When the Songhua River froze over, winter in Harbin truly began.
On the coldest days, the river's thick ice stretched like a massive white slab to the horizon. Wind swept across the surface, carrying tiny snowflakes that stung the skin like needles.
As a child, Li Ming loved to stand by the river and watch people breaking the ice. Before dawn, a few men would carry iron picks and wooden buckets onto the frozen river. The picks struck the ice with dull thuds that echoed across the vast, empty surface. A round hole would crack open, and the black water slowly surged upward.
Long ropes lowered the buckets to fetch water. When the water was first lifted, it steamed faintly; soon, a thin layer of ice formed along the rim. Li Ming often stood on the shore, watching for a long time. The river lay silent, broken occasionally by a distant dog bark or the rattle of a passing cart. The wind bit at her face so sharply that even breathing felt tight.
Her mother would call from nearby:
"Mīngming, come back."
Her voice was soft but carried far across the empty riverside. Back then, her mother was young, working as a sales clerk at Harbin Department Store, standing behind the counter every day. Glass cases displayed towels, soap, and enamel basins. In winter, the store smelled of coal stoves mixed with damp wool coats.
Li Ming would often sneak into the store to find her. Behind the long counter, her mother wore a thick wool coat, sleeves wrapped around her arms, bending over to arrange merchandise. Towels were stacked neatly, enamel basins glimmered coldly under the lights. Occasionally, she would look up and smile at a customer: "Can I help you?"
Then she would bend down again—packing goods, counting change, flipping through ledgers—with each motion precise and composed. Li Ming would slip through the small door beside the counter. When her mother saw her, she would pause, then smile, lifting her up and whispering:
"Be careful outside—it's slippery."
She loved to stand behind the counter, watching her mother move, while the bitter wind, the snow-covered streets, and the bustling passersby seemed locked outside that small, warm space.
At night, her mother sometimes told stories of her childhood and family.
Those tales were like shadows of a bygone era, flickering in Li Ming's memory.
At the time, she didn't understand everything.
She only remembered that when her mother spoke of her grandmother, she used a special term—
"Second Aunt."
Second Aunt had been a dancer in her youth. She was half Russian, with light brown eyes and almost translucent fair skin. She had performed singing and dancing on Central Avenue at the Ma Die'er Theater—a long time ago. Later, she was married into Li Ming's grandfather's household as his second wife.
Decades ago, Harbin was a complex city.
Merchants, soldiers, foreigners, and exiles intermingled; different languages often filled the streets.
Li Ming's grandfather and eldest aunt ran a substantial textile business. Shops, warehouses, and workshops were scattered along several streets, and the business was steady.
Grandfather was a hands-off manager, rarely involving himself in day-to-day operations. The household affairs—accounts, supply, social dealings—were meticulously handled by the eldest aunt.
Until the Japanese came to Northeast China.
At first, only a few Japanese merchants arrived, sharply dressed, with translators, polite in speech, hoping to cooperate with her grandfather to expand the business. They sat in the living room for a long while. Grandfather leaned back in his chair, smoking his pipe, saying little.
It was the eldest aunt who refused them. Closing the ledger, her voice calm but resolute:
"We will not do this business."
The Japanese did not argue and quietly left.
But the matter did not end there.
Inside the family, someone was deeply dissatisfied—Li Ming's mother's older half-brother. Having studied in Japan, he thought the family's business was too conservative and dependent on old-fashioned social ties. Privately, he reached out to the Japanese, even suggesting pressure on the family.
Before long, the Japanese military police arrived. Heavy boots pounded the stone streets, sharp and piercing. Initially routine inspections, everyone understood the true purpose.
One winter afternoon, the situation suddenly escalated.
The soldiers demanded her grandfather and eldest aunt immediately sign a cooperation agreement.
She refused.
The argument grew heated. The courtyard filled with people—servants, neighbors watching from afar.
Suddenly, two Japanese soldiers seized her by the arms. Handcuffs clicked shut, heavy shackles locked her feet.
She did not struggle.
She slowly turned to look at the people in the yard. Her gaze swept from her grandfather to the children. At that moment, the courtyard fell silent, as if snow itself could be heard falling.
The soldiers took her away. She never returned.
Later, her half-brother fled.
Her sister-in-law, unable to bear the pressure, hanged herself at home.
Whenever her mother spoke of these events, she fell silent for a long time.
Years later, Li Ming would slowly understand—this was not just a family tragedy, but a reflection of an era.
Her parents met during a gathering between the military and local units. He worked in the military in a clerical role, tall and eloquent, but he already had a wife three years older and a son in the countryside. Later, he divorced his first wife and married her mother.
Life was turbulent; the ex-wife often came to the military base causing trouble. Only after he transferred to a local government position did the turmoil settle.
Afterward, Li Ming and her sister Li Wen were born.
Years later, their mother insisted on having a son. After trying many remedies and herbs, Xiao Ming was born, but with Down syndrome and a congenital heart defect.
The news struck the household like a heavy stone.
Xiao Ming didn't walk until age five, spoke slowly, and the world outside was unforgiving. He was bullied constantly—clothes torn, face smeared with paint and mud, even living chickens stuffed into his clothes.
Li Ming remembered that day vividly. Xiao Ming cowered in the corner, trembling. She and Li Wen could not speak for anger. The next day, Li Wen confronted and beat the child who had bullied her brother.
But such incidents continued.
If Xiao Ming needed protection the most, Li Wen was the hardest to manage. She hated studying, barely finished elementary school, dropped out of middle school, often wandered the streets. Parental discipline grew stricter, punishments more frequent.
Li Ming often stood between them, protecting her sister. She gradually realized her family was like a rope on the verge of snapping, and she had to hold it together.
Li Wen rarely came home. Harbin nights were cold and long. Whenever her sister disappeared, Li Ming would search the streets. Neon lights reflected on the snow, casting a harsh, icy glow. She would call her sister's name as she walked, and many times found her only in the early morning.
Li Wen always stubbornly said:
"Sis, don't worry about me."
But in the end, she would come back.
Winter, 1998.
Li Ming emerged from the Washington metro, dragging her suitcase. Streetlights lit one by one, orange light spilling over damp cobblestones, the air tinged with frost. She instinctively reached into her pocket, gripping her passport.
It was her first winter in the U.S.
The smell of roasted coffee beans drifted from a distant café. Pedestrians passed hurriedly; footsteps echoed in the quiet street. She stopped and looked down at her shadow—slim, long, and solitary under the streetlights.
For a moment, she thought of years ago in Harbin, wandering the streets at night, searching for her often-late sister.
Washington seemed calm, safe—subways, cafés, clean streets, orderly. But Li Ming knew the thing she could never escape was memory. The past from Harbin never left her.
She buried herself in work during the day, trying to forget the pains of the past. Yet her heart remained restless. Xiao Ming's medical bills, medications, check-ups—expenses piled up. Li Wen worked in Shenzhen, occasionally sending money back. Li Ming sent nearly all her remaining income to China. Late at night, she would open her computer, calculating costs line by line—hospital, medicine… the numbers formed an invisible net, tightening around life.
Snow drifted silently outside. On such nights, Li Ming recalled her mother's stories—war, exile, loss, endurance. She understood that her life was only one thread in a long family legacy. Her family, thousands of miles away, still needed her. She could only keep moving forward.
Snow fell quietly, without a sound.
Years later, Li Ming established her architectural design firm in D.C. One evening, leaving the office, streetlights came on one by one. The sky was not yet fully dark; spring's damp chill hung in the air.
Her phone rang—an old friend from Harbin. After some small talk about real estate investment in D.C., the conversation took a sudden turn.
"I went on a business trip to Shenzhen recently… I think I saw your sister."
Li Ming froze.
"Where?"
A pause on the other end.
"That kind of place."
No further explanation. The call ended.
Li Ming did not press. She remembered standing on the street, dazed, car lights sliding past one by one. Memories resurfaced—Harbin, the city of her birth, her childhood streets.
After graduating university, she had been assigned to a state-owned construction company. She and her ex-husband were colleagues, later married, then resigned together to start a small architectural firm. At first, few projects, only two or three staff. Gradually, projects came through her ex-husband's father's network, business slowly grew.
Around that time, Russian women began arriving in Harbin. After the Soviet Union collapsed, they came to earn a living in nightclubs, bars, and karaoke venues. Blonde hair, heavy makeup everywhere…
Her ex-husband said many projects were negotiated in such venues. Often, he would not return home until late. Li Ming did not inquire at first; she did not want outside issues to disrupt the firm's growth.
Until the day Li Wen stormed into her office:
"Sis, do you know what our brother-in-law is doing?"
They rushed to the rented apartment that night. A wave of smoke and strong perfume hit them as the door opened. A blonde woman sat on the bed; her ex-husband leaned against the headboard.
Li Wen attacked immediately, kicking off her heels, smashing them into the man's head. Chaos erupted—chairs overturned, bottles shattered. Li Ming hadn't yet reacted when the two were already struggling on the floor.
Li Wen's anger was deeper than that moment—it had been building for years. The firm had just made some money; she and her ex-husband bought a new apartment. Li Wen's relationship with her parents had already deteriorated; Li Ming had her move out into the old apartment.
One night, Li Wen was asleep when someone sneaked in—a client of her brother-in-law, overseeing a new housing project. The room smelled of smoke mixed with sweat. Li Wen opened her eyes to see a small, shriveled, repulsive man lying beside her, freckles all over his face, yellowed teeth uneven.
She was disgusted and struggled. The room became a mess—chairs overturned, water spilled. Eventually, the man staggered out, bleeding, cursing, retreating into the hall.
Li Wen called her sister the next day. Li Ming wanted to report to the police but was blocked by her ex-husband, who said:
"It's been some time… and what about the projects we're negotiating?"
At that moment, the apartment felt icy cold. The incident became a thorn in her heart. Arguments escalated. One night, he struck her; she grabbed a kitchen knife. The blade sliced his arm, and she froze at the sudden rush of blood.
Afterward came the police, mediation, and finally divorce.
Li Wen stayed in Harbin briefly, then moved to Shenzhen. She said Harbin was too cold, too full of memories she did not want to face. Eventually, calls could not get through; she almost lost all contact with the family.
Days passed. One clear morning, Li Ming received a text from her elder brother:
"This is Li Wen's current number. Do you want to contact her?"
Li Ming stared at the unfamiliar number before dialing. The phone rang long. Just as she thought no one would answer, a woman's voice came:
"Hello?"
Li Ming paused. The voice sounded strange, yet vaguely familiar.
"…Li Wen?" she whispered.
Silence. Then a familiar voice came:
"Sis?"
She hadn't heard that word in years.
Li Ming didn't know what to say, then slowly spoke:
"I heard you're in Shenzhen. I don't know if what I heard is true, but I wanted to call you. Life has many paths. You're young; you can change jobs, start over. Even slowly, it's okay. Don't continue down this road. You deserve a better life."
Silence followed. Li Ming thought the call had ended.
Then she heard Li Wen chuckle softly.
"Sis… you don't need to worry about me. I'm earning well. I can even send a bit back. Isn't Xiao Ming's heart surgery coming up? I can help cover some costs. Think of this as… this little sister has long been gone."
Li Ming gripped the phone, knuckles white, a wave of indescribable sorrow swelling in her chest. Wind blew snowflakes onto her shoulders; her shadow stretched long under the streetlights, lonely and heavy. She knew this call marked the end of an era, and the end of the connection she had with her sister.
On the streets, people hurried in heavy coats. She tightened her scarf, lifting her gaze as the familiar sense of solitude washed over her. Staring at the phone screen, memories of Harbin's streets, snow, lights, and her sister's indifferent words flooded her mind. She typed softly:
"I must remember, and I must learn to let go."
The night was quiet. The wind stirred gently. The past had shaped her, but it would not determine her future. She had to breathe anew, live anew, and view the world anew.