In 2010, I took a train from a certain city back to my hometown, and, as usual, I went to visit an old classmate named Qiao.

This was something I did every winter and summer break—it had become a habit for me, though for him… no… he didn’t even remember people anymore, so there was no question of it being a “visit” for him.

I guess university had made me a bit absent-minded.

After seeing my parents at home, I followed the familiar path to a quiet place where my old classmate lived, in a building tucked into a remote corner. Initially, I had to trouble the doorman to guide me there, but now I knew the way well.

As I entered the decaying corridor, my faint footsteps triggered the sound-activated lights. I slowed my pace, stepping carefully up the final flight of stairs. Rounding the corridor, I stopped in front of his door, raised my hand to knock, and gave a polite smile towards the peephole.

This old apartment building didn’t have an elevator.

The door opened slowly, and an older-looking woman smiled at me. Her smile deepened the wrinkles on her forehead and around her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and said, “Ah Qin, is your break so early? The high schools haven’t even let out yet.”

“Auntie, college and high school are different; I’ve explained it hundreds of times.” I smiled, holding up a green gift box in my hand, adding, “Here, Sichuan specialties—this year I brought not only Qingcheng tea but also some Douban paste and Zhang Fei beef.”

Ms. Zhou gave me a few chiding words about not spending so much and invited me in. She led me to a door with an understanding, whispered a few words, then went off to continue cooking.

I quietly twisted the handle and pushed the door open very slowly, first sticking my head inside while the rest of my body stayed outside.

Although it was daytime, the room was so dark it was almost stifling; the person inside had already drawn the thick curtains tightly shut. A thin man was hunched over a desk, working, with only a dim lamp to his left. Qiao’s skeletal hand moved gently over the sketch paper, scratching faint lines.

The sound of the door opening disturbed him. He froze for a moment, his broad, straight back pausing before he slowly turned his head to look at me. His handsome face was blank, his eyes listless. He showed no reaction to my arrival, which allowed me to exhale in relief.

When strangers come into Qiao’s space, he tends to have episodes, but I think I no longer count as a stranger—I’d been visiting him for a few years now.

I walked over quietly to take a look; most of the grey-white drawing on the sketch paper was already done. The picture was heavy and oppressive, showing two bizarre, intertwined shadows—one large and one small, one cowering and the other looming aggressively.

Suddenly, Qiao’s dull eyes became alert. He lunged forward to cover his drawing, crumpling the paper in his grasp. His eyes were sharp, almost like a watchful dog, as if he were driving me away with his gaze alone.

I backed off and told him calmly, “I won’t look. Just hide it if you want.”

Qiao remained motionless, leaning over his desk with his drawing covered. His bangs hung slightly over his brows, half-obscuring his expression; his hair was black and smooth but thinning—not wild, just untrimmed.

It seemed he wasn’t willing to cut his hair again.

Qiao was taciturn, deaf to anything I said, or perhaps he’d simply shut himself into his own safe world. I pulled over a chair and sat beside him in silence, watching him.

Qiao was a high school classmate of mine, once an exceptionally brilliant student. In school, he was as dazzling as the sun in the sky, emitting a radiant glow that made everyone look up to him.

But four years ago, everything changed overnight. He went from spirited to despondent. Or maybe it wasn’t overnight—I wasn’t sure because I was only an observer, hearing things secondhand, maybe even a witness hiding in the shadows.

Back in school, Qiao wasn’t necessarily the most handsome, but he was popular. He had good looks, excellent grades, and was consistently ranked in the top three. Known as a “star student,” he was the ideal student in teachers’ eyes and the “good boy” among classmates. He was neither rebellious nor troublesome, bringing peace of mind to his teachers and parents alike. Courteous and polite, he always maintained a certain distance from others, as though he was separated by an invisible, thick layer of glass. Many girls who pursued him couldn’t hold on for long, as his attitude determined their chances. And I was just a regular student, watching him quietly from the sidelines. I was average in everything—family background, personality, and looks—this lukewarm self of mine sometimes frustrated me. But whenever I saw the steady, radiant Qiao, I felt an inexplicable calm.

His family wasn’t well-off, a “child from a poor family” who lived up to the saying, “from a humble background emerges talent.” Teachers liked him, often remarking that Qiao had a good chance of becoming the top student in the college entrance exams.

I thought so, too. In my eyes, Qiao’s intellect was unparalleled. I remember he enjoyed reciting passages. Although his grades were high across subjects, he seemed to prefer literature. During language and English classes, teachers would often ask him to read beautiful passages to refresh our ears, calm our restless spirits, and ease our fatigue before the college entrance exams.

The memories still rise vividly: a light breeze rustling the blue curtains, golden sunlight streaming in like the skin of an orange, wrapping the classroom in warm light, with us fresh and youthful inside.

Outside the clear glass window, a bird chirped now and then.

The tall, fair-skinned boy stood at the front of the class, holding his book firmly, reciting fluently. During that period when he was transitioning from boy to man, his voice was slightly hoarse, somewhat magnetic, adding a hint of quirkiness without detracting from his charm. His steady voice was a treat for those who loved good voices, and many girls enjoyed listening to him. Unlike a primary schooler reciting mechanically, Qiao’s tone had a warmth like a gentle older brother from a radio program. Solid like a mountain, refreshing like the wind—he neither came across as too familiar nor overly verbose. Sometimes, after finishing one passage, he’d ask to read another if he was in a good mood. The teachers rarely refused such a request from an outstanding student, especially one for learning, and they enjoyed hearing him read, so they let him continue.

My seat was in the middle, neither too close nor too far from the front row where he sat. Often, I could only see the back of his full head of hair or his tranquil, clear profile.