Winter Time Rendering

Chapter 138: Chapter 57: "Condolences

December 12, 2020.

The ferry cut through the steely, dark-blue surface of the lake.

Its destination was an island called Yanlong Island, the largest inland island in northern China, with a total area of about nine square kilometers... The only way to reach it was by boat. The ferry didn’t even have a cabin—just a massive deck painted a green that was already mottled and peeling.

Ferries departed every 20 minutes from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. The one-way trip took a little over twenty minutes, and a pedestrian ticket cost three yuan... He could recall all this information with ease, not just because he’d spent four years of school on this small island, but because just a moment ago, he had spent four days there.

That was December 8, 2012, a Saturday, back in his middle school days eight years ago.

And now...

’I’m back again.’

He now stood by the railing at the front of the deck, the floorboards vibrating faintly from the engine’s hum. A fishy smell wafted through the cold, damp air. He opened his mouth without a sound, feeling as if all the strength had drained from his body.

He still remembered the afternoon from four days ago—no, he should call it eight years and four days ago now. He’d returned to his middle school classroom. That day, he saw the snow covering the rubber track, his classmates with their heads buried in their studies, the workbooks on their desks, the building-block castle on the bookshelf... It was all like an old photograph pulled from the depths of his memory. He had stared at everything in disbelief, and then the photograph slowly bloomed with color, and he became a part of it. A normal life, the chance to start over—it was a hope he had buried in his heart for years, one he’d never dared to wish for, yet at that moment, it had become real.

Real...

Heh.

There was no wind or waves today; the lake was an almost solid sheet of steely blue. Only when the ferry slid forward, breaking the surface, did the spray churn against the hull, dissolving into foam that vanished in an instant.

Zhang Shutong watched the churning, dissipating foam in silence. He desperately wanted to sit down and rest. There was no rhyme or reason for it; he just wanted to find a place to sit for a while. Just for a little while.

But the ferry had no cabin, let alone seats. It was the dead of winter, hardly the season for tourism. He was the only person on the entire boat. He wore a black trench coat. He studied his hands, slowly clenching them into fists before letting them go slack.

Zhang Shutong wasn’t foolish enough to think those four days in middle school had been a dream. He was certain that, in that final moment late on Saturday night, the rewind had, in fact, been triggered.

What he never could have imagined, however, was that he would be sent back to his original point in time after the matter had been resolved.

In the past, this ability had tormented him to no end, but it had always been a matter of endlessly looping within a fixed period of time.

The trigger mechanism for the rewind was:

If something bad happened around him, he would return to a critical juncture before the event occurred.

Usually a few minutes, or a few days, prior.

If time were a cassette tape, his ability had always been the one pressing the "rewind button" for him. But this time? Why did it press the "fast-forward button"?

Zhang Shutong had no answer.

He only knew that he was, indeed, back.

’But why now, of all times? Why come back just when he was ready to embrace a brand-new life?’

He opened his mouth again but didn’t know what to say. He was the only person on the boat. Countless shards of memory flashed through his mind: Qingyi, Ruoping, Du Kang... all of them chattering excitedly around him. Going night fishing together, riding bikes to the commercial street for a meal, pushing shopping carts aimlessly through the supermarket on a weekend—the scenes of their laughter and conversation felt so close... No, they weren’t just close. They were right in front of him.

He leaned numbly against the railing and tilted his head back to look at the sky.

Until the ship’s whistle blew.

Zhang Shutong slowly walked off the boat.

The ferry had docked.

There was only one bus route on the island. He found his way to the stop almost on instinct. The bus arrived quickly—a yellow electric coach labeled Route 121. He boarded and found a seat.

It was a little warmer inside the bus, but he slid the window open a crack, letting the cold wind sting his face. The glass reflected his own twenty-four-year-old face. The lines of his features were a bit sharper, but he hadn’t changed much in eight years.

The man in the reflection stared back at him, cold and unsmiling, his eyes dark and dull.

’This was the real "Zhang Shutong."’

He looked away, unable to watch any longer. After just four days, he had almost forgotten what he was supposed to look like.

Zhang Shutong silently watched the scenery outside the window. It was a bleak tableau. The bus traveled along the newly built road that circled the lake, offering a view of the reeds along the shore.

Hidden behind the reeds was an abandoned drainage culvert, its concrete body riddled with cracks. Zhang Shutong knew that inside it was a broken safe containing a fishing rod, a helmet, and compressed biscuits. Not long ago, he had brought a girl here on his bike, and the two of them had spent a whole afternoon on the shore. If he could, he would have loved to go see if the safe was still there.

But the "base" was his and his alone; the bus route didn’t have a stop next to a drainage culvert.

Finally, Zhang Shutong sighed and closed the window.

’I guess it’s time to accept reality.’

’If the price of "saving" others is "sacrificing" yourself, then what are you supposed to do?’

’His mind was a mess. He was just thinking of an example. What he meant was, if—if Gu Qiuyan’s life hadn’t been changed, would he still have come back from eight years in the past?’

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