It had been two years since any of them had seen each other. The few of them — only Lin Haiyang had never left home. The rest had gone out to make their way in the world. Life had its bitterness and its sweetness. The world had changed so completely from what it had been when they were young.

The cemetery was in the outer suburbs. Lin Haiyang worked there as a groundskeeper. Knowing the others were coming, he had been waiting for a while.

The day was sunny, the light clear and pervasive. How quickly time had passed — they were already thirty. They greeted each other with smiles, and the corners of their eyes already held fine, quiet lines. All these years had slipped away without anyone noticing.

Only the photograph of Jiang Du remained unchanged — through all the seasons and years, she was still sixteen, lips softly pressed, smiling at them. Everything about her, just as before.

They stood together and laid down the white chrysanthemums they had brought.

The cemetery was tranquil, with three or five scattered visitors coming to pay respects to family and friends — mostly silent. So were they. They stood with her for a while, saying nothing.

Birds called; the wind was still; the light was bright and clear — just the kind of weather she had loved.

Over the years, Lin Haiyang had taken good care of her. The stone before her grave was always the cleanest and most orderly. During the worst of the pandemic, when the two elders couldn’t come, they had called him to sweep and offer respects on their behalf. The whole cemetery had been nearly empty then — quiet and desolate. He’d had the leisure to sit in front of her and tell her about the changes in the world around them.

Later, when they all sat together for the meal Lin Haiyang was treating them to, conversation came easier. Everyone spoke of where things stood in their lives. Lin Haiyang lamented that his blind dates never came to anything — he was afraid he’d be a bachelor all his life. There was laughter at that; everyone reassured him not to worry — except for Wang Jingjing, none of them were married yet either.

After a round of good-natured jokes, Lin Haiyang asked, as though in passing: “So — Wei Qingyue still won’t come to see her, then?”

The table fell silent again.

Zhang Xiaoqiang was the first to speak: “He still won’t accept the facts. Nothing anyone says makes a difference — if you push too hard, he gets upset. And he won’t hear her name anymore.”

Lin Haiyang had roughened over the years; he ate quickly, talked loudly. His chopsticks hadn’t stopped moving. He seemed to be turning something over in his mouth. He said: “You’re all just bad at getting through to people. If it were me, I’d say: do you know — Jiang Du has been waiting for you to come and see her ever since you left. It’s really not right of you, knowing she’s here and not coming for even one look.“

The others at the table went still.

After a few seconds of silence, Zhu Yulong said: “It wouldn’t help to say that either. He’s ill. He has been, for a long time, treating what is not real as real. He has built his own world, and inside it, he sets the rules — what is true, what is false. Perhaps, in his eyes, we are the unreal ones, the false people. He won’t come. If he came, it would confirm that Jiang Du is truly dead. He will never accept the truth.”

Lin Haiyang was confused, and looked it. “That serious?”

“It’s not that it’s strange. It’s that he is no longer a normal person.”

“Will he get better?”

“For a person with an illness to recover, they have to be willing to be treated. He won’t give anyone that kind of opening. It’s like —” Zhu Yulong paused quietly — “no one ever gave him that kind of opening.”

Lin Haiyang had nothing to say to that. The most academically brilliant among them — graduated from a top university, surrounded by accolades and glory — and in the end, he had become someone who was no longer normal. Jiang Du had occupied the best years of his youth. Everyone shook their heads.

The topic ran its course and fell away.

They turned to ask Wang Jingjing when she planned to have children. They had all become very ordinary. The questions they cared about had shifted — have you found someone, when are you getting married, when are you having children — while the girl sleeping here beneath the earth had never had even a single ordinary chance.

No one cared anymore about monthly test scores. Or whose trash had fallen in the hallway. Or who the homeroom teacher had caught dating. Or how you had managed to get out of morning exercise that one time. If they ever cared about such things again, it would be for their own children in the future — just as their parents had once cared about them.

Wang Jingjing said: why don’t you all come by my mum’s place for a bit — they just moved into a new apartment recently. I’ve thrown out a lot of my old things, but my mother held onto Jiang Du’s books for me — she had the movers bring them over. They’re in the study.

Yes — that move. An unremarkable move, like any other.

It was a windy day, not particularly fine weather. One of the young movers accidentally dropped the stack of Shucheng magazines, and from one of them slipped a thin sheet of paper — a folded sheet of paper. It fell a long, long way — far enough that the person who bent down to pick up the books never found it.

Wang Jingjing never found it either — because these books were kept for remembrance, not to be read. She put them in the study, high up on a shelf, as a form of quiet mourning.

That thin sheet of paper began its journey.

It fell first beside the grass near the base of the building, close to a large green rubbish bin, stirring faintly. The wind blew it open, revealing traces of old ink.

If anyone had seen it — though old and worn — they would still have touched something of a young person’s feeling: vivid with life, full of energy.

Only the wind saw it.

It lay open and alone in the wind, and poured out its meaning to the wind.

To my fellow “ghost-writer”:

You keep refusing to write to me, so I have no choice but to write to you.

Don’t be surprised at that title — because I know. It was you. Why did you lie to me and say you didn’t know what it meant? You may not know: eyes and small expressions give a person away most easily, no matter how carefully they conceal it. Besides, you have never been particularly good at concealing things — always so shy, always blushing, always hopeless at pretending.

Let me say clearly first: this letter is written to you, and no one else. It is written to you. I genuinely do not understand why you won’t admit that the true writer was you — was it to spare a good friend embarrassment? No need for that. In any case, I only want to read your letters, and write back to yours. No one else is worth spending my time on.

A great deal has happened to you lately. I’ve never been much good at comforting people — but if I must say something, I can only say: it is not your fault. Whatever others may think of you, I believe in you, always. No one is better than you. To me, you are more precious than anything — if a comparison absolutely must be made, then more precious than sunlight.

I also cannot understand why these wretched things have to happen to you. If it were possible, I would willingly have them happen to me instead — I’ve been beaten down by life countless times already and there is no bitterness I cannot bear. But I don’t want you to suffer. So wait for me. Don’t be afraid, and don’t let this steal your joy in living. I believe you won’t. You are actually braver and stronger than I had imagined. I have trusted your words, and I hope you trust your own. If a person still has their health and a sharp mind, they should not lose their confidence in life.

We are almost parting. I take up my pen and words fail me. I cannot make any promises right now — I can only say: I will come back. Definitely. Before, I thought I might perhaps stay in America. But this place was always a wilderness to me, with nothing to hold me. Now I know I will return without question. I hope we don’t lose touch. I don’t mean you have to do anything right now — of course your studies come first. But after your university entrance exams are over, if your feelings for me haven’t changed — if I am still the Wei Qingyue you accept — then let’s be together. I don’t quite know what I’m saying. Be together, do what — actually, I’m not entirely sure. At that point, I imagine you won’t need me to help you with your homework or anything like that. But being with you would be full of interest. This I have never doubted. I hope I won’t bore you.

What you like in your everyday life — I know nothing about. You can write and tell me. Or if there’s anything about America that interests you, I’ll buy it and send it. Don’t stand on ceremony with me.

Also — if you ever have difficulty with your studies and feel it’s too much trouble to contact me, you can ask Zhang Xiaoqiang for help. She’s a very warm-hearted person. Don’t always feel like you’re burdening people — it isn’t like that. When something happens, don’t bottle it up alone. Even if there’s nothing I can do to solve it from here, at the very least I can be your faithful listener. Things you find hard to say aloud — you can write them to me. I want to hear everything you have to say. And don’t easily conclude that you’ve done something wrong. Don’t fall easily into self-blame. You are good. There is no need to apologize. You must trust me.

This is where I’ll end the letter. I am waiting for your reply — by which I mean: I expect this, I look forward to this. I need your letter in reply. I need you. I don’t know what kind of new environment I’ll be stepping into. There’s no need to hide it from you: our relationship as mother and son is equally thin and cold. I can’t feel how much my mother loves me. That doesn’t matter too much — I’ve always sorted things out on my own. But that doesn’t mean I’m invincible. Write back to me. I’m waiting.

Don’t know what to write for a closing wish — then: may your studies go well, and go on going well.

The letter bore a date — June 2007 — but no name. Only four bold, sweeping characters: name withheld by choice.

That was the unspoken understanding between the young man and her — a private smile shared between them.

The wind kept blowing. The thin paper rose and fell and rose again — touched the steps, caught in the honeysuckle vines, then was swept up once more and flung high into the air. It was so light. And what it carried was so heavy.

It had slept quietly and alone for more than a decade, unread, never known. In this moment, the wind took it up and carried it outward — and then, at some point, it would never again have a second chance to appear on the earth.