Li Ming's office was tucked away on a quiet street in Georgetown, housed in a converted rowhouse. Sunlight poured in through the south-facing windows, bathing the modern, minimalist space in a warm golden hue. On several large desks, blueprints for ongoing projects lay spread out. Along the walls, samples of stone, wood, tile, color swatches, and fabrics were neatly arranged—each a subtle reminder that quality and aesthetics formed the foundation of her design philosophy. The air was filled with the scent of coffee. Occasionally, the wind rustled the branches outside, a gentle reminder that a new day had begun.
At dusk, the phone rang. The world seemed to pause. A low voice said, "Your mother… she's gone."
Suddenly the room fell silent. The hum of the air conditioner, the distant sound of traffic—all seemed to recede. Her fingers froze on the blueprint, her vision blurred. Tears did not fall. Darkness settled outside, and the light inside cast a solitary shadow across the room.
After a moment, she asked softly, "When?"
"Last night…"
Li Ming replied with a faint, almost inaudible sound. She could have asked more—whether her mother had suffered, whether anyone had been with her—but the questions stuck in her throat. She realized that the details no longer mattered.
She remained seated, fingers growing cold, shoulders trembling slightly. She had expected tears, but her eyes stayed dry; her emotions seemed trapped deep inside. A memory of her mother's younger self flashed—standing in the kitchen, hair pinned high, speaking in hurried tones. The image was vivid, then slowly faded, leaving only emptiness. Her mother was gone.
Only then did the delayed wave of grief rise, slowly and quietly from her core. She lowered her head, hands resting on the desk, shoulders quivering, silent. After a long while, she looked up. The room remained unchanged, yet time had moved forward, imperceptibly.
After Li Wen left for Shenzhen, contact had gradually ceased. Occasional phone calls became rarer and then stopped entirely. Her mother's worry grew heavy, pressing down on her chest—concern for a missing daughter, concern for a son who could not care for himself. Her brother Xiao Ming, diagnosed with Down syndrome, had undergone heart surgery and gradually stabilized physically, but remained largely dependent. Nearly twenty years old, he would sometimes vanish for days, return covered in bruises after being bullied, or go missing again only to be brought back by the police.
Her mother lived in a constant state of anxiety. A daughter lost, a son in need—there was hardly a day of peace. Mentally fragile to begin with, her mother's condition had worsened after her father faced political persecution during the WG period and she was forced into labor reeducation. Years later, her stability relied heavily on medication. With her daughter gone and her son's condition deteriorating, her mother finally collapsed under the weight of it all. She would wander the yard, confused, holding aluminum bowls or rolling pins, striking them aimlessly.
Neighbors watched from afar, sympathy in their eyes. Family members grew more anxious. Her eldest brother bore the heaviest burden. He was the son of her father and his previous wife, not her mother's child, yet he contributed more than anyone else. After graduating high school, he studied law, later joining a law firm arranged by their father. Once his career stabilized, he brought his own mother from the countryside to live in Harbin. Occasionally, her mother would prepare buns or dumplings for him to take. Past resentments faded in the daily rhythm of life. As her mother's condition worsened, she barely recognized anyone. When she occasionally saw Xiao Ming, she would grasp his hand and murmur indistinctly, a mixture of calling and crying. By the end, her mother had almost completely lost consciousness, as if all her energy had been spent on her children. The family survived largely thanks to the support of her eldest brother and his wife.
After hanging up the phone, Li Ming sat in the living room for a long time. Late at night, a sudden unease washed over her: she had not returned to Harbin for many years. Her father was aging, and there were things she could only see now, before the chance was gone forever.
The next morning, she sent a message to her assistant, explaining that she was handing over current projects for follow-up: "I need to go back to Harbin…" Dawn broke outside. She understood that some places, no matter how far you go, you must return to.
Li Ming began arranging her trip. Projects at the firm were at critical stages. She meticulously organized blueprints, meeting notes, and progress reports, passing responsibilities clearly to her assistant. Then she flew from Washington to Harbin.
After handling her mother's affairs, Li Ming stayed in Harbin for some time. During the day, she walked alone along the Songhua River. The ice had broken, but the water remained cold. The wind lifted the edges of her coat. She watched chunks of ice drift slowly downstream, like fragments of memory, recalling her childhood watching workers break the ice—early morning winds, the heavy sound of iron picks striking thick ice, her mother's distant call to come home. Everything felt like yesterday, yet also a century away.
On clear days, she accompanied her father to Central Avenue. The shop where her mother had worked displayed rows of goods in its windows. Passing the former site of the Madeleine Ballroom, once filled with laughter and music, she saw only a renovated facade. Former colleagues called her name. In a brief conversation, one lowered their voice to mention her ex-husband: "…now, he's using drugs." Li Ming only nodded. The wind stirred fallen leaves, carrying away the words.
Pedestrians hurried past, their eyes falling on familiar yet changed streets. Memories—the ballroom lights, her mother's busy figure, Li Wen's stubborn face—hung like a thin mist over her heart, bringing a quiet ache. She understood that some things, no matter how far you run, cannot be fully let go.
Night fell. Amber streetlights cast warmth on the cobblestone paths, solitary but comforting. Thoughts drifted like snow, quietly covering everything, yet never disappearing.
Her father's back was slightly stooped, hair entirely white, his frame no longer strong. When he looked up, the wrinkles around his eyes seemed deeper, his hair gleaming under the dim streetlights. Li Ming reached for his arm, feeling the weight of time and fragility. The night wind blew, lifting her scarf to rest on his shoulder. Together, they walked slowly. At the end of the street, lights blurred the boundary between cold and solitude, memory and reality, like the Songhua River in early northern spring, moving slowly, heavily, impossible to turn back.