As I splashed through puddles to reach the alley, the moss on the bluestone slabs glimmered with a moist sheen. The moment I pushed open the old bookstore’s wooden door, the lingering jingle of a bronze bell mingled ink and damp air into a heady brew.
She leaned against the walnut bookshelf, her fingertips brushing gilded titles—her eyelashes cast butterfly-wing shadows in the dim lamplight. A faded kraft-paper cover unfurled in her hands, as if unlocking a cipher to another epoch. In wordless tacit understanding, we chose a collection of Dai Wangshu’s poems. The wicker chair by the window creaked softly, a gentle soundtrack to our meeting.
The rhythm of rain drumming on the glass gradually merged with the rustle of turning pages. Outside, raindrops meandered down the pane like rivers, mirroring the ripples in our eyes. In the humid haze, unspoken thoughts had long taken root in yellowed pages, blooming into dew-kissed verses.
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