Yingshi conducted with him — she had watched it. Huang Yingshi asked him how he defined himself, and he had that look again: a smile on his face, and you couldn’t tell whether he was being sincere or joking.

He said: me? I think I’m a waste of a human being.

Huang Yingshi’s expression was visibly startled for a few seconds before she smoothed it over and said: if you’re a waste, no one our age has any hope.

He just kept shaking his head with a quiet smile. No explanation.

Zhang Xiaoqiang understood why he said he was a waste of a human being.

That Wei Qingyue was willing to meet Zhu Yulong was a surprise to her. The three of them met at Zhu Yulong’s practice. Old classmates meeting again — they exchanged pleasantries for a time. Zhu Yulong had clearly become the polished, capable type of urban professional, though the detached quality in her eyes lingered faintly — a trace of who she had been in her youth.

The two women exchanged a glance of understanding. Zhang Xiaoqiang left first.

Wei Qingyue was unwilling to say anything. He was as difficult as ever. He asked Zhu Yulong: do you know how one can enter a dream? Dream of someone you want to see? The way he asked it was like a child who has just reached out and touched the world for the first time.

It was the only thing he cared about.

Zhu Yulong tried to open a line of conversation with him. His whole manner was cold and unyielding; he spoke without any consideration for courtesy. Zhu Yulong let her gaze drop slightly, and said in a quiet voice: you’re still just the same as you were all those years ago. Do you remember — you came to the humanities-sciences classroom to bring Jiang Du some materials, and I stopped you and asked you to bring over some notes? I wonder if you still remember?

How could he have forgotten?

That shy girl — too timid to look him in the eye. He had known everything.

The world had long since become a vast and barren desert. Only Jiang Du remained — a drop of sweet dew on the tongue.

Wei Qingyue’s tone softened. He smiled at last. He said: I remember you. You said your name was Zhu Yulong — Jiang Du’s deskmate.

Zhu Yulong looked into his eyes and said: “You have made yourself suffer so unnecessarily for so long. Don’t worry — I’m not here to give you psychological treatment, and you don’t need to resist or feel defensive about any of this. I only want to tell you: there truly is no need. Jiang Du, from the very beginning to the very end, never had feelings for you. When you get down to it, she and you were nothing more than friendly acquaintances. Have you ever considered — why did she write those letters on Wang Jingjing’s behalf? Because the one who liked you, who admired you — was never Jiang Du. It was Wang Jingjing. If you ever misread the situation, it was because Jiang Du was far too kind a person. She was genuine with everyone, and you misinterpreted that warmth.”

Wei Qingyue looked at her with cold eyes.

Zhu Yulong’s expression didn’t change. She maintained her characteristic calm: “All of us knew back then. Zhang Xiaoqiang never told you because she was afraid of wounding your pride. After all, you were brilliant and exceptional — if the girl you had been silently devoted to had no particular feelings for you in return, your self-esteem wouldn’t have been able to bear it, once you found out. Zhang Xiaoqiang didn’t anticipate that you would go on torturing yourself over Jiang Du’s passing for so many years. She now regrets not having told you the truth, and letting the misunderstanding drag on this long. You may not know — after she left, her grandmother went to the temple and asked for a charm pouch for one of her old male classmates. Because that was something Jiang Du had instructed her grandmother, on her deathbed, not to forget. I tell you this so you understand: Jiang Du was good to everyone — it was not a special regard for you. You were the one who read too much into it. The true facts are painful to hear, but they are the facts: the people she kept in her heart in her final moments were her family. Her connection to you, and to the rest of us, was minor at best. And if there was any, it amounted to gratitude toward Zhang Xiaoqiang and me for visiting her in hospital. She never brought you up. As far as we could see, you and she were no different from any of the rest of us.”

She finished speaking and rose politely to her feet.

“When Zhang Xiaoqiang told me how you’ve been all these years, I was startled — but I thought it was actually a very simple matter, with no need for formal treatment. Once the truth is said plainly, everything is settled. Zhang Xiaoqiang and I have different personalities. She is better at protecting other people’s feelings. I prefer to speak plainly. What she found difficult to say, I have said. I hope you don’t take offense. Think carefully on it — did Jiang Du leave you anything? To her, your going abroad was just: a classmate went abroad. Nothing more than that. Several of the classmates she was close with all have something she left behind for them. You are not special, and so you have nothing.”

Yes. Nothing.

He had not a single thing of hers in his hands.

Wei Qingyue was struck all at once by a violent, searing pain. He teetered — then sat in silence for a while, and rose to leave.

Zhu Yulong suddenly asked: “We’ll be going back to sweep Jiang Du’s grave soon. Would you like to come?”

Wei Qingyue’s face — calm and cool and expressionless — gave nothing away. He said: “That has nothing to do with me.”

He had never gone to see her. Not once. He never would.

Wei Qingyue left Zhu Yulong’s psychology practice.

Move forward — was moving forward obligatory? Did a person have any right not to move forward? Must a person heal? Must one make peace with the world and with oneself?

Zhu Yulong, upstairs, watched through the glass window as Wei Qingyue’s figure disappeared. She didn’t know the answers to those questions. She watched him in silence — as she had always done, back then, unseen by him. If she had not happened, by chance, to be seated as Jiang Du’s deskmate, Wei Qingyue would never in his life have known there was a girl at Mei Middle School named Zhu Yulong.

She was still watching the corner where he had vanished. Her eyes grew slowly wet.

This person — perhaps tomorrow he would be well again. Perhaps he would never be well at all.