On Saturday afternoon, Lin Zhou skipped the bookstore and went to a chic stationery shop downtown. She stood before the rack of postcards for a long time, finally choosing one with Van Gogh's Starry Night. She felt that the swirling, passionate, yet endlessly lonely nebula perfectly matched her current mood.
Back home, she brewed a cup of black tea and sat at the desk by the window. The soft halo of the lamplight enveloped her as she began to write to Shen Che.
Shen Che,I hope this letter finds you well.This is the 36th postcard I've sent you. Time flies; autumn is here again. The leaves of the ginkgo tree downstairs have started to turn yellow. It must be beautiful when they cover the ground. You always said I was too sentimental, getting sad over falling leaves. But that's not it. I just feel that every leaf that falls means we are one day closer to being reunited.How are things over there? Is your research going smoothly? You mentioned last time that your project was entering a critical phase. It must be tough. Remember to eat on time and don't burn yourself out just because you're young. I'm doing fine. The bookstore's business is so-so, enough to get by. Oh, a strange neighbor moved in upstairs…
She paused. The trivial complaints about "Mr. Ghost" seemed out of place in a letter meant to cross oceans. She crossed out the sentence and wrote instead:
…In short, I'm fine. Don't worry. I look forward to your reply.
She knew that the phrase "I look forward to your reply" would most likely fall on deaf ears. In three years, she had sent thirty-five letters and received not a single one back. Before Shen Che left, he had told her he was going to a remote research institute where communication was difficult, and that she shouldn't worry. She believed him. Or rather, she chose to believe him.
She put down her pen, her gaze falling on a small photo frame on her desk. The picture was taken at the airport three years ago. Shen Che was wearing a white T-shirt, his smile brilliant as he held her tightly, as if trying to merge her into his very being. And she, nestled in his arms, was smiling through her red, swollen eyes.
"Zhou Zhou, wait for me. Three years at most," his hot breath had tickled her ear. "As soon as I get my degree and the project experience, I'll be back. We'll get married, buy a house with a yard, and get a big golden retriever."
She remembered the sound of the airport announcements, the scent of departure in the air, the warmth of his hand. The future he painted was so beautiful, beautiful enough to sustain her through more than a thousand long days and nights.
She carefully placed the postcard in an envelope, addressed it to the foreign address she knew by heart, then put on her coat and went downstairs to drop it into the green postbox on the corner. As the envelope slipped from her fingers, she felt as if her longing had taken flight with it, soaring towards the distant ocean.