Your breath came white from your mouth. The wind had tangled your curly hair, and your knees were trembling under your coat. All these things told me you were actually there, and this wasn’t just a continuation of the dream. I hadn’t seen you in eighteen years, no wonder I couldn’t recognize you. You weren’t wearing makeup, and your pale face looked a little swollen, but it was clear you’d grown into a beauty like we’d all known you would—though you had the numb expression of someone who’s been in the big city too long. You asked if you looked how I’d imagined. I smiled and admitted I’d never imagined you grown up. As far as I was concerned, you and everything to do with you had been placed into a sealed folder. Maybe this is hurtful to hear, but I had truly never hoped to meet you again.

I went to the kitchen and turned off the stove. Half the water had boiled away, filling the room with fog. You sat and watched anxiously as I made tea.

“Are you still living with your grandma and aunt?” you asked.

I told you Granny was dead, but yes, I was still with Auntie.

“And she never married?”

“No.”

It was a difficult conversation. Every time we fell into silence, I felt something squeezing at my heart, and I wanted to end this encounter as quickly as possible. You seemed to sense this, and searched for something else to talk about. The tea cooled, the fog dissipated. You stood to leave. I’d only just closed the door and sighed in relief when the bell rang again. You said I should come to the white mansion later and walked away before I could respond.

I hadn’t planned to show up—I didn’t think we had any need to meet again. I sat on the couch and smoked cigarette after cigarette as it got dark. Then someone tapped on the door: the water delivery boy. He wore a filthy gray wool hat and looked harried.

“I had to make a delivery on the west side,” he said. “I got lost.”

I sent him away, buttoned my coat, and left with my suitcase. It was dark, and snow was beginning to fall. I waited for a long time outside Southern Courtyard until a taxi finally came along, but the driver said his shift was ending. It was freezing cold—I kept stamping my feet and blowing into my hands. The door of the little restaurant behind me swung open and the owner came out, on her way to get cigarettes for a customer. She called out a warm greeting when she saw me—I’d spent a lot of time over the summer drinking there.

“Going somewhere?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Are you in a hurry? You won’t get a taxi in this snow.”