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

The wind at the end of October carried the scent of caramel as Jiang Zimei squatted in the greenhouse repotting her newly acquired succulent, "Blue Stone Lotus".

The edge of the dark brown terracotta basin was speckled with gold dust, which was acrylic paint that Lu Mingze had accidentally rubbed off when he was carving "Charming Autumn" on the bottom of the basin with a carving knife last night.

She used tweezers to work the volcanic rocks between the roots, and suddenly touched something hard—a maple leaf specimen pressed as thin as a cicada's wing, with tiny gold foil embedded between the veins, reflecting a rainbow-like halo in the sunlight.

"The roasted chestnuts at the market are freshly made." Lu Mingze's voice drifted from outside the wooden fence, the brown paper bag rustling softly in his arms. As he pushed open the door, a maple leaf flew up and landed in her hair. He reached out and picked it off for her, his fingertips brushing against the downy hair behind her ear, carrying the warmth of the autumn sun: "The old man selling chestnuts said that this year's chestnuts are roasted with osmanthus honey, which is perfect for your 'Rain Sword'."

The sound of porcelain clinking came from the kitchen. When she entered the room carrying a flowerpot, Lu Mingze was standing on tiptoe, reaching for a glass jar in the wall cabinet. His ginger-yellow wristband had slipped down to his elbow, revealing the pale blue veins on his forearm and the old scar from when he bumped into something while changing a light bulb on the bookshelf. The edges of the newly applied bandage were stained with pale red—last week, when he was hanging up the art exhibition poster, the ladder suddenly slipped, and he shielded her "Autumn Light" series with his body, scraping his own skin in the process.

"Try it." He handed her a chestnut coated in sugar, his fingertip accidentally brushing against her lips, the sugar sticking to her skin like a fallen star. When she bit into the flesh, the warm, sweet aroma mixed with caramel granules exploded on her tongue. She suddenly remembered a late autumn day twenty years ago when they watched "Roman Holiday" in an old movie theater. He was so nervous that he spilled popcorn all over his lapel, but insisted on covering it with his coat, saying, "I can't waste your favorite sweets." In the end, the two of them walked under the sycamore trees with popcorn crumbs all over them, the red tips of his ears brighter than maple leaves.

As dusk crept into the kitchen, the two sat side by side on the windowsill peeling chestnuts. Maple branches outside reached into the greenhouse, their bright red leaves falling into Lu Mingze's hair. When he tilted his head, his silver hair intertwined with the maple leaves, like a Monet painting. Jiang Zimei took out her sketchbook, her pen gliding across the paper, sketching him peeling chestnuts with his eyes lowered—his eyelashes casting small, fan-like shadows beneath his eyes, his knuckles flushed a pale red from the effort, like white jade dipped in red wine, and traces of the ochre paint she had mixed for him the day before still lingering under his fingernails.

“Let’s go to the park to collect fallen leaves tomorrow.” She tore off a piece of drawing paper and tucked it into a specimen holder. The maple leaf specimen in the corner trembled gently in the wind. “I want to make maple leaf bookmarks to match your new poetry collection, ‘The Frosting of Time.’” Lu Mingze suddenly grasped her hand holding the pen and drew a crooked smiley face in the corner of the paper. Chestnut shell fragments fell onto the back of her hand like scattered gold dust. “How about making a leaf collage? You can mix the colors, and I’ll cut out the shapes, like…” He paused, his ears turning slightly red, “like the bench where we first kissed, with your favorite ginkgo tree next to it, and…” His voice trailed off, “and the moment I was so nervous that I bumped into your headband.”

As the first snow fell on the balcony, Jiang Zimei was making a fritillaria and pear soup for Lu Mingze. The dark brown medicine pot bubbled and steamed, and the bitter aroma of dried tangerine peel mixed with the sweet fragrance of pear flesh wafted into the living room. She lifted the lid of the pot, and the steam instantly blurred her glasses. Through the misty steam, she saw a figure kneeling in the snow in the glass greenhouse, building a snowman.

"Your nose's crooked again!" She laughed, putting down the soup spoon and wiping her glasses with her sleeve. Lu Mingze was holding a snowball in both hands, his nose red from the cold, like a small tomato. His black down jacket was covered in snowflakes, like a cloak studded with stars. Last year's carrot-shaped nose, frozen into an orange icicle, was now perched askew on the snowman's face, wrapped tightly in the ginger-yellow scarf she had knitted, with two pom-poms hanging from the ends like two little suns.

"Get me a bag of cotton candy!" He looked up at her, his eyelashes adorned with icy crystals, like scattered diamonds. "A snowman's smile needs to be a little sweeter." As she turned, she knocked over the medicine cabinet, scattering danshen, goji berries, and astragalus all over the floor, like someone had overturned a palette of Chinese medicine. Lu Mingze rushed into the kitchen at the sound, the snow on his shoes drawing winding silver lines on the tiles. He squatted down to pick up the herbs, snowflakes from his hair landing on the back of her hand, cool and refreshing. "Be careful not to slip. I was heartbroken for half a month when you fell in the art studio last time."

The afternoon sun slanted into the greenhouse. The snowman held a glass jar full of cotton candy, its coal-shaped eyes reflecting the warm light like two obsidian stones inlaid with gold leaf. Jiang Zimei sat in a wicker chair knitting a scarf, the knitting needles flying between her fingers. Camel-colored cashmere yarn wound around a bamboo spool, the edge of which was engraved with an "M"—made by Lu Mingze from her discarded paintbrush handle. Lu Mingze nestled in a rocking chair beside her, reading. Occasionally, he would look up to refill her cup of hot cocoa, his fingertips brushing against the silver bracelet on her wrist, the "M&L" on the inside shimmering in the sunlight.

"The soup's gone cold." He suddenly put down his book and brought the pear soup to her lips. The handle of the spoon was wrapped with a knitted yarn she had made, with a dried osmanthus flower stuck between the stitches. "I added some of the osmanthus honey you dried. Try it, does it taste like the teahouse from twenty years ago?" The warm soup slid down her throat, mixed with the softness of the pear flesh and the slight bitterness of the fritillaria. She noticed the faint dark circles under his eyes and remembered the incandescent light in the emergency room last night—he had a high fever of 38.5°C, but insisted on accompanying her to the art exhibition until he collapsed in a corner of the gallery, still clutching her cashmere cardigan in his hand.

As dusk settled, the two sat on the windowsill, wrapped in the same blanket. Half of the snowman's cotton candy nose had been pecked off by a sparrow, but it twisted into a more playful arc, as if smiling at the people inside. Lu Mingze's fingers gently circled in her palm as he hummed an off-key rendition of "Jingle Bells." She counted the silver strands in his hair, suddenly recalling his white shirt when they first met, the collar buttoned neatly, yet his gaze lingered on her "Starry Night" series for a full three hours, his fingertips trembling as he finally bought the painting.

"Are you cold?" He pulled her closer to him, his sweater still carrying the bitter scent of Chinese medicine and the fresh fragrance of Blue Moon laundry detergent. "Let's install a solar-powered light for the snowman tomorrow, so it can watch the stars for us at night." She looked up and kissed the mole on the corner of his lip, salty, mixed with the taste of snowflakes. "How about calling it 'Mingze No. 1'? After all," she paused, her fingertips tracing the calluses on his palm, "its carrot nose is exactly the same shape as the one someone cut when they first started chopping vegetables—a crooked heart."

The cherry blossoms in March, like pink mist, drifted across the paths of Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden. Jiang Zimei squatted under a Yoshino cherry tree, mixing colors. The lapis lazuli paint spread in the palette, like a piece of spring sky melting into the water. Lu Mingze held up an old camera, focusing it not far away. His silver hair was blown by the spring breeze, like a head full of snowflakes. The black camera strap wrapped around his neck, casting a long, thin shadow on his white shirt.

"Don't move," he said softly, pressing the shutter button with his index finger. Petals fluttered down, landing on the sketchbook on her shoulder, like someone had sprinkled rouge on her.

She gazed at his focused profile, his eyelashes casting delicate shadows beneath his eyes, his fingertips slightly white from pressing the shutter, his nails neatly trimmed yet bearing thin calluses at the knuckles—the result of years of handling cameras and moving easels for her. She suddenly remembered the first time he took her picture twenty years ago, not even noticing he was holding the camera upside down, his ears burning red like ripe strawberries. When the photo was finally developed, it only captured half a blurry smiling face and a screen full of cherry blossoms.

"We've run out of film."

He shook the camera, a wry smile playing on his lips. The metal body gleamed warmly in the sunlight. "I haven't washed the snow scene photos I took in Hokkaido yet. You looked so beautiful standing in the snow in your red coat." She put down her paintbrush and pulled a velvet box from her canvas bag. Inside lay a brand-new shutter release cable, its silver-plated surface engraved with tiny cherry blossom patterns, tied at the end with a red string she had braided from her hair. "A gift for you. Happy early birthday." Lu Mingze froze, his fingertips tracing the texture of the shutter release cable as if touching some tender metaphor. His Adam's apple bobbed slightly. "You always remember what I want." The afternoon sun filtered through the dense blossoms, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

The two sat on a bench eating their bento boxes. The tuna rice balls were garnished with pickled cherry blossoms, the veins of the petals as clear as a baby's eyelashes.

Lu Mingze removed the flower petals from her hair, his fingertips touching the soft down behind her ear. He suddenly chuckled, "Remember our first date? You fed the rice balls to the pigeons, and while you were munching on bread crumbs, you said, 'They need it more than I do.' As a result, you were so hungry in the afternoon that you felt dizzy. I carried you to find a convenience store, and you even whispered in my ear, 'Your shoulders are as steady as an easel.'"

As she watched him chew, her Adam's apple bobbed slightly, and suddenly her nose stung with tears—this man who remembered all her silly moments was now wiping the seaweed crumbs from the corners of her mouth with his sleeve, which still bore traces of the cobalt blue paint he had mixed for her that morning.

In the glass case of the camera repair shop, a new camera gleamed with a metallic sheen, the red dot on its lens like a cunning eye. Lu Mingze's gaze lingered on it for three seconds, then turned to the cherry blossoms outside the window. He gently shook his head, holding her hand: "The old camera is fine, at least—" He paused, a faint blush rising to his ears, "at least it captured you in your wedding dress, when a cherry blossom fell onto your skirt, like a star that had accidentally fallen into a painting." She quietly clenched the bank card in her hand; it was the money from selling her latest work in the "Starry Night" series, "Cherry Blossom Nebula," with a pre-written transfer note: "To my time catcher, capture more springs—your old camera is already filled with the spring of my twentieth year."

As I walked home in the evening, cherry blossoms fell on the camera lens, creating soft-focus bokeh.

Lu Mingze suddenly stopped and bought two cans of cherry blossom soda from the vending machine. With a "pop" as the tab was pulled open, he pressed the soda against her burning cheek: "Try it. Doesn't it taste like the first Ramune soda we drank? You said the bubbles danced on your tongue, like my heart pounding when I watched you paint." As the bubbles burst on her tongue, she saw the cherry blossoms reflected in his eyes, overlapping with the image of the boy waiting for her outside the gallery twenty years ago, forming the same picture. The boy's white shirt had become a light gray sweater, but the gentle smile on his lips remained unchanged.

A July thunderstorm pounded against the convenience store window, the large raindrops pattering loudly. Jiang Zimei was organizing her sketches when she suddenly saw Lu Mingze running wildly through the rain, a 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 "Starry Night" series of sketches inside from the wind and rain with his body. His trouser legs were splattered with mud, as if he had waded through a murky river.

"Is the drawing alright?" She quickly handed him a towel, touching the water droplets on his arm. It was cool, mixed with sweat, and carried the fresh scent of rain. Lu Mingze pulled a waterproof bag from his pocket. The drawing inside was intact. The water droplets clinging to the plastic film looked like they were encased in transparent amber. The Big Dipper in the drawing shimmered in the water, as if it had truly fallen into the Milky Way. He was panting, raindrops dripping from his hair onto the back of her hand. "I tripped and fell on the way here so your stars wouldn't get wet, but it's nothing." Only then did she notice the stains on his knee, mixed with rainwater and mud, with faint traces of blood.

On a stormy night, lightning flashed and thunder roared outside the living room's French windows. The two of them nestled on the sofa watching an old movie; the blue light from the television screen reflected on Lu Mingze's face, giving his silver hair a cool sheen.

On his lap lay a glass jar filled with stardust, dried chrysanthemum petals, and a withered maple leaf—picked up during their first date. Jiang Zimei's foot brushed against the scar on his calf, a mark from when he bumped into an easel last year. Now, in the candlelight, it glowed a pale pink, like a cloud dyed by the setting sun. Beside it was a fresh scrape, from when he slipped and fell in the rain earlier.

"Would you like some winter melon tea?" He suddenly stood up, stepped over the scattered drawings, and headed towards the kitchen, his silver hair flashing in the blue light of the lightning.

She watched his back as he bent over in front of the refrigerator, a band-aid peeking out from under his shirt hem—he'd cut himself again that morning while fixing her picture frame, and the skin around the band-aid was a little red, like an allergic reaction.

Amidst the rumble of thunder, he turned around carrying a tea tray. The steam from the porcelain cups blurred his glasses, as if a thin mist had been cast over his eyes. He groped his way over, nearly knocking over the painting supplies on the tea table.

"Be careful, it's hot." He handed her the teacup, tracing a circle on the rim with his fingertip—their secret code, meaning "I love you." "I added some mint leaves, your favorite, and..." He paused, a faint blush rising at the tips of his ears, "and the lemon slices you dried last year." The sweetness of the winter melon tea mingled with the coolness of the mint and the tartness of the lemon. She suddenly remembered a summer night twenty years ago, when they watched the stars on the rooftop. He used a disposable paper cup to hold cola, with crooked stars drawn on the bottom, saying, "This is the Milky Way I gave you." Later, it rained, and they huddled under a small parasol. He tilted the umbrella completely over her, getting half of himself soaked, but he smiled and said, "Watching the rain like this is like looking at your painting."

At midnight, the rain stopped. The two stood on the balcony watching the moon. The stardust jar shimmered with tiny lights in the moonlight, like someone had put the Milky Way into a glass jar. Lu Mingze suddenly pointed to the sky: "Look, the Big Dipper." She looked in the direction he was pointing. The seven stars were faintly visible in the clouds, like undeveloped film in his camera, or like the unfinished starry sky in her sketchbook.

(End of this chapter)