Since we are all reborn, let’s arrest the senior!

The October wind, carrying the aroma of roasted chestnuts, drifted into the balcony. Jiang Zimei squatted in front of the wicker chair, repotting her succulent "Rain Sword".

The dark brown terracotta basin was found at the market last week. The bottom of the basin is engraved with the crooked character "媚" (mei), which Lu Mingze carved with a seal carving knife, causing blisters on his fingertips.

She picked up a shard of pottery and placed it at the bottom of the pot. Sunlight streamed through the dome of the glass greenhouse, weaving golden foil-like spots of light in her hair, making the shadows under her eyelashes look like fluttering butterflies.

"Be careful, it'll prick your hand." Lu Mingze's voice drifted from the kitchen, accompanied by the soft clinking of an iron pot against a wooden spoon. He was wearing the ginger-yellow sweater she had knitted last year, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, revealing the pale blue veins on his forearms and the old scar from when he bumped into something while changing a light bulb on the bookshelf. The chrysanthemum petals in the glass jar had been drying for three days and were now spread out on a bamboo tray, like a sprinkle of gold leaf. She picked up a petal and put it in her mouth, her tongue tracing the dry veins, a bitter taste with a faint sweetness hidden within. Suddenly, she heard a "crash" behind her—the glass jar of rock sugar tilted in the man's hand, the glistening sugar granules rolling onto the stove and shattering into countless stars in the morning light.

"Lu Mingze!" As she turned around, she saw him frantically trying to block the sugar granules with a rag, his hair falling across his forehead, the tips of his ears flushed red, like maple leaves dyed by autumn frost. Sunlight filtered through his fingers, refracting rainbow-like halos in the caramel-colored syrup, which was dripping down the edge of the stove, drawing winding golden lines on the white tiles.

“You mentioned the osmanthus candy at the teahouse last time,” he said, his voice lowering as his fingertips brushed against his syrup-stained cuff, “I wanted to try making it for you.” Jiang Zimei smiled and picked up a rock candy, noticing a whole osmanthus petal clinging to it, its pale yellow petals displaying veins as clear as a baby’s eyelashes. She walked to his side, took a checkered handkerchief from her apron pocket, and wiped the syrup from his palm: “Need an assistant? This pastry chef is quite professional.”

Ten minutes later, the two stood side by side in front of the stove, steam blurring the kitchen glass. Jiang Zimei was responsible for layering osmanthus flowers and rock sugar into the rough earthenware pot, while Lu Mingze gently pressed it down with a carved wooden spoon. With each press, his knuckles turned a pale red, like white jade soaked in red wine. Water droplets gradually condensed on the inner wall of the pot, mixing with the sweet fragrance of osmanthus and the bitterness of dried tangerine peel, brewing into an amber mist in the morning light. He suddenly reached out and brushed a stray strand of her hair aside, his fingertips brushing behind her ear, carrying the warm touch of years of washing dishes: "Be careful not to burn yourself with the steam."

While tidying up her study late at night, Jiang Zimei accidentally knocked over a tin box at the bottom of a cardboard box. Squatting among the clutter, she saw movie ticket stubs, candy wrappers, and dried flowers inside the box, like fragments of memories scattered by the wind. A yellowed amusement park ticket drifted to her feet; the words "carousel" on the ticket were somewhat blurred. She ran her fingertips along the serrated edge of the ticket stub, remembering how Lu Mingze had nervously bumped into her headband on the carousel that day, his ears turning as red as ripe strawberries, yet he still forced himself to remain calm and said, "The horse's mane isn't as nice as your drawing."

"What are you looking at?" Lu Mingze walked in carrying a cup of hot milk, a silver necklace peeking out from his sweater collar—it was the money she had earned from selling her first painting, and the pendant was a miniature palette. He sat down next to her, his knees brushing against hers, and draped a cashmere cardigan over her shoulders: "The floor is cold."

She tucked the ticket into her sketchbook, and when she looked up, she noticed a few more silver strands in his hair, gleaming like mother-of-pearl under the lamp. "Let's buy a new specimen holder tomorrow. I want to press our story into bookmarks, so we can look at them when we're old and sitting in our rocking chairs." The man put his arm around her shoulder, letting her lean against his chest. She could hear his steady, strong heartbeat, like the pendulum of an old-fashioned clock. "How about we make a journal? You draw, and I'll write notes, like, 'On such and such a day, someone boiled osmanthus sugar into caramel, but called it a new type of amber.'"

She laughed and nudged his chest with her elbow, touching the band-aid hidden under his sweater—he'd cut his finger again while chopping vegetables that morning. Moonlight streamed in through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow across their intertwined legs, like someone had spun a cloth from moonlight. The dried flowers in the tin box gave off a musty fragrance, mingling with the scent of his Blue Moon laundry detergent, creating a sweet aroma of time.

The first snow came unexpectedly, like a flour sack being overturned in the sky. Jiang Zimei was mixing cobalt blue in her palette in the studio when she suddenly heard a "thump" from the balcony—the snowman's head that Lu Mingze had made had rolled into a flowerpot. She put down her paintbrush and ran over, seeing the man kneeling in the snow, his hands cradling the crooked snowball, his eyelashes adorned with ice crystals like scattered diamonds, his black down jacket covered in snowflakes, like a cloak studded with stars.

“The carrot’s nose fell off.” He looked up at her, his nose tip red from the cold, like a small tomato. “Snowball doesn’t seem to like this look.” She squatted down to help him straighten Snowball, touching the hole in the fingertip of his glove—it was from when he was fixing her picture frame. Moonlight fell on the snowman’s coal-shaped eyes, the two black round spots reflecting the indoor light, like two obsidian stones embedded in a snowball.

"Let's knit it a hat tomorrow." She took a hand warmer out of her pocket and stuffed it into his arms, touching the crumpled tissue inside. "Look, its smile is drawn so well with pine branches." The curve on the snowman's cheek was tilted to the left, like a comma blown askew by the wind, pointing directly at their French windows, as if waving to the people inside.

At three in the morning, Jiang Zimei was awakened by a suppressed cough. In the darkness, she saw a figure curled up on the sofa, trembling violently, like a fallen leaf swirling in the cold wind. The bedside lamp was on, and in its warm yellow glow, Lu Mingze's forehead was beaded with sweat, his hand clutching her cashmere cardigan, a half-tissue peeking out between his fingers, stained with faint red blood.

"38.5℃." Her hand holding the thermometer trembled slightly, the mercury in the glass tube like a restless red snake. "We have to go to the hospital." The man shook his head, his voice hoarse like sandpaper rubbing against paper: "You have an art exhibition tomorrow. You can't miss it." Before he finished speaking, she had already put on her down jacket, tied his scarf tightly, and traced her fingertips across his Adam's apple, touching his burning skin: "The art exhibition can be rescheduled, but you can't."

The cold, moonlight from the emergency room's fluorescent lamps made Lu Mingze's face appear even paler. Jiang Zimei sat by the bedside peeling an apple, the stainless steel peeler burning her palm as she stretched the peel into long, thin spirals, like a golden snake slithering across the snow. Suddenly, the man reached out and pressed down on her wrist: "Stop peeling, eat an orange." The heat from his fingertips was scorching, yet he still remembered her dislike of the astringent taste of apple peels, and traces of the ochre paint he had mixed for her that morning remained under his fingernails.

The sound of a nurse's trolley echoed down the corridor, its metal wheels rolling monotonously on the floor. When Jiang Zimei looked up, she saw the silver strands in Lu Mingze's hair tremble slightly under the light, like a thin layer of snow. She suddenly remembered their first meeting; he stood in the gallery in a white shirt, the top button fastened, his gaze fixed intently on her "Starry Night" series. Back then, his hair was still thick and black, like a deep night sky. "Get some sleep," he said, reaching out to brush the weariness from her eyelashes. "I'm fine." She shook her head, cut the peeled apple into small pieces, and held one to his lips with a toothpick. The moment the flesh touched his tongue, he chuckled softly: "Remember our first date? You fed the apple core to the pigeons in the square." Watching him chew, her Adam's apple bobbed gently, and suddenly her nose stung with tears—this man who remembered all her preferences was now lying weakly in a hospital bed, like a reed bent by wind and rain.

The snow stopped at dawn, and the east turned a pale blue. The two sat on a hospital bench, wrapped in the same gray blanket. Jiang Zimei dozed off, leaning on his shoulder, dreaming of a snowman wearing a scarf she had knitted, slowly melting in the sunlight, the melted snow forming streams filled with their photos, movie ticket stubs, and candy wrappers. Lu Mingze's fingers gently tapped the back of her hand, humming an off-key rendition of "Edelweiss," the rhythm fluctuating like an old record skipping.

"Look!" He suddenly woke her, pointing out the window. The rising sun was peeking out from between the buildings, turning the snow a honey color. In the distance, a snowman wore a red woolen hat askew—knitted by some child—with two pom-poms hanging from the brim like two little suns. Jiang Zimei smiled, burying her head deeper into his chest, hearing a muffled laugh from his chest, like the sound of a stream as spring snow melts.

The cherry blossoms in March were like a pink mist, drifting over streets, rooftops, and tram tracks. Lu Mingze's camera suddenly stopped working on the day he went to see the cherry blossoms; pressing the shutter button yielded no response, like a nightingale that had suddenly gone silent. Jiang Zimei squatted under the cherry blossom trees in Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, watching him frown as he studied the lens. Sunlight filtered through the dense branches, casting dappled shadows on his face, like a Monet painting.

“It might be a broken shutter release cable,” he said softly, his fingertips tracing the texture of the camera’s surface as if soothing an injured pet. “Last time at the tropical plant museum, moisture got into the lens.” She noticed the dark circles under his eyes, like ink spots spread by rainwater—he had been staying up late lately to adjust the angle of her picture frames, and sometimes when she woke up in the early hours of the morning, she would see light leaking from the crack in the study door.

“Forget about the camera for now.” She grasped his cold hand, feeling the calluses on his palm. “Come see the cherry blossoms with me.” In the subway station, the crowd pushed them forward. Her scarf accidentally caught on his camera strap, and the two stumbled and grabbed the handrail. His chin brushed against the top of her head, carrying the cool scent of shaving lotion: “Careful.”

Beneath the cherry blossom tree, Lu Mingze gently brushed petals from her hair, his fingertips brushing against the soft down behind her ear. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew, and fluttering pink and white petals fell like a gentle snowfall, landing on his eyelashes and the sketchbook on her shoulder. She remembered this time last year, when he chased after her, camera in hand, capturing her twirling. In the lens, her skirt billowed, petals falling like a shower of rouge, while a smile always played on his lips, like a reed warmed by the sun.

"Take the picture with your phone." She took out her phone, and in the lens, he stood under a flowering tree, his silver hair reflecting the cherry blossoms, as if time was gently kissing his forehead. He turned slightly to the side, letting the "Somei Yoshino" behind him occupy the right side of the frame, his left hand hanging naturally, his fingertips just touching hers—this was their most tacit pose for taking pictures, like two trees growing side by side, their branches gently intertwining in the wind.

At the camera repair shop in the evening, the owner pushed up his glasses: "The shutter assembly is worn out and needs to be replaced." Lu Mingze held down her hand as she reached for her wallet, gently drawing circles on her palm with his fingertips—their secret signal to "don't worry." The new camera in the glass case gleamed with a metallic sheen. His gaze lingered on it for three seconds before shifting to the cherry blossoms outside the window, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly: "Let's get it fixed first. I'm used to the old camera."

On her way home, Jiang Zimei saw him staring at the camera in the shop window, his eyes gentle yet regretful, as if looking at a distant dream. She quietly opened her mobile banking app and transferred the royalties she had saved for half a year to his account, writing in the transfer note: "For Mr. Snowman's new eyes, remember to capture more starlight." Before sending it, she hesitated for a moment and added: "My sketchbook is already filled with the spring photos you took with your old camera."

The next morning, she placed a hand-drawn card in his briefcase. The front depicted a cartoon camera, its lens showing two cherry blossom trees entwined, a snowman wearing a scarf beneath them, and a butterfly perched on a carrot's nose. The back, written in delicate handwriting, read: "The money for repairing the camera was my first payment for the 'Starry Night' series. You say a camera is a time-trapping net, then my sketchbook is your darkroom, each drawing holding the heartbeat of your heart as you pressed the shutter."

Late at night, Lu Mingze opened his briefcase in his study. As the card slipped out, a cherry blossom specimen fell out. She had picked it up under the cherry tree that morning, pressed it thin as a cicada's wing with a flower press, and the pale pink petals still held the warmth of her fingertips. He gently stroked the drawing on the card, a smile playing on his lips, and suddenly remembered what she had said: "Our story is like the dappled sunlight on a camera lens, like the undeveloped tenderness in an old roll of film."

The July thunderstorms came without warning, raindrops the size of coins pounding against the convenience store glass with a crackling sound. Jiang Zimei stood at the checkout counter, watching Lu Mingze run wildly through the rain, folder in hand. His white shirt clung to his back, outlining the contours of his shoulder blades like two rain-soaked butterfly wings. He held his briefcase to his chest, shielding the drawings inside from the wind and rain with his body, his trouser legs splattered with mud as if he had waded through a murky river.

"Why didn't you bring an umbrella?" She quickly handed him a tissue, touching the water droplets on his arm—cool and refreshing, a mixture of rain and sweat. The man pulled a waterproof bag from his pocket, containing her "Starry Sky" series of sketches. Water droplets clung to the plastic film, like a layer of transparent amber: "I was afraid your stars would get wet." She saw the Big Dipper she had drawn shimmering in the water, as if it had truly fallen into the Milky Way.

On a stormy night, lightning flashed and thunder roared outside the living room's French windows. Jiang Zimei nestled in Lu Mingze's arms watching an old movie. The blue light from the television screen reflected on his face, giving his silver hair a cool sheen. On his lap lay a glass jar filled with stardust, chrysanthemum petals, and a withered maple leaf—collected last year on the beach—they'd picked up on their first date. Her foot brushed against his calf, touching the scar from when she'd bumped it while moving an easel, like a silent river flowing with the marks of time.

(End of this chapter)