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Messenger of Snow
Created on 01.07
At dusk, the sky turned into a watercolor paper soaked with water, hazy and gray, pressing down heavily on the eaves. The wind was the letter's postman, rushing through the alleyways, delivering the last few withered leaves to people's windowsills. Grandma put down her needlework and brought her nose close to the glass: "It's going to snow." As she spoke, the white mist from her breath bloomed like a flower on the window.
When the first snowflake fell, I was writing under the lamp. It was as light as a thought one dared not disturb, falling diagonally, tentatively, sticking to the windowpane, and melting instantly, leaving behind a tear-like trace of hesitation. Then came the second, the third... Soon, the sky's envelope was torn open, and countless white letter papers fluttered down.
I ran out of the house and tilted my face up. The snowflakes weren't falling, they were drifting down, like letters from the sky to the earth, meant to be read slowly. Some letters were written neatly, like hexagonal poems, edged with ice crystals; some letters were mischievous, swirling like lost dandelions; and some letters were made of several snowflakes stuck together, plump and round, surely the sky was too hurried and sent several pages stuck together.
I reached out to catch them. A snowflake landed on my palm, and the coolness pricked like a needle. I saw its form – not a flower, but a miniature, transparent palace, with countless branching corridors and ice-carved railings. Before it could tell the sky's story, it melted into a tiny exclamation mark under the reading of my body heat.
Winter's Letter
Waking up in the morning, the room was exceptionally bright and quiet. I lifted the curtain—ah, it was snowing! Frost flowers had formed on the windowpane, like a forest someone had painted with feathers.
Opening the door, a cool, clean air rushed in. Snowflakes were still falling, unhurriedly, from the depths of the gray sky. I reached out my hand, and a snowflake landed on my palm. Before I could even see its shape clearly, it melted into a small water droplet, cool and refreshing.
The distant mountains were invisible, and the nearby houses were all wearing white velvet hats. The leaves of the camphor trees drooped heavily, holding the snow. The usually noisy sparrows were nowhere to be seen, only one or two huddled under the eaves, their necks tucked in. The snow-covered ground was clean, without a single footprint, as if the world had just unfurled a brand new white sheet of paper.
The neighbor's little brother ran out, wearing a red down jacket, which stood out in the snow. He squatted down, carefully scooped up a pile of snow, formed it into a small snowball, then looked up and grinned at me, revealing the gap where two front teeth were missing. I also walked into the snow, leaving the first set of footprints, which crunched crisply with each step.
Slowly, the courtyard became lively. The sound of brooms sweeping snow, children's laughter, and the morning news drifting from someone's radio. Grandma Wang swept a small path at the entrance and sprinkled cinders, fearing someone might slip. A few snowflakes landed on her graying hair, and she didn't bother to brush them off.
The sun came out. The sunlight after the snow was particularly bright, shining on the snow-covered ground and reflecting countless tiny glimmers of light, so bright that one couldn't open their eyes. Water began to drip from the eaves, "drip, drip," unhurriedly. The snow on the branches rustled down, sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight.
By noon, the snow gradually stopped. The sky was like washed blue porcelain, clean and transparent. The distant mountains reappeared, but their peaks were still white. The snow on the ground thinned, revealing the tips of withered yellow grass. The snowman built by the children stood in the center of the courtyard, with button eyes and a carrot nose, smiling憨憨地 (hān hān de - endearingly/naively).
Mom was boiling ginger tea in the kitchen, and the aroma of ginger and brown sugar wafted out, warm and comforting. Holding the warm cup, I looked at the gradually melting snow outside the window and suddenly remembered what Grandpa had said. He said every snowfall is winter's letter, telling us to slow down, to be quiet, and to remember to leave a piece of purity for the cold world.
The steam from the rim of the cup blurred the windowpane. I drew a small smiley face on the mist. Although I knew this snow might melt by tomorrow, at least today, it turned the whole world into a quiet and beautiful letter, and we all became the moving punctuation marks within it.
