In the winter of the twenty-sixth year of the Republic, Shanghai had a very light rain.
The rain was not heavy, just falling finely and densely, making the wutong leaves on Xiafei Road shine. When the tram passed, the rails made a sharp friction sound, and the newspaper boy on the street corner hunched his shoulders and shouted: "News from Beiping! The situation in North China!"
Zhou Hengqiu stood at the entrance of the Cathay Hotel, not going in immediately.
She wore a smoky gray long coat, with a dark blue qipao underneath, the collar buttoned high. She no longer wore much jewelry, only two small pearls hanging from her earlobes.
Those were left by her mother.
As for gifts from others, she had long stopped wearing them.
Three days ago, the editorial department of the New Voice Daily received an invitation.
No signature.
Only written:
December 7th, seven in the evening.
Second floor of the Cathay Hotel.
Hope to see you.
She had planned to throw it away.
But she recognized the handwriting.
When Liang Yansheng wrote, his last stroke always flicked up to the right, like a person who, even at the end of his rope, refused to bow his head.
After six years apart, she still recognized it.
This matter made Hengqiu very unhappy.
She thought six years was enough to forget someone.
Only later did she realize that time is very good at deceiving people. It only makes something seem distant, but does not guarantee it truly disappears.
She pushed the door and walked into the hotel.
The waiter took her umbrella.
The door to the innermost private room on the second floor was half-open.
Hengqiu had not yet knocked when a low cough came from inside.
Her hand paused on the doorknob.
Liang Yansheng used to cough often too.
Back then he was a reporter for the Shenjiang Daily, smoking two packs a day, running around in a thin wool suit in winter for interviews. She always said he would cough himself to death one day, and he would laugh: "If I really cough to death, remember to write my obituary for me."
She was so angry she threw a book at him.
Now thinking back, those words lived longer than all the vows that came later.
Hengqiu pushed the door open and went in.
Liang Yansheng sat by the window.
He had lost a lot of weight.
Not the handsome thinness of his youth, but the look of someone truly worn down by the years. The black suit hung loosely on him, and there was a faint scar on his left brow bone.
When he saw her, he did not stand up immediately.
The two of them looked at each other across half the room.
Six years.
Long, yet not long. Short, yet not short.
Enough time for a city to change hands several times, and for a pair of lovers to become strangers.
In the end, Liang Yansheng smiled first.
"Hengqiu."
She nodded.
"Mr. Liang."
His smile faltered slightly.
But soon, he stood up and pulled out a chair for her.
"Sit."
There was no wine on the table.
Only two cups of tea.
Hengqiu looked down and saw it was Lu'an Guapian.
Her favorite from before.
"You still remember?" she asked.
"I remember."
"Your memory is quite good."
"Some things cannot be forgotten."
She did not respond to that.
Outside the window was the Huangpu River, with the low sound of a steamship whistle.
Liang Yansheng refilled her tea.
"You are at the New Voice Daily now?"
"Yes."
"Editing the supplement."
"You know quite a lot."
"I read the articles you wrote."
Hengqiu looked up.
"Which one?"
"All of them."
Those two words were too light.
Yet they fell like a pebble into water.
Her hand holding the teacup slowly tightened.
Six years ago, they had met at the newspaper office.
That year Hengqiu was twenty-one, studying at the women's normal school, and submitted an article about night schools for female workers.
It was rejected three times.
The fourth time, she simply stormed into the newspaper office to argue with the editor.
Liang Yansheng was sitting at the back that day, smoking while editing copy.
He looked up at her and only asked: "Did you write this article?"
"Yes."
"And the temper is yours too?"
She looked at him coldly.
"Otherwise?"
Liang Yansheng smiled.
The next day, the article was published on the front page of the supplement.
Later they went to movies together, browsed bookstores, and frequented cafes in the concessions. When they were poorest, they shared a bowl of plain noodles, and Liang Yansheng gave her the only marinated egg.
She asked: "You are not eating?"
He said: "A man only needs noodles."
She actually believed him at the time.
Only two years later did she learn he simply could not afford another egg.
Love back then was poor.
Yet also extravagant.
They had talked about marriage.
Hengqiu had even imagined where they would live after marriage.
She wanted an apartment with a balcony, not too big, just enough space for two desks.
Liang Yansheng said, and raise a cat too.
She said no, cats would scratch the books.
He then said: "Then raise a child."
She glared at him.
He smiled smugly.
Later they raised nothing.
Only a great misunderstanding.
In the twenty-first year of the Republic, Liang Yansheng suddenly disappeared.
No letter, no news.
Three months later, Hengqiu learned from others that he had gone to Nanjing.
Another month passed, and she received his letter.
The letter was short.
Only a few lines.
"Hengqiu:
I have made other arrangements.
Do not wait for me from now on.
You deserve a better life.
Yansheng."
No explanation.
No apology.
Not even a goodbye.
She burned the letter that night.
The fire burned quickly.
But the person did not.
She waited for half a year.
Half a year later, her father passed away from illness, and her mother fell ill too. With debts at home, she dropped out of school and went to work at the newspaper.
She started as a proofreader, later wrote columns, then edited the supplement.
These six years, she learned to pay rent alone, see the doctor alone, move house alone.
And learned to stop asking why.
Liang Yansheng suddenly spoke.
"Do you hate me?"
Hengqiu smiled faintly.
"I used to."
"And now?"
"Busy."
He froze.
She lowered her head to drink tea.
"When a person is busy, they cannot spare the energy to hate anyone."
Liang Yansheng also smiled.
But the smile was bitter.
"You are still the same."
"How so?"
"Your words are sharper than knives."
"Still better than writing short letters."
The air fell silent at once.
Liang Yansheng lowered his head.
After a long time, he said: "That letter was not what I wanted to write."
"But you wrote it."
"Yes."
"That is enough."
Her tone was calm.
Liang Yansheng looked at her.
"I was transferred to Nanjing back then, not of my own will."
Hengqiu did not speak.
"I was investigating arms smuggling at the time, and many people were involved. The newspaper dared not keep me, and there were people above looking for me. If I had stayed in Shanghai, you would have been implicated."
"So you decided for me."
"Yes."
"Decided whether I should wait for you, decided what life I should live, decided whether I could bear it together."
Liang Yansheng was silent.
Hengqiu looked at him.
"You see, even now you think you are protecting me."
He did not deny it.
She suddenly felt very tired.
Six years ago, this explanation was what she wanted most.
She had imagined countless times that if one day he returned and told her he had difficulties, perhaps she could forgive him.
But when it truly came, she discovered that people can expire.
Even answers can.
Liang Yansheng said: "I came back to Shanghai to find you later."
"When?"
"The twenty-third year of the Republic."
She was startled.
That year her mother had just died.
She had moved from her original residence.
"I went to your home, the neighbors said you had moved. I went to the school to look, only to learn you had already dropped out."
Hengqiu did not speak.
"I looked for you for a long time."
"Then what?"
"Later something else happened."
He smiled, pointing to his brow bone.
"Spent a year inside."
Only then did Hengqiu understand where the scar came from.
She looked at him.
Her heart felt strange.
Did it hurt?
It did hurt.
But the pain was no longer like before.
Before it was a knife piercing the chest.
Now it was only an old wound faintly aching when the weather turned cold.
Proving it had once existed.
That was all.
Liang Yansheng suddenly asked: "Have you married?"
Hengqiu shook her head.
His eyes lit up at once.
The light made her feel somewhat reluctant.
"Is there someone you like?"
"Yes."
That bit of light immediately dimmed.
"Is that so."
"Yes."
"Is it good?"
Hengqiu thought for a moment.
"It is good."
In truth there was no one.
She simply suddenly did not want him to know she was still alone.
It was not out of spite.
Nor revenge.
She simply felt he had no right to gain any comfort from her singlehood.
Liang Yansheng picked up his tea.
His fingers trembled slightly.
"That is good."
Hengqiu saw it.
But pretended not to.
Suddenly an alarm sounded outside the window.
People on the street began to stir.
The waiter hurried in, saying it was only an exercise, please do not panic.
Liang Yansheng looked out the window.
"Shanghai may fall into chaos."
"It has always been chaotic."
"This time is different."
Hengqiu looked at him.
He took a steamship ticket from his inner pocket and placed it on the table.
"The day after tomorrow, to Hong Kong."
Hengqiu frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"I bought it for you."
She stared at the ticket.
Suddenly smiled.
"Liang Yansheng."
This was the first time she called him by his full name that night.
"After six years, how come you still have this habit?"
He did not speak.
"Always arranging things for others."
"Hengqiu, listen to me this time."
"Why should I listen to you?"
"Because fighting will really break out."
"And you?"
He was silent.
She understood.
"You are not leaving."
"I have matters to attend to."
"Matters you cannot tell me again?"
"Yes."
Hengqiu suddenly felt it absurd.
Six years ago, he left her because he could not say.
Six years later, he still could not say.
In this world, some reunions are for a new beginning.
Some reunions are only to prove that the ending back then was not wrong.
Hengqiu pushed the ticket back.
"I do not want it."
"Hengqiu."
"I can decide where to go myself."
Liang Yansheng stared at her fixedly.
After a long while, he said softly: "Must you be so stubborn?"
She smiled.
"Did you not teach me that?"
He was taken aback.
She stood up and put on her coat.
"I am leaving."
Liang Yansheng also stood up.
"I will see you off."
"No need."
When she reached the door, he suddenly called out to her.
"Hengqiu."
She stopped.
Did not turn around.
For a long time there was no sound behind her.
Finally, she only heard him ask:
"All these years, have you been well?"
Hengqiu closed her eyes.
She thought of the night her mother died.
Of the first time she received her manuscript fee.
Of winter when the house leaked and she used a basin to catch water all night.
Of stomach pain so bad she could not stand, yet still went to work at the newspaper the next day.
And of many nights when she dreamed Liang Yansheng returned.
In the dream he stood outside the door.
She always ran over.
Never once held back.
But in reality, now that he truly stood behind her.
She could walk away instead.
"I have been well."
She said.
"And you?"
Liang Yansheng did not answer.
She turned around.
He stood under the light.
Still looked the same as when he was twenty-four.
Only his eyes had aged.
Hengqiu suddenly smiled faintly.
"Liang Yansheng."
"Hmm?"
"May you be well."
He looked at her.
For a long time did not speak.
Later he also smiled.
"May you be well."
After that night, Hengqiu never saw him again.
Two days later, she still went to Hong Kong.
Not with the ticket Liang Yansheng bought.
She bought a third-class ticket herself.
When the ship left Shanghai, the sky was gray like an unfinished sheet of paper.
Three years later, she was a chief writer at a newspaper in Hong Kong.
One day while sorting war news, she saw Liang Yansheng's name in a very old list.
Not a death list.
A missing list.
Only two words.
"Whereabouts unknown."
She looked at it for a long time.
A colleague asked her: "Do you know him?"
Hengqiu folded the paper back.
"An old acquaintance."
That evening she went home alone.
It had just rained in Hong Kong.
A record shop on the street was playing a very slow song.
She suddenly remembered many years ago, Liang Yansheng once asked her, if one day he really died, would she write his obituary.
Back then she said:
"I would not."
He asked why.
She said:
"It is unlucky."
Only now did she know.
It was not because it was unlucky.
It was because she did not dare.
Because as long as there was no obituary, it was as if the person had not truly died.
Many years later, Hengqiu was sixty-five.
Someone was helping her sort old belongings.
A yellowed steamship ticket fell out of a book.
The twenty-sixth year of the Republic.
Shanghai to Hong Kong.
First class.
Never used.
Next to it was also clipped a very small piece of paper.
In Liang Yansheng's handwriting.
Only one line:
"May you have peace year after year on this journey."
Hengqiu looked at it for a long time.
Then clipped the paper back into the book.
The sunlight outside the window was fine.
She did not cry.
She only suddenly remembered that year in the Cathay Hotel, she had actually lied.
He asked if she had been well.
She said she had.
He said he had too.
Both knew it was not true.
But when people reach the end, they always leave a little dignity for each other.
So they did not say they missed each other.
Did not say they regretted.
Did not say if only back then.
They only said one sentence:
May you be well.
Like two people who were truly well.
So polite.