Li Ming's office was located on a quiet street in Georgetown, a converted rowhouse. Sunlight poured through the south-facing windows, bathing the modern minimalist space in warm gold. On several large desks lay blueprints for ongoing projects, while along the walls, samples of stone, wood, tile, swatches, and fabrics were neatly arranged—each small piece a reminder that quality and aesthetics formed the foundation of design. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, and occasionally, the wind stirred the branches outside, rustling the leaves as if to signal the start of a new day.
That evening, the phone rang, and the world seemed to pause. A low voice said, "Mom has passed…"
The room fell silent. The hum of the air conditioner, the distant sound of traffic—all felt pushed far away. Her fingers froze on the blueprints, her vision blurred. Tears did not fall. Darkness crept in, the lights casting a solitary shadow across the room.
After a moment, she asked, "When?"
"Last night…"
Li Ming barely whispered an acknowledgment. She could have asked questions—whether her mother had suffered, whether anyone had been with her—but the words lodged in her throat. She understood then that such details no longer mattered.
She remained seated, her fingers cold, shoulders trembling slightly. She thought she would cry, but her eyes were dry, her emotions compressed deep inside. A memory of her mother in youth surfaced—the high, hurried bun in the kitchen, the rapid voice—clear for a moment, then fading into emptiness. Her mother was gone.
The thought arrived first; the emotions followed, slowly rising from within. She lowered her head, resting her hands on the desk, shoulders convulsing slightly, silent. After a long while, she lifted her gaze. The room remained unchanged. Time had moved forward, just a little.
After her sister Li Wen left for Shenzhen, contact gradually dwindled. The occasional phone calls stopped entirely. Their mother grew anxious, constantly fretting over her daughter's whereabouts, weighing the heavy burden on her fragile spirit. Her son, Xiao Ming, added to her exhaustion. Born with Down syndrome and a congenital heart defect, he had slowly stabilized after surgery, but daily life remained impossible without care. At nearly twenty, he would sometimes disappear for days, return bruised from bullying, or even go missing again, only to be found and returned by the police.
Their mother lived in constant fear. A lost daughter, a dependent son—she rarely found peace. Already mentally fragile, she had endured criticism during the WG period, even subjected to re-education labor. In later years, her mental state was barely maintained by medication. The absence of Li Wen and the worsening condition of Xiao Ming finally overwhelmed her. She would often lose touch with reality entirely, brandishing an aluminum basin or rolling pin in the yard, shouting, "Down with… down with…"
Neighbors watched from afar, sympathy in their eyes; the family grew increasingly anxious. The eldest brother bore the heaviest burden. Though not Li Ming's mother's biological child, he gave more of himself to the household than anyone else. After finishing high school, he attended law school and later joined a law firm arranged by their father. Once settled, he brought their mother from the countryside to live in Harbin, occasionally taking steamed buns and dumplings she made. Old grievances gradually softened amid the rhythm of daily life. In her later years, their mother barely recognized anyone. Occasionally, when she saw Xiao Ming, she would grab his hand and make indistinct sounds—half calling, half crying. At the end, she almost completely lost consciousness, as if all her life force had been spent caring for her children. The family depended on the eldest brother and his wife to sustain the household.
After hanging up the phone, Li Ming sat in the living room for a long while. Late at night, a sudden awareness hit her: she had not returned to Harbin in many years. A strong unease rose in her chest. Her father was aging; some matters, if not attended to now, might never be addressed.
The next morning, she texted her assistant, informing him of ongoing projects and instructing him to take over their follow-up: "I need to go to Harbin…" Outside, the sky was just beginning to brighten. She understood that no matter how far one goes, some places must eventually be returned to.
Li Ming began arranging her trip home. With her office projects at a critical stage, she carefully organized blueprints, meeting notes, and progress records, delegating subsequent work in detail. She flew from Washington to Harbin.
After attending to her mother's affairs, Li Ming stayed in Harbin for a while. During the day, she walked along the Songhua River. Though the ice had melted, the water still carried a chill, wind lifting the hems of her coat. She watched floating ice chunks drift slowly, fragments of memory moving toward the distance. Her childhood recollections returned—the early-morning cold, the dull thud of iron picks on thick ice, her mother's distant calls to return home. Everything felt like yesterday, yet a century seemed to have passed.
On clear days, she accompanied her father to Central Street. The store where her mother once worked displayed glittering goods in its windows. At the old site of the Ma Die'er ballroom, laughter and music that once filled the air had been replaced by renovated storefronts. Someone called her name—an old colleague she hadn't seen in years. In a brief conversation, they whispered about her ex-husband: "…now he's using drugs." Li Ming nodded slightly. The wind swept leaves along the street, carrying away the words.
Pedestrians moved quickly, their eyes catching the familiar yet alien streetscape. Memories—the ballroom lights, her mother's busy figure, Li Wen's stubborn face—enveloped her like a thin fog, bringing waves of bittersweet ache. She realized that some things, no matter how far or how long one is away, could never be fully let go.
Night fell. Amber streetlights bathed the cobblestone streets in a lonely, gentle glow. Thoughts drifted quietly, like snow settling silently yet never fully disappearing.
Her father's figure was slightly stooped, his hair white, his frame no longer upright. As he looked up at her, the wrinkles at his eyes deepened, the white hair glinting under the dim streetlights. Li Ming stepped forward, grasped his arm, feeling the weight and fragility that time had left behind. The night wind blew, lifting her scarf onto his shoulders. Together, they walked slowly. At the end of the street, the lights glimmered—cold, lonely, memory and reality intertwined—like the slow-moving waters of a northern early spring, heavy and inescapable.