At six in the evening, the city looked like a crumpled sheet of foil, glowing with a weary yet gentle light in the setting sun. Lin Wan emerged from the subway station, clutching a half-empty cup of latte that had gone completely cold. A breeze swept around the corner, carrying the scent of toasted bread and freshly mowed grass.
She was in the habit of taking that path lined with plane trees on her way home. The streetlights hadn’t come on yet, and the sky was a pale gray-blue, like an old, freshly laundered shirt.
As she walked past the third plane tree, she heard footsteps behind her.
They were very light, like a cat treading on fallen leaves.
Lin Wan didn’t turn around. She knew who it was.
It was the man who appeared on this path every evening. He always wore a denim jacket washed to a pale white, carrying a cloth bag filled with a few old books. They had never spoken, nor had their eyes ever met. But Lin Wan knew his routine—he would stop at the fifth tree to tie his shoelaces; at the seventh tree, he’d switch the books from his left hand to his right; and at the intersection, he’d tilt his head slightly to listen to the sound of the wind blowing through the alley.
She also knew that after she passed by, he would gently lift the cloth bag up onto his shoulder, as if afraid the books might fall, or as if afraid of disturbing something.
Today he was walking slower than usual.
Lin Wan stopped at the entrance of the convenience store, pretending to look at the newly arrived tangerine candies in the display window. The glass reflected his silhouette; he was looking down at a book, its pages fluttering gently in the wind, like a bird shaking out its feathers.
She suddenly wondered: Did he remember the sound of her footsteps, too?
For instance, she would always turn her coffee cup so the label faced outward at the second tree; at the fourth tree, she’d softly hum a tuneless tune; and at the sixth tree, she’d look up at the sky, even if there was nothing to see.
They were like two trams traveling in opposite directions, briefly and silently sharing a moment of twilight on the same platform.
The wind picked up again.
Lin Wan poured her cold coffee into a roadside flower bed. The soil was slightly damp, as if it had just cried—or just laughed.
She continued walking.
Behind her, footsteps continued—softly, softly, like an unspoken “good night.”
The streetlights suddenly came on.
Warm yellow light fell on the plane tree leaves, as if a handful of碎金 had been scattered. Lin Wan turned back; the alley was empty.
Only the wind remained, swirling a single leaf, slowly, slowly, toward the street corner.
She smiled.
It turns out that some encounters don’t need names, don’t need words, and don’t even need eye contact.
As long as you’re there, I’m there too.
In the same twilight, walking the same path, listening to the same breeze.
That’s enough.
She slipped her hands into her coat pockets, her fingertips brushing against an orange-flavored candy she’d forgotten to eat.
The wrapper made a soft rustling sound in the darkness.
It was as if someone, from far away, had replied with a simple “Mm-hmm.”
