Chapter Forty-One: A Young Man's Heart, Walking Together in the Rain-Soaked Alley

In the end, Yiyi replied to his letter.

She neither accepted nor rejected him, merely writing: “Thank you. Right now, studying is our most important task, but we can be very good friends.”

It was a gentle and measured response, neither hurting him nor compromising their dignity. The boy named Lin Mo was indeed perceptive. He didn’t write again, but his actions spoke for him. After school, he would quietly wait at the gates just to walk with Yiyi down the long, rain-soaked alley. During breaks, he would leave his neatly organized and clearest notes on the corner of Yiyi’s desk.

Their relationship was as pure as the morning mist in Andu Town.

There was no hand-holding, no embraces, not even a clear “I like you.” What they shared was the walk home, side by side on the stone path, their shadows stretching long and short in the setting sun. He would talk about funny things at school, about his favorite basketball stars, about his dreams—getting into the best university, becoming an architect, and designing buildings that would endure for generations.

Yiyi listened quietly, sometimes mentioning interesting medicinal herbs from “Anhetang,” or sharing a new lesson her father had taught her.

One rainy afternoon, Lin Mo waited for her outside the clinic, holding a large umbrella.

“Good afternoon, Uncle Jiang,” he greeted me politely.

“Father, Lin Mo says the town library has a new batch of books. We’d like to go see them,” Yiyi asked for my permission.

“Go ahead, but come back early,” I nodded with a smile.

Watching them share an umbrella, disappearing into the misty depths of the alley, I felt no worry—only a touch of comfort. I wanted Yiyi to experience all this, for it’s part of being “normal.” She couldn’t always live under my shelter, in a world as pure as a celestial palace.

She needed to know that the world of ordinary people had its own unique, fleeting, and burning beauty.

Their relationship became a gentle topic among neighbors.

“Doctor Jiang, your Yiyi and Old Lin’s boy really are a perfect match!” Grandma Wang, who sold tofu, would say with a laugh.

“Indeed, a talented young man and a lovely girl—just looking at them makes people happy,” Carpenter Li would agree as he passed by.

I would only smile and say nothing.

Yiyi blushed at such remarks, but the sweetness of a young girl’s heart sparkled in her eyes. She began to look forward to the end of the school day, to that brief walk together, to the clear, bright voice of the boy.

Summer in Andu Town always came with the deafening chorus of cicadas and the scent of fresh grass in the air. Time seemed to stretch long and slow along the stone roads. Yiyi and Lin Mo grew from junior high students into high schoolers, dressed in crisp new uniforms. They both made it into the same key high school. Though not in the same class, the rainy alley after school became a sun-dappled avenue beneath the trees.

Their relationship remained unchanged. They never crossed any lines of intimacy, but their lives quietly intertwined through countless small moments.

The town library became their favorite haunt. It was an old two-story building. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, and the air was always filled with the scent of aged pages and sunlight. They often sat by the window, facing each other. Sunlight streamed through carved wooden panes, scattering flecks of light on the table like dancing notes.

Lin Mo’s desk was always piled high with physics and math workbooks. He solved problems with fierce concentration, brow slightly furrowed, pen flying across the draft paper with the conquering spirit of youth. In front of Yiyi was often a thick history tome or a book on plants or geography. She read quietly, immersed in the world of words, seemingly cut off from everything else.

They seldom spoke, not wanting to disturb each other or those nearby. More often, they communicated through little slips of paper.

“I spent ten minutes thinking about the auxiliary line for this problem,” Lin Mo would write, adding a doodle of himself scratching his head, and slide the note to Yiyi.

Yiyi would smile, pick up her pen, and draw a completely different auxiliary line: “Look at it another way—doesn’t it look like a bridge?”

Seeing her line, Lin Mo would suddenly understand, admiration and delight lighting up his face. He found Yiyi’s thinking always so unconventional, finding solutions in the most unexpected ways. He didn’t know that this insight, this ability to see the essence, came from a soul tempered over two thousand years.

Sometimes, when Yiyi read about an interesting historical detail, she would share it with him.

“Did you know? The ‘refrigerator’ used by the Qin people in summer was called a ‘bingjian’—a double-layered chest with ice placed between the layers to chill fruit and wine.”

Lin Mo, seeing her elegant handwriting, could almost picture ancient people lounging in coolness centuries ago. He would reply: “Once I become an architect, I’ll design you a house with a built-in ‘bingjian’—warm in winter, cool in summer.”

At the end of his note, he’d draw a smug little figure standing beside a fantastical house.

These silent exchanges were like gentle streams, quietly nourishing the hearts of their youth. In an era when both material goods and information were scarce, such spiritual resonance and companionship were especially precious.

Beyond the library, the school basketball court was Lin Mo’s other world.

Tall and long-limbed, he was a mainstay of the school’s basketball team. In the sunset, he ran, jumped, and shot hoops in his sweat-soaked jersey, sweat glistening on his youthful, sharply defined face, radiating a burning vitality.

Yiyi didn’t play basketball and didn’t fit in with the crowd of girls cheering for him. Instead, she would, after school, sit quietly on the stone steps at the edge of the court, bookbag in her arms, watching from afar. She didn’t understand the complex strategies, but from every sprint and leap, she sensed a pure, striving spirit.

It was an ordinary joy, brief yet blazingly bright.

She had lived for over two thousand years. Lin Mo was different from her father’s transcendence and aloofness. This boy gave everything for a single game, celebrated with his teammates for a beautiful shot—this vivid, fiery humanity was something she had never experienced in all her long existence.

Sometimes, lost in thought, she would watch until a basketball thudded to her feet.

Lin Mo ran over, out of breath, with an apologetic smile: “Sorry, did I scare you?”

“No,” Yiyi shook her head, bent to pick up the ball, and handed it to him.

“Here.” He took an unopened bottle of water from a teammate and pushed it into her hands, sweat still beading on his brow. “It’s hot—have some water. Wait for me, I’ll be done soon.”

With that, he dashed back onto the court like a gust of wind.

Yiyi held the bottle, still warm from his hand, tiny droplets of condensation cool against her skin, the chill reaching all the way to her heart. She twisted the cap and sipped. Even the water seemed to taste faintly sweet.

As her father, I saw all of this.

My “Anhetang” was at the end of that tree-lined avenue. Every evening, I would sit in a rattan chair at the door, fanning myself and watching the sunset, waiting for their mismatched shadows to appear at the alley’s entrance.

Lin Mo always courteously escorted Yiyi to the clinic door, bowing to me, “Goodbye, Uncle Jiang.”

“Be careful on your way,” I always replied.

I never questioned Yiyi about her whereabouts, nor did I show undue concern or interference. When she seemed a little down because Lin Mo had chatted with another girl, I would brew her a cup of chrysanthemum tea and say quietly, “If the heart is like a bright mirror, what is there to fear from dust?”

Or, when she was genuinely happy for Lin Mo’s top exam scores, I’d smile and say, “Rejoicing in another’s goodness and praising it openly—that is a generous heart.”

In my own way, I taught her how to understand and handle her feelings. Not by suppressing or indulging them, but by observing, experiencing, and letting them nourish her growth. I wanted her to understand that true love is not possession or dependence, but the mutual attraction and fulfillment of two independent souls. She was “Yiyi” first, and only then “Yiyi who likes Lin Mo.”

That summer, the cicadas still sang, and the sweat and scent of books mingled, painting a picture called “youth.” And Yiyi, this flower that had quietly bloomed for a thousand years in the river of time, finally, in this ordinary small town, felt for the first time the most genuine, most delicate stirrings of a normal girl’s heart.