Chapter Thirty-Nine: Camellias

On a winter street, the mournful wind carried a chill that could pierce through layers of cotton and seep into one’s bones. In the old city, few wished to wander aimlessly in the biting cold; only those toiling for their livelihood braved the streets, bundled in thick coats.

Before leaving home, Ye Mian pulled on a pair of thick gloves and wrapped a scarf around her neck. Even so, she shivered, her teeth chattering from the cold. Her breath turned to mist in the frigid air as she opened the door, only to find Jiang Chen standing outside.

He was barely ten meters away, and Ye Mian could see him clearly: the young man was dressed in a black overcoat, standing tall and straight, holding a pink box in his hand, a camellia blossom tied to the top.

Between them hung a veil of cold mist, gently mingling in the air. Ye Mian noticed his knuckles, reddened from the cold. She took quick, small steps toward him, looked up, and asked, “Why are you here so early?”

Jiang Chen’s fingers shifted slightly on the box; he lowered his lashes. “Am I too early?”

He felt awkward inside.

These past few days, amid his busy schedule, he had been wondering what gift the girl might like. It was an agonizing question. After finally choosing a present, he remembered someone had once said that girls liked flowers.

But it was winter now—every blossom had withered, and the flower shops were all closed.

In this city, almost no one would climb the hills on the outskirts at four in the morning. At that hour, the sun had not yet risen, and the farthest reaches were swallowed in darkness. The mountain forests floated with cold mist, and dew clung to the leaves.

He found a camellia with the most perfect petals in the yard of a farmer awake at dawn.

But she hadn’t told him what time to arrive.

Afraid to disturb her, he had stood waiting outside upon his return.

Ye Mian suddenly realized she hadn’t mentioned a time that day. She opened the door wide and spoke in a gentle, soft voice, “No, you’re right on time. Come in, please. Thank you for coming to celebrate my birthday.”

In the past, they had barely interacted; she hardly ever smiled like this.

Her eyes curved like a crescent moon, her fine hair fluttering in the cold wind, gilded by the morning sun.

Jiang Chen, sensitive as ever, could tell she was just being polite.

He really had come too early.

So he didn’t step inside. Instead, he brought out his gift.

Standing behind her, his gaze reflected her image.

“This is for you.”

Ye Mian paused, then reached out to take the box, her eyes falling on the camellia.

The flower was vivid and new, its stem neatly trimmed, the end carefully snapped and smoothed. It was clear this wasn’t a random purchase from a flower shop—Jiang Chen had picked it himself!

The neighbors in this area favored jasmine or chrysanthemums, both of which had withered by winter.

But such a bright, passionate flower…

It couldn’t possibly be found now.

Just then, the wind sprang up, brushing Ye Mian’s face. She heard her own heart thump twice in steady rhythm.

A gift like this…

Who could possibly resist?

It was simply devastating!

Her girlish heart was about to burst.

Though her thoughts surged like a storm, Ye Mian dared not show any of it. She held the gift in front of her, looked up into Jiang Chen’s eyes, and smiled. “Thank you. I really like it.”

“Do you?” Jiang Chen met her gaze, then noticed how the wind had blown her scarf askew. He reached out and hooked it back over her shoulder, his voice low and gentle as he teased, “You like it even before opening it?”

Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might explode. Her mind went blank.

She wanted to say, “As long as it’s from you, I’ll like it,” but she didn’t have the nerve.

At this age, fondness was never something one could declare aloud.

So she simply widened her eyes and replied earnestly, “Yes. Receiving a gift is always a joy, no matter what it is.”

In the quiet, narrow lane, the wind kept blowing.

Jiang Chen smiled again, nodding lightly. “Alright, then I’ll be going.”

Ye Mian was briefly bewildered. “Aren’t you coming in? There’s still cake.”

Jiang Chen hesitated, then after a while replied, “No, I have another job.”

“Is it urgent?”

“Yes.”

Ye Mian wanted to persuade him to stay but closed her mouth in the end.

This year, Jiang Chen hadn’t even had time to sleep properly.

Though he couldn’t stay for cake, he had still brought her a gift.

Ye Mian glanced down at his hands, pale with a tinge of red.

“Wait a moment,” she said, and dashed back inside.

Several minutes passed before she returned.

“Take these and eat them later,” she said, slowly pushing a paper bag into Jiang Chen’s hands. Inside were the sandwiches, milk, and eggs she’d warmed that morning, planning to eat when she got back.

So early—he’d certainly skipped breakfast.

Then she produced a pair of black cotton gloves, new and unused, left by her father at home.

She opened the package and placed the gloves in Jiang Chen’s hands, her voice quiet. “It’s cold. Wear them until you arrive, then take them off. It’ll keep your hands warmer.”

Jiang Chen glanced down and paused for a moment when he saw the gloves.

Then he shook his head and spoke gently, “It’s your birthday. Why are you giving things away?”

His question left Ye Mian flustered, worried he’d refuse. She steadied herself and smiled, “I received your gift, so I should give you something in return—it’s my blessing.”

As she spoke, she dared not meet his eyes.

She suddenly recalled the nursing fee Jiang Chen had paid for her, and the time he bought her sanitary pads late at night.

For him, neither was a trivial expense.

What were a pair of gloves compared to those?

She owed him far more than she could repay.

At that moment, Ye Mian felt the purest kind of goodwill; her words rang with conviction, her eyes full of resolve, as if things were simply meant to be this way.

Jiang Chen looked at the paper bag, still steaming, clearly something she’d prepared for herself.

He hung the bag on the doorknob and took the gloves instead, nodding. “Thank you. Keep the breakfast for yourself.”

He paused, then lowered his head slightly to meet her gaze. “Ye Mian, happy birthday.”

The brightness of his eyes and brows lit up the entire early winter morning.

“Th-thank you,” Ye Mian stammered, blood rushing to her ears, her heart thundering.

She thought, This was the first time Jiang Chen had wished her a happy birthday.

Who knew how many times more there would be.

But in this moment, she was truly happy.

A few seconds later, Jiang Chen smiled and turned to leave.

In the whistling cold wind, Ye Mian touched her own face.

It was burning, blazing hot.

She watched his figure disappear, trudged back inside with her breakfast, feeling both elated and oddly empty.

She simply lacked the experience.

She couldn’t pinpoint when it started—when she so longed to see someone, when their departure left her forlorn.

Or when she began to fear the day the gap between them would grow too wide.

Perhaps it began the day she first understood her own heart.

She thought to herself:

To like someone truly is the most terrifying thing.

It was as if she had been steeped in the juice of yellow fruit, then wrapped in soft cotton, so even the air she breathed tasted sweet and tart.

So easily beyond her own control.