Chapter 27: Autumn Melody in Yuyuan Garden

During his stay in Jiangcheng, Old Jia specifically chose to lodge at his alma mater, Yuyuan University, to revisit the days of his youth. Hearing that his old student dormitory had been demolished to make way for a high-rise, he made a point of visiting the East Dormitory Area 2, now a bustling construction site. He lingered there for a long time, a flood of memories and reflections rising within him. In the early 90s, when they were students, the Yuyuan campus was dotted with two-story dormitories built in the 1950s, tucked away beneath lush pines and cypresses that kept the rooms cool in summer and warm in winter. Though the living conditions were modest, the dorms were filled with laughter. In summer, they would play badminton and strum guitars on the open ground; in winter, when the school drained Lake East Nine, they would wait by the water to gather fish, then crowd into a room to cook a hot pot of cabbage, tofu, and crucian carp over a pungent alcohol stove. While simple and austere, that era of student life was brimming with pure joy. Now that these antique dormitories, heavy with the weight of youth, had been replaced by rising modern teaching buildings and laboratories, Old Jia felt a complex mixture of emotions.

Old Jia wandered aimlessly across the Yuyuan campus. The soft autumn sun filtered through the gaps in the sycamore trees, casting dappled shadows. His steps were light, as if he had returned to those vibrant, youthful years. The scenery remained much as he remembered, though the familiar buildings had been supplanted by modern skyscrapers. Autumn at Yuyuan University is a moving tapestry; sycamore leaves turn from green to gold before drifting down to carpet the campus paths. Students whizzed by on bicycles, their faces radiant with the vitality of youth, reminding Old Jia of his own college days. He paused to take a deep breath of the autumn air—a unique scent of ink from books mixed with the earthy fragrance of fallen leaves—and felt a sense of peace.

He strolled to the East Canteen 4, curious if the Muslim beef window still existed. Back in the days when food and meat coupons were required for every meal, their greatest luxury was tagging along with a Muslim classmate to get a stir-fry with a few slivers of beef from that window, which required no meat coupons. It was a limited supply, and if you arrived too late, it was gone. Now, that window was long gone, replaced by a modern self-service buffet area filled with an array of delicacies, yet Old Jia felt a faint pang of loss.

Driven by an inexplicable urge, Old Jia found himself before the South Building 1. Beneath the statue of Chairman Mao, several thick, ancient pines stood proudly, their trunks sturdy and smooth, their massive crowns blotting out the sky. Planted when the university was founded, these pines had weathered over half a century of storms, witnessing seven or eight decades of change. Each tree was encircled by an iron railing. Old Jia circled them, time and again, his gaze fixed upon their trunks.

At the base of the trees, a dense thicket of bicycle chain locks was wrapped tightly around the bark, one linked to another, all rusted with age. Old Jia smiled with contentment. He knew these chains were the silent witnesses to the youthful romances of generations of Yuyuan students. They were not mere locks, but "locks of the heart," carrying the vows and dreams of countless couples, as well as the frustrations and dilemmas of reality. In that era, university students were considered state cadres, and upon graduation, their jobs were assigned by the government. Because they were assigned to different corners of the country based on their specialties, graduation often meant the end of a relationship, as they might never meet again. There were no phones or internet then; letters were the only way to stay in touch. Though there were few female students at Yuyuan, these chains remained a record of the fiery, restless youth of generations of students.

Sunlight filtered through the branches onto Old Jia’s face, warming him. He thought of his own university years, when they, too, had stood beneath such trees, whispering wishes and dreaming of the future. He reached out to touch the iron chains, as if he could feel the naive stories and budding emotions etched into the tree rings.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a bicycle bell. He snapped back to reality to see a group of students speeding past, their laughter and cheers echoing in the air. He smiled, a warm current flowing through him. Despite the passage of time, the spirit and vitality of Yuyuan lived on in these young students.

Old Jia then visited the Yifu Building, the university library. The autumn sun shone through the tall glass windows into the spacious reading room, adding a layer of warmth to this place of wisdom. Watching the students focused on their reading or laptops, he felt a tranquil power. This was an ocean of knowledge, a place where dreams were built.

He found a seat in a corner and opened a book on the history of Yuyuan University. Reading through the pages, he learned of its development from a humble technical school to the comprehensive university it is today—every step the result of countless people’s dedication and sweat. He felt a swell of pride for his alma mater and for his own identity as a Yuyuan student.

After a while, feeling drowsy—as the elderly often do when reading becomes a strain—he decided to take a walk by Mirror Lake. The autumn water shimmered, and the willow trees swayed in the breeze, golden leaves drifting gently onto the surface to ripple with the current. He sat on a bench by the lake, closed his eyes, and felt the breeze and the stillness of the water. In that moment, his heart felt an unprecedented sense of emptiness and relief.

He sat there for a long time, until the sun began to set and the clouds were dyed in brilliant shades of orange and red. He stood up and walked slowly along the path back to the No. 8 Guest House. Along the way, he saw students in twos and threes, some discussing academic problems, others sharing stories of their lives. He smiled, his heart filled with nostalgia and comfort. These young faces were the future of Yuyuan University, and the future of China.

Back in his room, Old Jia lay in bed, reflecting on the day. He felt a deep sense of satisfaction and happiness. Though the world outside might change, Yuyuan University remained a place of tranquility, vitality, and hope. He believed that no matter how the times shifted, the spirit and traditions of Yuyuan would be passed down forever.