Preface

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The days when a gentle breeze blows are fleeting, occurring perhaps only for a few short moments in late spring or early summer. For the rest of the time, the wind may persist, but that cool, refreshing breeze is rarely to be found.

Some sights missed at a certain time, some people lost along the way—the result is simply that they are lost.

Some words one dares not speak, some things one dares not do, might perhaps be expressed with abandon in another realm.

Some daydreams, confined strictly to the imagination, might unexpectedly unfold into stories with lives of their own.

I, too, was not immune to the dreams of childhood, those fantasies shared by so many. Yet, as I grew up, they remained trapped in the reveries of my youth; I lacked the ability to bring them into reality. Was it I who imprisoned them, or did I never truly possess them at all? Or perhaps I simply never made the effort to pursue them.

I became unaccustomed to what I had grown used to, and in that discomfort, I formed new habits.

I thought I would continue this way forever, reaching a point where I had almost completely given up. But unexpectedly, that fixed trajectory drifted off course.

In the last two years, I have finally touched the fringes of a dream.

In fact, as early as middle school, I had tried writing short stories. Perhaps because my vocabulary was insufficient to clearly express the inner feelings of my characters, I would pick up my pen, only to put it down silently after a few thousand words, unable to continue.

Back then, there were no computers at home; every thought had to be written by hand, which perhaps invisibly hindered my progress.

I had assumed that even this humble aspiration would, with the passage of time and the weight of growing years, eventually be buried in the dust of a weathered youth.

I held onto this thought for a long time.

It felt like an unshakeable transformation.

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However, I have always felt that since one is alive, and yet unable to comprehend why, why not do something with at least a little meaning?

At the very least, one must try.

So, in March 2017, I attempted to write my first book, "The Sorrows of Recalling Time." Although it was barely satisfactory and not accepted by any platform, I am grateful that I only submitted it for serialization after the manuscript was complete. Otherwise, I doubt I would have had the courage and perseverance to finish it, let alone embark on this current one.

It would be a lie to say I wasn't discouraged. In fact, although I had the idea for a second book in early 2018, I wrote a few chapters on my computer and then gave up. I kept wondering if I would fail again, if I would once again go unrecognized.

Whether success or failure, once it visits a person, it does not easily dissipate in the short term.

By 2019, I could no longer resist; I reclaimed the impulse from two years prior. I prepared for the worst, and after writing thirty or forty thousand words, I began to upload it for serialization.

If it were to receive affirmation, I would spare no effort to update at least once a day. If it were to sink into the sea without a trace, even if I updated only once a week or once a month, I would not leave a half-finished building behind.

It is strange to say, but if I push the development of a plot toward a bad outcome, the result often leans toward the good.

Therefore, I always tend to think of the worst-case scenario.

Because, in my experience, the likelihood of that is often higher than the good.

Just as I reached about fifteen thousand words, the website sent me a contract offer. I was ecstatic, overjoyed. I agreed to sign without hesitation. I secretly downloaded the contract during a break at work and printed it on the company’s printer. That same day, I couldn't wait to send it out via SF Express.

The way things unfold is often beyond expectation. When I saw the status on the webpage change to "Signed," I secretly blamed myself for not smoothing out all the character relationships and plot trajectories before publishing. Every night before I fell asleep, my mind was flooded with various ideas. But I rarely suffer from insomnia; combined with the exhaustion of work, I usually fall asleep within one to five minutes. Thus, the work was forced to be delayed until the next day, and the next day, I would push it off to the third.

Naming the book, just like the first, caused me great distress. I have always liked to put effort into names and titles; it was the same with my essays during my school days.

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At first, I wanted to use the name "Small City, Small Love." It was very close to my original intention: a small city, a small love, small ripples, and small touches.

Love does not need to be earth-shattering; where in real life can one find such undying devotion? Moreover, having never experienced love myself, it was too difficult to force myself to write about it.

I seem to have strayed.

When I was creating the work and entering the title, the system prompted that "Small City, Small Love" was already taken. I had no choice but to give it up; although reluctant, I had to accept it.

"The Gentle Breeze Blows the Cool Breeze" was what I chose after pondering for an entire afternoon. In truth, I am not entirely satisfied with this name. But I could not think of anything more suitable or closer to my heart.

The cool breeze is brought by the gentle breeze, much like love that arrives naturally. Casting aside deliberation and pretense, without the need for embellishment or construction, it can still compose a melody of high mountains and flowing water, still tell a soul-stirring story.

I convinced myself in this way and adopted this title, which I had considered barely adequate several times.

The characters in the book, such as Su Yishu, Su Yihui, and Yan Lu, all possess, to some extent, shadows of my own. I seem to have grown accustomed to taking my own strengths, weaknesses, and contradictions and instilling them into the characters I create, molding them into unique souls.

Those souls have their own joys and sorrows, drifting away from my control to grow toward the sun.

Regardless of the bleakness of the world or the joys and sorrows of the city, I sit quietly under a camphor tree with dense, verdant foliage. Behind the tree is you, in front of the tree is me; above the tree is light, and beneath the tree are dreams.