After resting for a night, early the next morning, Jing Hong suddenly felt a desire to wander around this historic town he had never visited before.

Without having his assistants tag along, Jing Hong left the hotel alone. He had brought four or five people with him for the World Internet Conference this time, but the small town was actually quite large, with the scenic areas split into the West Grid (Xizha) and East Grid (Dongzha). Experiencing all of it would take at least a few hours, yet they were returning to Beijing that evening, and the conference’s official events were scheduled to start at nine in the morning. Thus, without notifying any of his assistants, Jing Hong stepped out around five o’clock—after all, he routinely woke up around five.

Rising at five, he would usually exercise, shower, eat a light breakfast, and go to the office to handle work, rarely getting more than six hours of sleep—sometimes four hours or even less.

Instead of a dress shirt and suit, Jing Hong wore a loose, cream-white sweater paired with jeans, which made him look considerably younger.

They had stayed in the West Grid the previous night, where all the business hotels were located.

Walking down to the riverside, Jing Hong boarded a black-canopied awning boat (wupeng boat) and sat quietly, awaiting the sunrise. The boat was manually sculled; ripples pushed outward from both sides of the hull, and the oars striking the water’s surface created a crisp, pleasant sound, as if gently plucking the bubbles deep within one’s heart.

After a short while, the sun gradually rose.

The trees were coated in a layer of golden light like golden folding screens, and the white walls along both banks were painted in warm hues. There was a golden-red sun in the sky and another floating and swaying in the water, glistening with ripples of gold while trailing a long, shimmering tail. Positioned between the two suns was an ancient white arch bridge, atop which several young women in qipao were taking photos.

It was indeed beautiful.

The boatman continued rowing the small vessel to complete a loop around the town, while Jing Hong quietly took in the scenery.

Because it was so early, the entire town was still fast asleep, with shop doors tightly shut line after line. The entire West Grid was composed of 12 small islands connected by over 70 small bridges. Floating island after floating island held rows of blue-tiled, white-walled structures interspersed with lush trees, reminding Jing Hong of Venice.

Some aspects were identical, yet many others were different.

As the boat drifted along, rain began to fall over the town once more—a soft, gentle mist, entirely unlike the murky, chaotic rain of Beijing.

Fortunately, Jing Hong had brought an umbrella.

When the black-canopied boat returned to its starting point, Jing Hong opened his umbrella and stepped off, feeling quite at ease. The umbrella belonged to the hotel—a long-handled, black umbrella with a J-shaped wooden handle at the end that wasn’t particularly smooth, but felt very comfortable to hold.

Jing Hong took a brief stroll through several spots in the town’s West Grid, and finally, following online recommendations, he climbed the Bailian Pagoda at the Bailian Pagoda Temple.

It was a magnificent vantage point. Gazing far into the distance from high above, the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal swept past the edge of the West Grid—expansive, vast, and imbued with a sense of historic permanence; this was the only Jiangnan water town through which the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal flowed.

Jing Hong envisioned the bustling noise and excitement this canal must have seen in bygone eras.

Excavated in the Spring and Autumn Period, completed in the Sui Dynasty, and prospering through the Tang and Song Dynasties… This canal, this town, and even this land had gone from prosperity to decline, and back to prosperity, spanning several millennia just like that.

A few meters away, the moment Zhou Chang ascended the Bailian Pagoda, he spotted a person’s silhouette from behind.

For reasons unknown, he recognized him at a single glance—it was Jing Hong.

Out of some unexplainable whim, Zhou Chang did not step forward, choosing instead to quietly observe the back of Jing Hong leaning against the railing.

Atop the Bailian Pagoda amidst the fine drizzle, Jing Hong was holding an umbrella. The ribs of the umbrella rested slanting against his shoulder, with the canopy just covering his head. Beneath lay the Beijing-Hangzhou Grand Canal that had been surging for 2,500 years, a dragon-shaped sea of flowers, mist-veiled flowing waters, blue tiles, white walls, and the water-dwelling households of Jiangnan. And nearby stood Jing Hong holding his umbrella; the umbrella twirled once before his eyes, then another full circle a few seconds later, and another circle a few seconds after that, flinging away crystal-clear drops of water. Underneath the umbrella, Jing Hong wore a white sweater, looking quite different from his usual self.

Zhou Chang thought: That saying about the double hair whorls actually seems to make some sense.

He pondered for a moment, and not wanting to disturb Jing Hong as he took in the view, he turned around and went back down.

Jing Hong stood at the top of the pagoda for a short while longer, and noticing that it was getting late, he also descended the Bailian Pagoda and headed toward the East Grid.

Arriving at the East Grid shortly after, Jing Hong walked along the blue flagstones. Wanting to take in the roadside scenery, Jing Hong didn’t hold his umbrella very low; thus, whenever a sudden breeze from Jiangnan blew past, carrying a mist of fine rain that dusted against his body, it felt cool yet remarkably comfortable.

Lined along both sides were covered bridges, water pavilions, taverns, teahouses, dye houses, and sauce workshops—picturesque in every corner.

Every door seemed capable of unlocking a sealed chapter of history, with the people inside laboring or flirting just as they did today.

After visiting a few places, Jing Hong saw a covered bridge.

Though covered by a roof, it was divided into left and right walkways, separated down the middle by carved wooden windows with hollowed-out lattice patterns.

By now, tourists had begun to appear, and Jing Hong casually asked: “Is this the Fengyuan Double Bridge?”

“That’s right!” A local who hadn’t recognized Jing Hong answered, “This is indeed the Fengyuan Double Bridge!”

Jing Hong had read about it the night before.

Legend had it that walking across the left side brought official promotion, while walking across the right side brought fortune, allowing one to prosper on both fronts (Liang tou feng yuan).

Yet Jing Hong felt the logic was somewhat off.

A person could only walk on one side; this clearly meant that a person could not have it both ways, cautioning against insatiable greed.

Predictably, regardless of what the Fengyuan Double Bridge had originally meant, nowadays the legend had boiled down to: “If a couple walks across separately and reunites at the end, their love will remain rock-solid for a lifetime.”

Jing Hong had no lover, while his career as an official had already hit the peak, and his wealth had reached the top as well; asking for anything more would inevitably annoy the deities. Thus, he casually stepped onto the bridge on the left side.

The bridge was not long; when Jing Hong reached the middle, he paused to look out at the swaying weeping willows and winding water pavilions, delaying briefly before continuing forward.

As he walked, Jing Hong turned his neck and glanced over at the other side of the bridge beyond the wooden partition.

Through the hollowed lattice of the carved wooden window, he caught sight of Zhou Chang.

Zhou Chang was also holding a black umbrella and wearing a grey sweater. As if sensing his gaze, he looked back through the hollowed lattice.

A tall stature, handsome features, and an imposing presence.

For a moment, neither of them stopped their steps nor averted their eyes. The partition between them blocked their view one second, only to reveal a glimpse the next.

The other’s face was not fully visible, framed through the elegant, classical carvings on the window.

Yet Jing Hong realized that even with the gorgeous wooden carvings before him, Zhou Chang himself was not robbed of a single bit of his brilliance. In fact, his presence, paired with the classical carved wooden window, gained an extra touch of flavor.

In the misty Jiangnan rain, all emotions were softened. Jing Hong nodded lightly, and upon seeing this, Zhou Chang also gave a subtle nod.

Consider it a greeting—even if greeting each other on the Fengyuan Double Bridge seemed somewhat out of place.

In the past, their encounters had always been at internet-related events.

After finishing his tour of the East Grid, a bit of time still remained.

His assistants were already awake, but Jing Hong told them he had already eaten breakfast and that meeting directly in the hotel room at 8:45 would be fine, leaving the assistants glad for the break.

Jing Hong didn’t intend to return immediately; estimating the time needed to get back to the hotel and change clothes, he strolled around the West Grid a bit more.

As he walked, Jing Hong noticed a large, modern building by the water that he hadn’t seen online. Stepping closer to take a look, he found it was the “Muxin Art Museum.”

Jing Hong wasn’t knowledgeable about art, knowing only vaguely that Muxin was a famous painter. Having time on his hands anyway, Jing Hong walked inside.

An introduction at the entrance noted that as the elderly artist neared the end of his life, he saw the design proposal for the art museum while in a state of delirium, offering only a seven-word evaluation: “The wind, the water, and a bridge.”

Mulling over these words, Jing Hong began his casual tour.

First came the Biographical Hall, divided into four chronological sections. From 1927 to 1943, he was in this small town, enjoying an affluent childhood before relocating multiple times amidst the flames of war. In 1945, he went to Shanghai to study painting, but was expelled from school and wanted by the Kuomintang for opposing the civil war, causing him to flee to Taiwan before returning to Shanghai shortly before 1949. Afterward came periods of work, seclusion, painting, and returning to work out of financial necessity… In 1971, he was imprisoned, all his artwork was burned, several of his fingers were broken, and he wrote his long-form Prison Notes; his first act upon release was assisting in the renovation of the Great Hall of the People. In 1982, he went to New York to continue his studies, living in perpetual financial hardship. During this time, he returned to his former residence after 52 years away, only to find it completely unrecognizable. Heartbroken, he wrote a poem ending with: “Farewell forever, I shall never return.” Later, the custodian of the town renovated his ancestral home and invited its master back; thus, in 2006, at the age of 79, he accepted his hometown’s invitation and returned to live out his golden years in the Sun Family Garden of his memories until passing away in 2011.

His life seemed thoroughly legendary.

Further along were the Painting Hall and Literary Hall.

Though Jing Hong lacked expert knowledge, he possessed fundamental aesthetic appreciation, and looking at those ink landscape paintings, he found himself somewhat immersed in them.

In front of one wall, Jing Hong stood for quite a while, taking in the paintings one by one.

Not far away, a young woman was chatting with her mother as they browsed.

The young woman seemed to know a lot, saying to her mother: “Muxin was actually a painter, but nowadays, what he’s most famous for isn’t his paintings or his life story, but rather a poem!”

Her mother was a native of Jiangnan, speaking in a gentle local dialect as she asked: “Oh? Which poem?”

The young woman also switched into lovely, melodious Wu dialect: “It’s called ‘In the Past, Life Moved Slowly’ (Cong Qian Man), because it was made into a song.”

Her mother then asked: “So what is the poem about?”

“Let me look it up.” The young girl seemed to search her phone. After a moment, her pleasant Wu dialect sounded through the Painting Hall once more:

“Remember in our youth, everyone was sincere and earnest; every word said was meant…”

Her mother listened, and Jing Hong listened casually as well.

The young girl continued reciting: “In the past, the sunlight moved slowly; cars, horses, and mail were all slow… A whole lifetime was only enough to love one person—”

For reasons he couldn’t explain, upon hearing that line, Jing Hong suddenly experienced a very peculiar sensation. Halting his gaze, he turned his head to look behind his shoulder.

And then he discovered that behind him, right under the opposite wall, Zhou Chang had also just turned around, looking in his direction.

Their eyes met.

Though neither knew the other was there, strangely enough—amidst the Jiangnan rain outside and the freehand landscapes within, right as those words “A whole lifetime was only enough to love one person” echoed—they turned their heads at the exact same moment.