In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 134, Section 133: Lin Jianyue's Letter, A Message from a Wild Goose, Temperature and Scale
In early September, the summer heat in Shanghai had not yet completely subsided.

The air still retained the stickiness unique to late summer, like an invisible veil, carrying the dust of sycamore leaves and the faint salty smell of the Huangpu River in the distance.

Yang Guangming had just finished processing a production summary report from the workshop, and fine beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

He picked up the enamel mug on the corner of the table, which had several chips on it, and gulped down a large mouthful of cold tea. The tea was slightly astringent, with the robust flavor of large-leaf tea, which perfectly soothed the dryness in his throat.

He had just put the jar down when there was a knock on the door.

"Secretary Yang, there's a letter for you!" Xiao Wang from the mailroom poked half his body in, his face radiating youthful energy, waving a manila envelope in his hand.

"Thank you, Xiao Wang." Yang Guangming stood up and took the letter. The envelope was rough, with the fibrous feel of paper.

His gaze fell precisely on the lower right corner—a line of neat and elegant handwriting: "Lin Jianyue, Labor and Wages Department, Dongfang Machinery Factory".

It felt like something gently bumped into my chest, a soft, yet distinct sound.

A hint of surprise was quickly replaced by a strange, sweet joy that quietly rippled through my heart.

Ten days have passed since he braved the rain to take her back to the narrow alleyway of the Shikumen (stone gate) after the ideological report meeting at the district workers' cultural palace.

During this period, the factory had a tight autumn production schedule, and the affairs were so complicated that they were like a tangled mess.

Considering the inherent reserve and caution of that era, he followed the unwritten, slow, and reserved pace of their interactions, and the two never crossed paths again.

Unexpectedly, this silence was broken by the letter that Lin Jianyue took the initiative to deliver.

After Xiao Wang closed the door, his footsteps disappeared at the end of the corridor, leaving him alone in the office.

Outside the window, the factory's loudspeakers were blaring "Sailing the Seas Depends on the Helmsman," the stirring melody and powerful lyrics piercing the air, making the small factory office even quieter, so quiet that you could hear your own steady breathing.

He opened the envelope, and inside was a thick stack of letters, which unfolded to reveal seven pages.

The light blue lined stationery carries the simplicity unique to this era.

Her handwriting is neat and tidy, with each stroke showing seriousness and containing the delicate touch unique to a young girl, just like the impression she leaves on people.

Sunlight shone as he leaned against the back of the old rattan chair, the rattan making a slight creaking sound.

He adjusted his posture to relax his body, and the anticipation in his heart expanded in ripples, like the surface of a lake tossed with a pebble.

Filled with anticipation, he began to read these seven pages of heartfelt words that transcended space and time.

The letter begins with a common and polite greeting, carrying the courtesy and distance characteristic of letters in this era—"Comrade Yang Guangming: Greetings."

Then, the words, like a clear, gentle stream, slowly unfolded the picture of her life over the past ten days.

As a statistician in the labor and personnel department of Dongfang Machinery Factory, her work was not as arduous as that of the workshop workers, but it was still quite tedious.

After finishing the daily reports and piles of files, I still have a lot of free time to myself.

She described in detail how she buried herself in those old employee rosters with yellowed paper and a mixed smell of camphor and dust, and how she patiently sorted through and looked for patterns and connections in the tedious sea of ​​numbers.

Her words reveal a serious and responsible attitude towards her work, and one can even clearly imagine her sitting on the old wooden table, her delicate eyebrows slightly furrowed, her fingertips tracing lines of data with complete concentration.

Trivial matters of daily life occupied most of the letter.

She and her friend Feng Xianghong lived together in a one-room Shikumen house.

This residence was purchased by the Feng family after the liberation. Since Feng Xianghong's parents both worked in the army, it became their private paradise.

Without the supervision of elders, this small space is filled with the unique carefree atmosphere of youth.

With a touch of annoyance mixed with a hint of humor, she recounted their awkward situation in the kitchen:
"...Sister Xiang Hong is as impatient as a ball of fire. When steaming rice, she is always afraid that it will not be soft enough, so she adds plenty of water. As a result, several times the rice has turned into sticky, watery porridge."

I'm always worried that undercooked rice will upset my stomach, so I don't know how to control the heat. Often, the bottom of the pan is burnt and hard, and I can't even scrape it off.

The most troublesome thing is that the quota for whole grains has come down this month: golden cornmeal, gray sorghum flour, dry sweet potato chips... a real, huge pile.

We stared at that pile of 'treasures' at each other, completely at a loss.

I reluctantly tried steaming some cornbread, and it turned out crooked and looked like a toad that hadn't woken up yet.

When I broke it open, wow, the inside was still wet and sticky, but the outside was as hard as a pebble on a riverbank, making my gums ache.

Sister Xiang Hong, hands on her hips, said angrily, "Even if you used this cornbread to hit a dog, it would avoid it like the plague!"

She continued writing, her tone a mixture of exasperation and amusement:

"We couldn't just leave the cornmeal and sorghum flour lying around, so we had the wild idea of ​​mixing these two types of flour with some precious wheat flour and ambitiously steaming a batch of 'three-in-one' steamed buns."

The results were even worse. Either too little alkali was added, and the dough lay limply in the steamer like a deflated balloon; or too much alkali was added, and the steamed dough had a pungent, strange smell and an even more frightening color, yellowish-green and greenish-yellow, looking exactly like mold!
Although it's hard to swallow, food is life, and wasting even a single grain is a sin.

We pushed and shoved each other, encouraging each other, and it took us several days to finally finish that pot of 'masterpiece'.

Upon reading this, Yang Guangming couldn't help but smile silently, a smile playing on his lips.

I could almost clearly picture two young and pretty girls sitting around a small coal stove, facing a shapeless dough ball on a cutting board, complaining about each other's "skills," yet unable to resist laughing so hard at each other's messy appearance.

In this era of planned supply, refined grains were as precious as oil, while coarse grains were the absolute mainstay on the dining table. Such "kitchen disasters" were a common sight, especially among young people who lacked life experience and lived alone far from their parents.

However, material poverty and scarcity could not imprison the richness and vibrancy of their spiritual world. The tone of the letter quickly turned light and bright again:
"...However, life didn't feel dull or tasteless. Sister Xiang Hong and I found quite a few books, like we were on a treasure hunt."

Some were borrowed from the company library, while others were obtained by persistently pleading with the factory's older, book-loving employees.

At night, under the dim light of a small desk lamp, or on a weekend afternoon, each person would hold a book, curled up on their bed or in a chair, engrossed in reading.

Sometimes it's Gorky's thick "My Apprenticeship," where I follow Alyosha as he struggles through suffering, and I'm moved to tears by the warmth of his grandmother.

Sometimes it's Lu Xun's collections of essays, which are as sharp as daggers; as you read them, you can't help but applaud them.

There were also a few booklets about science. Although some parts were confusing and seemed like gibberish, they were still novel and interesting, as if a small window into another world had been opened.

Xiang Hongjie, on the other hand, preferred to read novels like "Song of Youth," which combined revolution and romance. She was often moved by Lin Daojing's fate, her eyes would well up with tears, and she would secretly wipe them away.

Occasionally, we would put down our books and have a few words of discussion, talking about the good and bad of the characters, the twists and turns of the story, and time would slip away unnoticed in this clash of ideas...

So it seems that while there's less fat in my belly, there's definitely more substance in my head..."

She rambled on about those ordinary, even trivial, daily routines, yet her writing was filled with simple, heartfelt warmth:
A kind-hearted neighbor auntie from the alleyway brought over a small dish of her homemade pickled crisp radishes. They were salty, fresh, and delicious, and became a "luxury" to accompany their meals.
In the corner of that neglected little garden behind the factory, a few wildflowers, whose names I don't know, have quietly bloomed. They are small, pale yellow, and sway timidly in the wind.

As evening approached, I strolled side-by-side with Feng Xianghong along the empty factory avenue, watching the magnificent sunset burn like fire in the west, painting the massive factory buildings in a splendid golden-red hue. The tranquility and grandeur of that moment were enough to soothe the day's fatigue...

The glimmer of light shining through the cracks of these austere lives flows through her delicate writing with a tenacious and warm vitality, like a small grass stubbornly pushing its way out of a crack in the rock.

The letter pages turned one by one, until the sixth page, when the lively and unrestrained handwriting seemed to pause slightly, the characters appearing to freeze a little, revealing a girl's unique shyness:
"...How have things been going at your Red Star factory lately?"
Thinking back to that gathering at Comrade Shunan's house last time still warms my heart.

Everyone gathered together, chatting and laughing, playing ping-pong, singing songs, and listening to Shunan play the accordion. Time seemed to fly by, and before we knew it, it was dark.

I wonder when... we'll all be able to get together again?
When people are together, they can have heart-to-heart talks and sing revolutionary songs, which is always more enjoyable and lively.

I... I really hope that day will come.

The last line was written with a hint of haste, as if one had finally mustered the courage to write it down, yet was quick to finish it for fear of revealing their thoughts:

I'll stop here. I look forward to your reply. Wishing you success in your work and good health.

The signature reads "Lin Jianyue," and the date is yesterday.

Yang Guangming put down the letter; the weight of the seven pages pressed heavily on his palm, and also heavily on his heart.

The rousing march from the loudspeaker outside the window seemed to have been turned down and gradually faded away, leaving only the clear and powerful sound of his own heartbeat in the office, thumping and thumping, breaking the silence.

He could clearly feel the cautious intimacy and tentative approach between the lines, like the most delicate flower buds on a branch in early spring, shyly about to bloom.

One can better appreciate the subtle emotions hidden beneath those seemingly simple and ordinary words at the end of the letter, emotions that require immense courage to express in writing.

In this special era, the expression of emotions is like a spark wrapped in thick cotton wool, burning hot inside, but outwardly it must be reserved and restrained, carefully maintaining a proper distance.

Lin Jianyue's seven-page letter was nothing less than a courageous "attack" and a silent declaration.

Yang Guangming leaned back in his chair, and the rattan chair emitted a soft groan.

His slender fingers unconsciously caressed the slightly rough edge of the letter, his fingertips feeling the texture of the paper.

He possesses a maturity beyond his years, and when he views this budding, dew-like affection, he cherishes it while also maintaining a degree of prudent clarity.

He clearly remembers his age—he is only seventeen this year.

He also clearly remembers the legal marriage age of that era—twenty for men and eighteen for women.

He still has three full years to go before reaching that red line that symbolizes maturity and responsibility.

For him, since marriage is still a distant future horizon, establishing a so-called "relationship" too early and too hastily may become an invisible constraint, or even stifle the space for this emotion to grow naturally.

Love, like a plant, needs suitable soil and ample time to slowly take root, sprout branches, and unfold leaves before it can finally bloom its own flower.

Trying to force growth by pulling up seedlings is never a good strategy.

Let things take their natural course, allowing this hazy yet beautiful feeling to slowly settle, ferment, and develop into mutual understanding in the stream of time. This might be a more prudent approach, and one that respects each other's growth.

However, the letter that Lin Jianyue sent with great courage was like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, creating ripples that demanded a response.

He couldn't let her overthink while waiting, adding unnecessary anxiety and disappointment.

This reply is crucial; it needs to convey warmth while also maintaining a proper balance.

It couldn't be a passionate, heartfelt love letter; that would be inappropriate and go against his desire to "let things take their natural course."

But it can't be a dry, cold, rambling account of life, or it would betray the sincerity of her seven pages of sharing and the hidden, precious expectations between the lines.

He needs to find a delicate balance—like communicating with a pen pal who shares his interests and understands him.

Maintaining a proper comradely distance while being vivid, interesting, and naturally showcasing his thoughts, temperament, and care, so that she can smile knowingly and feel the sincere warmth and silent resonance behind the words.

Having made up his mind, he sat up straight and opened the drawer. Inside, various documents and stationery were neatly arranged.

He took out a stack of letter paper printed with the bright red words "Serve the People." The paper was slightly thick and carried a faint scent of ink. He then unscrewed the cap of his long-time black Hero brand fountain pen. The dark blue ink gathered at the golden nib, full and ready to drip.

Outside the window, the dense foliage of the plane trees swayed in the breeze, and dappled sunlight danced gently on the letter paper, like leaping musical notes.

He paused for a moment, his gaze calm, and then, with a sense of certainty, his pen flowed smoothly onto the pristine white paper.

"Comrade Lin Jianyue: Your letter has been received."

Let's begin with the most standard titles and opening remarks of this era.

"The seven-page letter felt heavy in my hand, and it was even more enjoyable to read, as if I were taking a trip through your small Shikumen and the Oriental Machinery Factory with the tip of your pen."

Thank you for sharing so many vivid and interesting stories. It made me, as an 'observer,' feel as if I could see your focused concentration while working at your desk, hear your laughter and chatter with Comrade Feng Xianghong in the kitchen, and even smell the... well, the unique aroma of steaming cornbread.

His reply also began with greetings, his tone was calm and friendly, with the familiarity of a friend, yet he maintained the necessary sense of propriety.

Then, he cleverly and with good-natured humor responded to the impressive "key point" of her letter:
"...The story of your thrilling 'kitchen adventure' with Comrade Feng Xianghong is truly hilarious!"

The cornbread that "makes even dogs avoid it," and the steamed buns that are "yellow and green with a unique smell," are just too vivid in our minds!
It seems that how to tame these rough "grain comrades" and make them docile and palatable is the "main contradiction" that you two ladies need to focus your efforts on solving right now.

With a shift in tone, he moved beyond mere banter to offer lighthearted and practical advice:

"...I did hear a little 'home remedy' from the old chef in the factory canteen, which you can try for reference."

When kneading dough, it is best to use warm water, with the temperature being just right so that it is not hot to the touch.

You can add a tiny bit of saccharin. Although the taste is far inferior to that of precious white sugar, it is said to promote fermentation and improve the texture.

It's better to let it ferment for a longer time to allow it to fully rise.

When steaming, it's best to place a clean, damp cloth or washed vegetable leaves under the cornbread. This prevents it from sticking to the pot and also prevents the bottom of the cornbread from becoming hard and dense due to moisture.

He continued writing, like an experienced "advisor":
"As for mixed dough or mixed dough, why not try steaming instead of baking? Both leavened and unleavened dough will work."

Simply brush a thin layer of oil into the pan and cook over low heat. Be patient, flipping frequently, aiming for a golden-brown, crispy exterior and a soft, fluffy interior. Cooking pancakes seems easier to control than steaming buns; at least you're less likely to end up with burnt outside and undercooked inside or too much baking soda.

Of course, these are all hearsay and theoretical discussions. The specific operations still need to be explored and summarized by you two "commanders" in practice. "Practice makes perfect" is an irrefutable truth!

I've got my little stool ready, ears pricked, eagerly awaiting your next 'battle report'—will it be a triumphant march, showcasing your delicious spoils? Or… well, what new and exciting 'inventions' have you come up with?

He skillfully avoided expressing concern that might seem too intimate, responding to her concerns in a tone more akin to sharing life experiences and discussing "technical problems" among comrades. He offered both goodwill and encouragement, transforming a "kitchen disaster" into a topic that could be explored together and full of fun.

The conversation naturally and subtly transitioned to books as a shared spiritual home:
"...Seeing that you say you immerse yourself in books in your spare time to nourish your spirit, that's a wonderful thing."

I also love Gorky's "My Apprenticeship". Alyosha struggles and sinks in the mire of suffering in the lower class, but he can always feel the golden warmth and resilient strength brought by his grandmother Kashirina.

This spirit of persistently seeking light even in darkness always stirs the heart and fills one with strength when reading about it.

Lu Xun's essays are like daggers and spears, every word a gem, directly pointing out the ills of the times and reflecting the human heart.

He wrote, "There was originally no road in the world, but as more people walked on it, it became a road." Every time I read it, I feel a surge of pioneering spirit in my heart.

Especially in our factory, when facing the exploration of new processes and the tackling of production challenges, this pioneering spirit of 'daring to be the first in the world' is particularly valuable and practical..."

He shared his reading insights without deliberately showing off his knowledge, but rather combined them with his work experience in the factory and his daily reflections, making the discussion sincere, down-to-earth, and profound in its exchange of ideas.

He even subtly mentioned:
"...When we discussed Gorky's 'The Stormy Petrel' during our written conversation at the end of the last report meeting, the cry of 'Let the storm rage on!' still feels full of fearless passion and courage to challenge."

Actually, when you think about it, aren't the little "storms" we occasionally encounter in life, like a failed attempt to make a pot of steamed buns, also part of tempering our will and improving our life skills? What do you think?

He subtly used the imagery of "The Stormy Petrel," a work brimming with revolutionary romanticism, to both implicitly respond to the unspoken understanding between the two of them when they exchanged thoughts via notes during the report meeting, and to cleverly and imperceptibly offer her encouragement and an open-minded attitude in the face of minor setbacks in life.

The letter also included some details about his recent life, but he didn't elaborate much on them, only touching on them briefly:

"...The factory has been focusing on safety during the autumn production season. Slogans are plastered all over the workshops, and the announcements are made every day. There's definitely a lot going on."

Last week, I even went down to the workshop twice with Deputy Factory Director Zhao.

The machines roared deafeningly, the spindles spun like shuttles, and the workers were all working with great enthusiasm, drenched in sweat.

Watching bolts of 'Dacron' fabric emerge from the machine like flowing water, rolled into neat rolls, I feel at ease, knowing that all the hard work and effort are worthwhile.

"We workers have strength, and that's no exaggeration!"

At the end of the letter, he solemnly and subtly echoed her expectations:
"...You mentioned in your letter the gathering at Shunan's house last time, which is indeed something to miss."

That pure liveliness, that unrestrained youthful energy, is incomparable to any formal report meeting or training course.

When people gather together, chatting and laughing, sharing the simple food they brought, playing a few rounds of ping-pong, and listening to Shu Nan's melodious yet somewhat passionate accordion playing... it is indeed a rare pleasure after a stressful workday, a "refueling station" for the spirit.

I think there will be more opportunities like this in the future.

However, everyone is busy with work and production tasks right now, so we need to wait for a suitable time when everyone is available.

I also look forward to the day when I can once again enjoy those relaxed, carefree, and open-minded times with everyone.

He did not give a specific time commitment, which is both realistic and in line with his prudence.

But the word "hoping" is enough to clearly express his attitude and inner longing.

This is both a direct response to her expectations and a subtle expression of revolutionary comradeship and personal feelings belonging to this special era.

Finally, he put down his pen, his handwriting steady and powerful:

"...Words are insufficient to express the deep emotions, and thoughts are numerous. I shall stop writing here."

I sincerely hope that your and Comrade Feng Xianghong's 'revolution in culinary techniques' will achieve a decisive victory soon, and I look forward to your 'good news'! I look forward to your reply.

Wishing you success at work and a cheerful mood, as bright as the early autumn sky!

Signed: Yang Guangming. Date: September 6, 1969.

He put down his pen, let out a long, silent sigh, as if he had unloaded a heavy burden, or as if he had completed an extremely intricate work of art.

The letter spanned seven full pages, filled with neat and clear dark blue handwriting.

He picked up the letter and carefully examined it from beginning to end. He confirmed that the handwriting was neat and the wording was appropriate.

It contains nothing that could be interpreted as "petit-bourgeois sentimentality," yet it exudes genuine care, intellectual exchange, and a zest for life, like a glass of perfectly warm water on an autumn day—simple yet thirst-quenching, possessing its own gentle and comforting power.

He carefully folded the letters in order, aligning the edges.

Then, I put it into a brand-new kraft paper envelope and neatly wrote the address of Lin Jianyue's workplace in a fountain pen: "To Comrade Lin Jianyue of the Labor and Wages Department of Dongfang Machinery Factory," with strong and upright handwriting.

In the remaining afternoon, he focused his mind and efficiently processed several official documents that urgently needed approval.

As soon as the get off work bell rang crisply, echoing through the factory area, he quickly tidied his desk, put his pen back in its holder, and carefully and solemnly tucked the letter carrying his heartfelt sentiments into the inside pocket of his blue shirt, close to his heart.

Instead of mailing it in the factory's mailbox, he deliberately took a detour, walking out of the gate of the Hongxing State-owned Cotton Mill, which was painted with the slogan "Learn from Daqing in Industry," crossing two roads filled with the smell of coal smoke and the aroma of food, and arriving at a small post office with peeling green paint.

He stood before the weathered, dark green mailbox, the four large white characters "People's Post and Telecommunications" still prominent in the twilight.

He touched the letter in his pocket again to confirm its presence, and then solemnly dropped it into the narrow, cold letter slot.

The envelope slid to the bottom of the tube with a soft, muffled "tap," a sound like a period at the end of a sentence.

The slight tension in his heart eased, and his steps instantly became lighter.

The evening breeze caressed his young face, carrying the coolness of early autumn evening and the fragrance of sycamore leaves.

In an era lacking electronic communication, letters exchanged within the same city were exceptionally fast and carried particularly heavy expectations.

Just one day later, the same thick letter, bearing the signature of the Red Star State-owned Cotton Mill's office, lay quietly and unobtrusively in the rattan mail basket at the entrance of the Labor and Wages Department of the Oriental Machinery Factory.

It stood out prominently among a pile of newspapers, documents, and notices.

Lin Jianyue saw it almost immediately. Her heartbeat suddenly became disordered, as if it had been gripped tightly and then suddenly released by an invisible hand. Blood rushed to her cheeks and ears with a "buzz," and her cheeks instantly became burning hot.

She forced herself to remain calm, trying to keep her face composed, and walked over as usual, but her fingertips trembled slightly.

She picked up the letter, which was much thicker than ordinary letters, and the familiar, strong handwriting on the envelope burned into her vision.

He eagerly tore open the letter, turning each page through his fingers, clearly feeling the thickness of the paper inside—seven pages! He had actually replied with seven pages!

This realization was like a sweet electric current, instantly coursing through my entire body.

Without making a sound, she quickly stuffed the letter into the pocket of her faded light blue work jacket, her fingers pressing firmly against it through the thin fabric as if to confirm it, as if trying to firmly press it into her heart.

Throughout the afternoon's work, the letter seemed to be a lively, tireless little rabbit thrashing about in her heart.

The numbers on the report seemed to blur into jumping black dots, and the conversations of my colleagues checking data seemed to be through a barrier, making them difficult to hear clearly.

She forced herself to concentrate, picked up a dip pen, dipped it in red ink, and tried to draw a checkmark on the attendance sheet, but the pen tip tore the thin paper several times.

Her thoughts kept drifting to the heavy anticipation in her pocket, and every tiny rustling of the paper seemed to pluck at the strings of her heart.

Finally managing to get through a work break, she took a deep breath and found the least suspicious excuse—saying she needed to go to the archives in the next building to check the number of an old file—she tried to keep her voice steady, but spoke a little faster than usual.

Without waiting for a response from the older woman at the opposite table, she hurriedly left the noisy office.

She did not head towards the archives.

Instead, he quickened his pace, almost jogging, through the noisy workshop aisles, around the open space piled with semi-finished parts, and headed straight for a relatively quiet little warehouse at the very back of the factory, where scrap materials and discarded molds were stored.

Few people usually come here; the tall windows are covered with a thick layer of dust, and only a few stingy rays of light manage to squeeze in.

She found a corner piled with old burlap sacks, leaned against the cold, rough cement wall, and eagerly, almost tremblingly, pulled the letter out of her pocket.

The familiar, bold handwriting on the envelope made her gasp for breath, and her heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst out of her chest.

She carefully opened the seal with her fingernails, afraid of damaging even the smallest corner. Then, holding her breath, she gently pulled out a thick stack of letters inside.

Let me double-check.

Seven pages!

It really is seven pages!
This confirmation instantly overwhelmed her with a huge, almost overflowing sense of sweetness and satisfaction, making even the stuffy air in the warehouse seem fresher.

Ignoring the dust on the sack, she leaned against it and greedily read on, word by word, as if savoring the most precious nectar in the world.

Yang Guangming's reply was like a clear, sweet mountain spring, instantly dispelling the gloom and oppression in the warehouse.

Seeing his good-natured teasing and practical advice about her and Xiang Hong's "kitchen adventure," she was first taken aback, then couldn't help but burst out laughing. Her clear laughter was particularly loud in the empty warehouse.

She quickly covered her mouth and looked around nervously like a startled deer, afraid of disturbing something.

The images of "steamed buns so big that dogs would avoid them" and "yellow-green steamed buns" that he recreated in his writing made her cheeks flush again. She felt shy but also incredibly warm and amused, as if the two of them shared a secret filled with the warmth of everyday life that only they understood.

Those specific suggestions about making pancakes sounded well-organized and seemed genuinely feasible!

She secretly decided that she would go back tonight and try to turn the tables with Sister Xiang Hong.

When she read his sharing of Gorky and Lu Xun's works, and his clever use of "The Stormy Petrel" to encourage them to face the "storms of life," her eyes lit up, sparkling with admiration and joy.

His insights were always so unique and profound. The depth of thought, open-mindedness, and keen observation of life revealed between the lines fascinated her, as if she could draw wisdom and strength from his side.

His simple descriptions of his work in the factory and his observations in the workshop made her feel much closer to his world filled with the roar of machines and the smell of "Dacron," as if she could touch the pulse of his daily life.

When her gaze finally fell upon the last sentence of the letter, "I also look forward to the day when I can enjoy that relaxed and carefree feeling with everyone again," her heart felt as if it had been gently brushed by the softest feather, both soft and warm.

A surge of indescribable excitement and bittersweet happiness welled up within me, and my eyes even felt slightly warm.

Although there isn't a single explicit expression of longing or passionate words throughout the letter, the word "hoping," along with the vivid humor, sincere exchange of ideas, and subtle care that permeate the letter, speaks volumes.

This was exactly the Yang Guangming she knew and admired—steady as a mountain, wise as a spring, considerate and attentive, always able to understand her situation perfectly and respond to her feelings in a gentle yet firm way, giving her strength.

She read it over and over, from page one to page seven, carefully considering each word. Then she turned back to page one from page seven, savoring again the sentences that made her smile or touched her heartstrings.

The light in the warehouse gradually dimmed as the sun set in the west, but the dark blue handwriting on the letter remained clear and distinct under her focused gaze.

His wit and humor in his letters brought smiles to her face silently time and time again; his sharing of ideas filled her with awe and admiration; and his subtle yet incredibly clear "anticipation" was like a pebble thrown into a deep pool, creating sweet ripples in her heart that lingered for a long time.

I read it in one go, and I felt like I hadn't had enough. I really wanted to read it again from the beginning right away!
Unfortunately, the faint sounds of footsteps and indistinct voices coming from the corridor outside reminded her that it was inappropriate for her to have been away for too long.

She carefully and almost reverently folded the letter back to its original state, aligning the edges, as if she were folding a rare treasure.

He put the envelope, which still carried his scent, back into the innermost pocket of his work clothes with great care.

He even subconsciously pressed that spot tightly, as if in doing so, he could safely and securely preserve the immense excitement, sweetness, and emotional tremor he had felt while reading, preventing even the slightest trace from leaking out.

She raised her hand to tidy her slightly disheveled temples and stray hairs on her forehead, which were messed up from excitement, and then smoothed out the collar of her work clothes.

Take a few deep breaths, trying to calm the burning blush on your face and the overly bright light in your eyes, and return to your usual gentle and calm state.

Then, he gently pushed open the heavy, dusty warehouse door and went outside.

The corridor was dimly lit, but her mood was as if it had been completely ignited by those seven pages of letter paper, bright and full of a light, almost soaring joy.

This immense joy was like a treasure held close to one's heart; during work hours, it could only be temporarily suppressed, allowing it to silently boil and sing within one's heart.

She walked back with light steps, her mind already made up: after work, she would return to the small, free-spirited shikumen house she shared with Sister Xiang Hong, close the door, bolt it, and turn on the warm light of the desk lamp…

She insisted on reading it carefully and repeatedly, even ten times!

She wanted to deeply, deeply engrave every word in his letter, every glimmer of humor, every subtle concern, and even the meaning behind every punctuation mark and pause, into her heart and into her very being.

This letter is her most precious treasure at this moment, worth savoring slowly, repeatedly chewing on, and carefully reflecting upon throughout the quiet night.

And that vague expectation of reunion became clearer and more fervent because of this thick and warm seven-page reply, burning brightly in my heart like embers being rekindled in a furnace.

(End of this chapter)