Walking through the rows of shelf racks, I wandered among them with the shopping basket. The shop was decorated with lanterns, and the atmosphere of the festival was reflected in the red ornaments. Purchases made before the new year shaped it a little deserted now, and what was left behind was a mess. Scattered goods were difficult to bury the dull hidden within the shelves, and going to the supermarket alone was hard to escape the silent vibes. When I was lost, I saw a few packets of biscuits left on the shelves in the corner. I stretched out my arms to reach for it, but pulled back right after. I stared blankly and stood there. 

The white plaid packaging was printed with the appearance of cookies on one side. The red logo on the top was classic. It was a memory in the fade, mottled with the sound of the time.

When I was a child, I liked to spend New Year’s Eve at my grandparents’ house. The smoke rose in the distance with the arrival of the evening mist, neither light nor thick, and dissipated in the high places. Like a monotonous sketch, the desolation in the mountains and plains sprinkled the entire windowsill. He leaned against the wooden door with the couplets hanging on it, the door was smooth and gray. The fire crackled in the stove, exuding the warmth of the winter sun. Grandpa was smoking a cigarette and adding dry wood to the stove. Grandma was frying on the potting table, and the smoke quickly filled the entire room. Two or three children huddled around the low kitchen table, kicking their feet restlessly. At this time, grandpa always brushed off his pipe at the corner of the table and wiped the ash off his cotton-padded coat. His firm body didn’t stop him from getting up. He took out a crumpled bag from the cupboard, which contained the grape biscuits that he wasn’t willing to eat at normal times.

“One piece per person, don’t make a fuss. Oh, grandma will make dinner right away.”

The curling smoke, the vague dialogue, a little bit of lingering, faintly sweet. Now I stood by the shelf, letting the voices of old years come to my mind. Flowing back to the past with regrets that could no longer be touched, it is sad but beautiful.

I stood there for a while, took one of them from the shelf, put it in my basket, and went to check out. 

In the winter of 2018, sitting at one table, was the last time we spent the twilight between laughter. In the winter of 2020, my phone was dumb on the table, and I couldn’t receive the text message of your sincere blessing ever again. Thick clouds blocked the rays of the sun, and the sky was covered with white snowflakes. Air was infused with peppermint, and it felt cool when breathing. The silver dots dyed my black hair, and crystals were telling stories. Memories were sealed in yearnings, vanished into the white emptiness.