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

The morning sunlight sprinkled like gold dust on the studio floor. As Lu Mingze bent down to pick up maple leaves, Jiang Zimei spotted the fever patch on his lower back. She reached out and pressed her hand on his shoulder, her fingertips touching the slightly warm body beneath his sweater: "Your temperature was 37.8℃ last night. You must stay home and rest today."

"The art exhibition opens the day after tomorrow," he tried to argue, but Jiang Zimei silenced him with a coffee cup. She turned around and pulled out a temperature-controlled eye mask from the cabinet, the scent of lavender mixed with the orange blossom essential oil from her hair: "I'm going to the flower room to organize the 'Maple Shadow' display shelves. You stay here and put on the eye mask and sleep for an hour."

The studio clock struck nine. Lu Mingze had just dozed off when he heard a loud crash coming from the greenhouse. He stumbled over and saw Jiang Zimei crouching on the ground, the corner of the walnut picture frame in front of her cracked, and blood seeping from her fingertips—she had obviously been pricked by a splinter.

"I told you not to touch heavy things!" He hurriedly pulled her hand away, blowing away the blood droplets with his mouth, the scent of mint toothpaste mixed with the smell of rust. Jiang Zimei looked at his reddened ear tips and suddenly remembered how he had helped her remove cactus thorns before, when his hands didn't have so many calluses.

It was noon by the time she finished treating the wound, and the snow suddenly intensified. Jiang Zimei stood in the kitchen making pear soup, watching Lu Mingze, wrapped in a thick coat, rush into the snow—he said he was going to buy her favorite plum blossom cakes. Water vapor condensed on the windowpane; she drew a maple leaf with her fingertip, only to see him slip and fall in the snow, clutching the brown paper bag tightly as he got up.

"You're so clumsy." She opened the door and took the bag, touching his icy fingers. A piece of paper fell out of his down jacket pocket, and as she bent down to pick it up, she saw the words "Medical Report." Lu Mingze's face turned deathly pale instantly, and he reached out to snatch it, but she gently avoided him.

The writing on the paper was blurred, and she could only make out the word "benign." Suddenly, the pear soup in the kitchen boiled, the bubbling masking his rapid breathing. Jiang Zimei folded the report and put it in her apron pocket, then scooped a spoonful of pear soup and blew on it to cool it: "The doctor said to eat more sweets to replenish qi and blood, drink this first."

When the snow stopped, low snowdrifts piled up outside the studio's French windows. Lu Mingze sat in front of his easel, his brush pausing on the maple tree tips in his painting "Autumn Light - Lu"—he had originally intended to paint a sunset, but now he had chosen the first snow. Jiang Zimei sat behind him, using a flower press to process freshly picked maple leaves, the scent of glycerin mingling with the cedar perfume on his body.

“Actually, I knew three months ago.” He suddenly spoke, his brush tip spreading a small patch of ochre on the canvas. “A benign tumor. The doctor said surgery would remove it.” Jiang Zimei’s embossing tool paused, the veins of the maple leaves casting spiderweb-like shadows under the glass. “So you always say your hands are cold, is it because…”

“I was afraid you’d worry.” He put down his paintbrush and turned around, his silver hair gleaming like pearls in the twilight. “I was planning to tell you after the exhibition, but I didn’t expect…” Jiang Zimei stood up and hugged him, hearing his heartbeat through his sweater, rhythmic like the pendulum of an old clock. The snow outside the window began to fall again, rustling on the maple leaves, much like the sound of ginkgo leaves brushing against the umbrella when they first kissed.

Late at night, Jiang Zimei was tidying up old things in her studio when she came across a dusty tin box. Inside were letters Lu Mingze had never sent—

The letter paper has yellowed, and the penmanship is strong enough to penetrate the paper: "If one day I can no longer see your smile, I will grind maple leaf specimens into pigments, so that your autumn light can remain on the canvas forever."

She walked into the bedroom, clutching the letter, and saw him looking at a tutorial on pressed flower making by the bedside lamp, his eyelashes casting small, fan-like shadows under his eyes. He held a maple leaf between his fingers, the veins still stained with the glycerin he had used that afternoon: "The instructions say that adding a few drops of lemon juice will make the color more translucent."

Jiang Zimei placed the letter beside his pillow and curled up in his arms. He stiffened slightly, then reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist, his chin brushing against the top of her head: "I was so foolish back then, always afraid of losing you." She looked up and kissed his lips, tasting the lingering sweetness of the pear soup: "Now it's my turn to be afraid, afraid that you'll secretly be hurting again."

The bedside nightlight flickered on and off.

Lu Mingze reached out and turned off the light. Moonlight streamed through the blinds, casting maple leaf-shaped dappled patterns of light on them. His fingers gently traced the silver strands at her temples, as if painting a most precious picture: "Let's go take pictures of the snow scene tomorrow. We'll use the new shutter release cable to capture the way the snow falls on your eyelashes."

Jiang Zimei closed her eyes, hearing his heartbeat overlap with the sound of snow falling outside the window. The letter in the tin box trembled slightly in the moonlight, as if responding to the vow she hadn't spoken before. She suddenly remembered the plum blossom cakes he had bought today; the osmanthus filling was still in the kitchen, and they could be eaten with freshly brewed caramel milk tea tomorrow.

The art exhibition opened as scheduled, and the "Autumn Light" series was surrounded by people. Jiang Zimei stood in front of "Maple Shadows" and looked at herself on the canvas, squatting in front of the flower stand. The moment her fingertips touched the maple leaf specimen, Lu Mingze had painted the silver thread at her temples into a gold thread, which shimmered slightly under the light.

“This is a gift from time.” He appeared behind her unnoticed, his suit sleeves still stained with ochre paint. “Just like every trace you’ve left in my life.”

Suddenly, a gasp of surprise came from the crowd. They turned around and saw a little girl pointing at the "Autumn Whispers" collage.

Jiang Zimei smiled and saw that the little girl was holding a maple leaf in her hand, with the word "beauty" written in crayon between the veins.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, sunlight streamed through the greenhouse glass precisely on time, weaving diamond-shaped patches of light on the registration table. Lu Mingze suddenly took her hand and led her through the crowd to the backyard. Under the snow-covered ginkgo tree, there stood the old bench they used for their collages back then, the bark still bearing traces of glue from before.

“Remember when I said I wanted to make another collage?” He pulled a velvet box out of his pocket. This time, instead of a shutter release cable, it contained two embossed rings—made from maple leaves they collected each year, with tiny gold foil embedded in the veins, like solidified autumn light.

Jiang Zimei suddenly remembered the draft invitation she found in his suit pocket this morning while tidying up the studio. It was signed "Lu Mingze & Jiang Zimei Autumn Remarriage Ceremony." She looked at him kneeling on one knee on the snow, his silver hair dyed honey by the sunlight, and a snowflake still clinging to his eyelashes: "We used rice paste to glue ginkgo leaves together. Today, I want to use the rest of my life to be your glue, sticking every autumn to your side."

Suddenly, applause erupted around her, and she realized that her friends had been hiding behind the trees, holding maple leaf-shaped balloons. A little girl ran over and pinned a pressed osmanthus flower in her hair; its fragrance, mingled with the fresh scent of snow, was just like the one she had pinned to her lapel on their first date.

Lu Mingze's hand trembled slightly as he slipped the ring onto his ring finger. Jiang Zimei recalled how he had secretly practiced his confession in front of the mirror that morning; the second button of his shirt was buttoned incorrectly, and she had to help him re-button it. The shutter release cable vibrated gently in her palm; their friends were capturing everything with their camera. "It's time to say 'I do'," he said, looking up at her, his eyes reflecting two clusters of sunlight, like the warmth of autumn. Jiang Zimei leaned down and kissed him, hearing cheers around them and the distant aroma of roasted chestnuts wafting over—some friend had thoughtfully bought chestnuts, the rustling of the brown paper bag echoing their youthful days.

The banquet was held in the greenhouse, with a ceramic jar in the center of each table, filled with maple leaf specimens they had collected over the years. As the candlelight flickered, Lu Mingze suddenly raised his glass: "Thank you to my autumn poet for making every autumn taste like icing sugar." His sleeve slipped down, revealing a newly applied band-aid—this time with a maple leaf pattern and small pieces of gold foil stuck to the edge.

Jiang Zimei stood up and pulled a painting from her sketchbook: "This is a gift for the groom, the final chapter of 'The Frosting of Time'." On the canvas, they sat on an old bench, he pinned a red leaf on her finger, and she wiped the paint off him. Ginkgo leaves were falling behind them, each leaf shimmering with a caramel-colored light.

late at night.

Jiang Zimei leaned on Lu Mingze's shoulder, watching him use his newly learned flower-pressing technique to process the maple leaves from the wedding. The leaves, soaked in glycerin, were translucent like amber. He carefully tucked them into "Stray Birds," with the shirt button from before still tucked between the pages.

“We should go to the hospital tomorrow.” He suddenly spoke, his fingertips tracing the ring on her ring finger. “Are you scared?” Jiang Zimei looked up at him, moonlight filtering through the greenhouse glass, casting dappled patterns of light on his eyelashes. “I’m not scared, because you’ll come back with the pressed flower ring and continue picking the caramel crumbs off the chestnut shells for me.”

He laughed, his chest vibrating against her ear: "Let's go to Qinghai to photograph the maple leaves, just like in your paintings, for our first autumn after surgery." Jiang Zimei closed her eyes, hearing the sound of him turning pages and the distant ticking of melting snow. The old clock in the corner of the greenhouse struck twelve, and she suddenly remembered the little girl's message she had seen in the guestbook that day: "Grandpa and Grandma's love is like maple leaves, it will never fade."

Outside the window, the morning star rose. Lu Mingze gently embraced her, the veins of his embossed ring brushing against her hand.

At 7:03 a.m., the light filtering through the blinds, like stretched golden threads, wove a fuzzy edge around the fever patch on Lu Mingze's lower back. Jiang Zimei squatted by the bed, her fingertips hovering three inches from his forehead, and could feel the unusual temperature—his skin was like a melted toffee, covered in fine sweat.

"Did you have night sweats last night?" She pulled out the thermometer from the bedside table. When the metal tip touched below his collarbone, he subconsciously shrank his shoulders, revealing pale blue veins at the collar of his sweater, like bare branches in late autumn. The mercury column stopped at 37.9°C, 0.1 degrees higher than last night.

Lu Mingze reached for the sketchbook on the bedside table, his wrist slipping off the turmeric wristband and revealing a cartoon fever-reducing patch on the inside—the bear pattern was wrinkled from being soaked in body heat, its round nose pointing directly at the calluses on his face from years of holding paintbrushes. “The display stand for ‘Maple Shadow’ needs to be adjusted.” His voice was hoarse from just waking up, but Jiang Zimei stopped him with lip balm at the end.

"Hold it in your mouth for now." She put the honey throat lozenge into his mouth, the minty and caramel flavors exploding on his tongue, just like the strawberry lipstick she secretly applied during their first kiss. She turned around and rummaged through the closet for a coral fleece robe, the cuffs still sewn with the small hole he had accidentally burned last year—he had been making coffee in front of the easel, and his distraction had caused the bottom of the pot to burn.

The studio clock struck eight. Just as Jiang Zimei placed the temperature-controlled eye mask on his eyes, she heard a cracking sound coming from the direction of the greenhouse. She rushed out in her slippers and saw the walnut frame lying on the ground, shattered into pieces. Splinters of wood were embedded in Jiang Zimei's index finger, and beads of blood bloomed like miniature camellias on the skin.

"I told you to wait for me to move it!" Lu Mingze had followed her unnoticed, his knees still damp with the coral fleece from his bathrobe. He knelt on one knee amidst the wood shavings, picking at the splinters for her. The warm light from the lamp fell on his slightly curled eyelashes, casting a fan-shaped shadow beneath his eyes, like a moth about to take flight. His breath brushed against her fingertips, carrying the crisp scent of toothpaste: "If it hurts, pinch my wrist."

Jiang Zimei looked at the newly sprouted silver hair on the back of his neck.

When the splinter was removed, it drew a trace of blood, and she couldn't help but gasp softly. Suddenly, his fingertip touched her lips: "Shh, consider it a kiss mark."

It was already ten o'clock when the wound was treated. Suddenly, snowflakes hit the glass of the greenhouse, pattering like a handful of shattered diamonds. Jiang Zimei was in the kitchen making fritillaria and pear soup when she saw Lu Mingze wrapped in three scarves and venturing into the snow. The hem of his camel coat was lifted by the wind, revealing his sweater worn inside out—the tag on the collar dangled behind his neck like a little animal eager to peek out.

She drew maple leaves on the fogged glass with her fingertips, only to see him stumble and fall in the middle of the snow, his brown paper bag flying half a meter away. He hurriedly got up, first checking the plum blossom cakes in the bag, then brushing the snow off his knees, his movements just like when he was protecting the camera film.

"Idiot." She opened the door and took the bag, her fingers touching his, frozen like ice cubes, but she found a folded piece of paper in his down jacket pocket. The moment she unfolded it, the words "Thyroid Ultrasound Examination" pierced her pupils, the report dated three months ago, the Autumn Equinox. Lu Mingze's reaching to snatch it froze in mid-air, like an old movie paused on time.

The pear soup bubbled on the stove, the wooden spoon bobbing against the rim of the pot as bubbles rose. Jiang Zimei folded the report into a maple leaf shape and stuffed it into her apron pocket: "It's benign, right?" She turned to ladle out the soup, her voice more steady than expected, "Dr. Wang's handwriting still looks like chicken claw marks."

Lu Mingze stood frozen in place, watching her blow on the pear soup again and again. When she brought it to his lips, a piece of dried tangerine peel clung to the edge of the spoon—he knew she always added three pieces of dried tangerine peel to the pear soup, saying it would neutralize the sweetness of the honey. The steam blurred her glasses, and he couldn't see the emotions in her eyes; he could only hear the deafening pounding of his own heart.

When the snow stopped, twilight seeped into the studio like diluted milk tea. Lu Mingze stared blankly at "Autumn Light - Lu," where the setting sun should have been, now a clump of undried titanium white—he had painted the first snow with a creamy texture, the snow on the maple tree tips like icing that wouldn't melt. Jiang Zimei sat in the wicker chair behind him, maple leaves dripping glycerin from the embossing pot, forming small, transparent puddles on the glass plate.

“Actually, I should have noticed sooner,” she suddenly said, the metal serrations of the embossing tool leaving fine lines along the edge of the maple leaf. “You always said your hands were shaking when you were mixing titanium white, and you always said you couldn’t hang the frame properly when you were climbing the ladder.”

(End of this chapter)