Gentle Breeze Blows
If flowers and grass were granted the gift of speech, what would be the very first words they uttered? Would they still choose silence, or would they pour out all their secret language in a single, un
Twenty-five years of life arrive in the blink of an eye. After a quarter of a century, she looked back and was startled to realize how such an insignificant number, once attached to the word “years”—each representing 365 or sometimes 366 days—could carry one from one end of time to the other side of space.
Time moved at its unhurried, constant pace.
Su Yishu sat at her desk, her hands pressed against her forehead, eyes closed, her breathing slightly heavy. All around her, the clatter of keyboards rose and fell in waves.
On the computer screen, slowly dimming, blocks of text were faintly visible. In the editor’s little frame, all sorts of punctuation, emoticons, and random spaces jumbled together. Yishu suspended the chat software, brushed her messy bangs aside, pushed back her chair, and headed toward the stairwell.
Outside the window, it had been raining for months on end; even her sighs were gradually swallowed up by the unceasing drizzle, lost in the passage of time.
The sky was a blanket of gray and white.
She cautiously lifted her gaze. Everywhere she looked, clouds shattered into a haze.
Lowering her head, she closed her heavy eyelids, and fragments of the past drifted through her mind.
“What are you doing here?” came her colleague Yan Lu’s voice from behind. “I went to the restroom and came back—you were gone.”
Yishu quickly gathered up her sorrow, forcing the dampness from her eyes. She had always lived more tenaciously than others; no matter how many problems she faced, she found ways to solve them herself, r