Early spring in Beijing was a time of lingering chill amid the tentative warmth.
The March wind carried a biting edge as it swept in from the direction of Shichahai. The sky was Beijing’s characteristic grayish-blue, like a piece of faded silk thinly draped over the city.
Lin Zhiqian stood at the entrance of a courtyard house near Di’anmen, momentarily dazed by the scene before him.
The willow trees in the hutong had just begun to sprout pale yellow buds, their slender branches swaying gently in the breeze.
A cold gust swept through, and he instinctively tightened his overcoat.
When he had stepped out earlier, it had felt warm enough, but now, with the sun hiding behind the clouds, the chill had stealthily crept back.
Spring in Beijing was fickle like this—one moment bathed in brilliant sunshine, the next shrouded in gloom, utterly unpredictable.
He had passed by this place many times before, but each time, the vermilion gate had been tightly shut. Today, however, one of the doors stood open.
The crimson lacquer had peeled in places, revealing the grayish wood beneath, yet the mottled appearance lent it an air of time-worn elegance.
Lin Zhiqian took a deep breath and stepped over the high threshold.
The courtyard was quiet, its layout not much changed from what he remembered.
It was a standard courtyard house, facing south with its back to the north. Upon entering, one was greeted by a screen wall, and beyond it lay a spacious yard.
After all, it was still early spring, and nature had yet to fully awaken.
The jujube and pomegranate trees on the west side were still there, their branches bare, stretching dark brown lines against the gray-blue sky, lending a touch of desolation.
Lin Zhiqian remembered how, in summers past, the pomegranate tree would be covered in fiery red blossoms, and in autumn, the jujube tree would hang heavy with crimson fruit.
How many years ago was that? Lin Zhiqian found himself momentarily unable to recall.
His gaze swept over the base of the eastern wall, where a hawthorn tree now stood—he couldn’t remember when it had appeared.
The tree looked to be of some age, its trunk rough and its branches sturdy.
At this time, it bore neither leaves nor fruit, only its dry branches trembling faintly in the cold wind.
Lin Zhiqian couldn’t help but frown, doubting his own memory. He recalled clearly that there had been no hawthorn tree in this courtyard before.
“Why are you standing in the yard?”
A slightly hoarse voice drifted to his ears on the wind.
Lin Zhiqian looked up to see the cotton door curtain of the main room being lifted aside. Zhong Jiming stood in the doorway, wearing a dark gray knit sweater.
He was thinner than Lin Zhiqian remembered, his jawline more defined, but his eyes remained as deep as two ancient, tranquil wells.
Squinting against the light, Lin Zhiqian studied his old friend. How many years had it been since they last met?
Their last encounter had been when Zhong Jiming was transferred from the southwest to the northwest, briefly stopping in Beijing for a few days—that was already five years ago.
The harsh winds and frost of the northwest seemed to have carved Zhong Jiming’s features into sharper, more resolute lines, yet without a trace of coarseness.
His skin was slightly darker than before, which only accentuated his striking handsomeness.
After a few moments of scrutiny, a faint smile tugged at the corner of Lin Zhiqian’s mouth. “You haven’t changed much—still as dashingly handsome as ever.”
He wasn’t merely flattering.
Ten years ago, Zhong Jiming had been renowned in Beijing’s social circles as a strikingly handsome man. At twenty-three, he was a picture of elegance, tall and graceful—a pity he had married so young.
Now, ten years later, time seemed to have favored him exceptionally, adding only the depth of experience to his being without taking away the innate elegance he was born with.
Zhong Jiming waved his hand with a smile, interrupting him. “Enough with the flattery. Look at me now, all dusty and disheveled—how could I compare to the dashing Director Lin?”
As he spoke, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, his tone light and teasing, reminiscent of the playful banter from their youth.
Lin Zhiqian corrected him, “Deputy Director.”
Zhong Jiming let out a soft snort, seemingly indifferent to the word “deputy.”
The two exchanged a knowing smile.
Some friendships didn’t require many words. Even after five years apart, even after each had gone through their own share of experiences, they could still slip back into their old tacit understanding.
He looked down at the tea in his cup, the emerald green leaves unfurling in the water like tiny boats.
After a long pause, he finally spoke: “I’m going to Guangdong next week.”
“You just got transferred back to the Planning Commission, and now you’re heading to Guangdong on a business trip?” Lin Zhiqian was somewhat surprised—the pace seemed a bit too fast.