Chapter 37: Returning to School

Early on the twentieth day of the first lunar month, a thin mist clung stubbornly over the county town. Li Yifei stood just outside his doorstep; the red lantern hanging beneath the eaves swayed gently in the morning breeze, its tassels dusted with tiny fragments of red paper from firecrackers.

His mother’s hurried footsteps approached, a plastic bag swinging in her hand. “Here, take this—your favorite rice balls, filled with freshly pickled preserved mustard greens. Eat them on the way to keep your hunger at bay.” His father remained silent, wordlessly loading the pale, worn suitcase onto the back of the tricycle.

The metal wheels clicked crisply as they rolled over the gaps in the bluestone pavement outside the door.

The electronic screen at the train station glowed with a cold green light. Standing in line for his ticket to be checked, Li Yifei instinctively glanced back.

Through the crowd and mist, he saw his mother swiftly wipe her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. His father stood straight, hands clasped behind his back like an ancient, silent tree, his figure blurred in the morning haze at the far end of the platform.

With a sudden jolt, the train began to move slowly. Li Yifei pressed his whole body against the chilly window, his gaze fixed on the two shrinking black dots at the platform’s edge until they were swallowed entirely by the curve of the tracks.

Inside the carriage, the mingled aroma of instant noodles filled the air. Li Yifei opened the inner compartment of his backpack, revealing a red slip of paper his mother had slipped inside. On it, his father had written a few words: “Arrived safely, report back.”

Outside the window, the wheat fields were blanketed with a thin layer of frost, rippling like waves under the rising sun.

This sight unlocked a flood of memories: On New Year's Eve, gathered around the hearth with coal fire blazing, his father’s old copper kettle gleamed as it boiled tea with a soft bubbling sound; steam rose, carrying the fragrance of tea.

His mother placed piece after golden, crispy rice cake into his bowl piled high; on the first day of the lunar year, before dawn, he followed the elders of the clan, paying New Year’s visits door to door; incense smoke in the ancestral hall hung thick and impenetrable.

On the night of the Lantern Festival, the fire in the stove cast a warm red glow over the room as he and his mother crowded over the chopping block making glutinous rice dumplings. The snow-white rice flour dusted the strands of hair falling from his mother’s brow, like a thin layer of fresh snow.

At seven in the evening, the train rolled into the vast terminus. The huge electronic clock above the exit cast an icy light onto the dense crowd below.

The tide of people swept Li Yifei forward. The wheels of his old suitcase scraped against the hard concrete floor with a sharp squeak.

Stepping out from beneath the station’s enormous dome, a biting cold wind immediately swept in, carrying a heavy scent of iced water mixed with dust, slapping against his face.

In the distance, the towers of the new city district tirelessly reflected the city’s kaleidoscopic neon lights, scattering like rivers of fractured gold and silver, converging into a flowing sea of light.

When he pushed open the old wooden door of his dormitory, the hinge emitted a reluctant groan.

A shaft of cool moonlight slanted through the dusty windowpane, casting a skewed patch of light onto the desk.

Li Yifei moved to the window and pushed open the poorly sealed pane, allowing the piercing cold winter air to flood the room.

He instinctively reached out to touch the radiator by the wall; the cold metal sent a sharp chill through his fingertips.

He took out the slightly flattened rice ball. Unwrapping the tightly sealed grease paper, the salty aroma of preserved mustard greens mixed with the warm softness of glutinous rice wafted up.

He bit into it deeply; the familiar flavor spread across his tongue. As he chewed, his mother’s figure appeared before him: her back slightly bent, her strong palms kneading the dough with rhythmic thuds—“thump, thump, thump”—the solid dough striking the chopping board, steady and reassuring.

***

At five-thirty the next morning, the alarm rang precisely. Li Yifei threw off the covers, his bare feet touching the cold cement floor as he walked to the window and drew back the old curtain.

The dawn was climbing the city skyline, gilding the silent bell tower on the distant campus with a flowing golden edge. The plastic running track still held the night’s dampness, shimmering faintly.

A few students, dressed warmly, were stretching by the track. The cold air sliced across his cheeks like knives. He changed into his sportswear, inhaled deeply of the crisp air, and exhaled a small cloud of white mist. His feet pattered softly on the track, making light rustling sounds.

“Yifei!” A clear voice called from behind. Slowing his pace, he turned to see Senior Gu.

Her hair was pulled back into a neat high ponytail. A damp patch darkened the shoulder of her jacket. She held a copy of the Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon, its deep blue cover worn and curled at the corners.

“Happy New Year, Senior!” Li Yifei greeted her, his eyes landing on the fresh mud splattered along the side of her running shoes. “How far did you run?”

“From the big park to the west all the way back.” Gu wiped sweat from her brow, a few strands clinging to her flushed cheeks. “Staying home makes my bones ache, so I thought I’d come back early and organize my thesis materials.”

They began jogging side by side. Li Yifei shared some trivial anecdotes about the New Year festivities back home, while Gu excitedly told him about a serendipitous discovery during the winter break in the corner of the library’s ancient manuscripts section—a few delicate pages from a Ming dynasty medical casebook. Her eyes sparkled brilliantly in the dim light.

Mentioning their shared mentor, Professor Xia, Gu’s voice softened. “I heard Professor Xia has a new project after returning. Remember the old man Wang treated at the affiliated hospital last year with severe stroke sequelae? It was Professor Xia who adjusted the formula of the Buyang Huanwu decoction, and his symptoms improved significantly.”

Her words struck a chord deep within Li Yifei’s heart. He immediately recalled the long reading list Professor Xia had given him before the New Year: Treatise on Cold Damage, Essentials from the Golden Cabinet... A thick stack by his bedside, every title heavily annotated by the mentor.

“Senior,” Li Yifei dodged a puddle on the track, “have you decided to continue pursuing your doctorate under Professor Xia?”

Gu’s steps faltered slightly, her gaze drifting toward the teaching buildings slowly emerging through the morning mist. “Professor Xia often says studying Chinese medicine requires ‘reading ten thousand books and traveling ten thousand miles.’ I’ve been copying prescriptions and organizing case notes for three years now. The deeper I delve, the deeper the pool seems.”

She pulled a small metal tin from her pocket, popped out two throat lozenges, and handed one to Li Yifei. “By the way, how’s that copy of Ye Tianshi’s medical cases I gave you? There’s a prescription for treating dizziness inside with a very unique approach to herbal use. I puzzled over it all night—need to discuss it with you later.”

They ran quietly, exchanging low whispers about prescriptions and herbology, losing track of time entirely.

Only when the golden sunlight climbed to the tips of the plane tree branches beside the track did Li Yifei suddenly feel a chill down his back. His sweat-soaked sportswear clung to his skin. Gu was panting too. “Let’s go to that soup shop by the school gate. They’ve added shengjian buns—crispy and delicious, perfect to warm us up!”

On the way back to the dorm, Li Yifei habitually detoured past the lab building. Through the window, rows of incubators blinked softly in the dim light.

Near the wall, several large boxes of newly arrived lab supplies were stacked. He thought of Professor Xia’s sharp eyes behind her glasses and her oft-repeated saying: “Studying medicine is like sailing upstream; if you don’t advance, you’ll fall behind.”

Opening the dorm door, he noticed a thin layer of dust on the windowsill. He shrugged off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, efficiently stripped the sheets and blanket covers into a basin, then began dusting the nooks of his desk.

Sunlight slanted in warmly, shining on the floor still glistening with moisture from his mopping. The medical books on his shelf were neatly restacked, and the withered pothos on the windowsill, having been watered, revived as its dusty leaves unfurled.

His phone buzzed—it was a message from Senior Gu: “I’m at the gate, brought a new friend along.”

Exiting the dormitory’s old iron gate, Li Yifei saw Gu standing under a tree by the road. Beside her stood a girl in a camel-colored coat, head bent over her phone.

As he drew closer, recognition dawned—it was Su Yao, a third-year graduate student at the medical school. At last year’s university academic forum, her report on the “Effects of Acupuncture on Motor Dysfunction” had been solid in both data and conclusions.

“Junior Brother Yifei, I’ve heard much about you,” Su Yao looked up, her eyes smiling behind her lenses. “Professor Xia often mentions you at group meetings, says you’re deeply engaged in studying medical cases.” Li Yifei felt a flush of embarrassment at her frank praise, instinctively touching his pocket.

Inside the bustling soup shop, steam billowed white from every table, mingling with the rich aroma of braised beef.

Gu, clearly a regular, called out to the busy owner, “Three bowls of soup, extra cilantro!”

Su Yao pulled a faded blue floral cloth bag from her purse, opening it as she spoke. “During the community clinic over winter break, an old lady insisted acupuncture didn’t hurt at all and stuffed me with a big handful of her homemade pumpkin seeds.”

She untied the cloth to reveal glossy, bright red pickled radishes. “Here, my grandmother’s recipe—try some.”

Li Yifei carefully picked up a freshly cooked shengjian bun, biting through the thin, crispy crust; hot broth instantly flooded his mouth, the rich meat fragrance spreading warmly.

Outside, traffic flowed like a weaving thread, pedestrians wrapped in heavy winter clothes hurried past. Amid this noisy backdrop, his mother’s message from last night flashed through his mind: “Glad you arrived safely. Take good care of yourself.”

Now, the rising steam from his soup blurred his vision. Watching Gu and Su Yao animatedly discuss acupuncture techniques across the table, a warm current quietly spread through his chest.

As they parted outside the soup shop, Gu pulled a carefully clipped stack of photocopied materials from her canvas bag and pressed them into Li Yifei’s hand. “Here, key points on stroke pathogenesis from various medical traditions, arranged by dynasty. Read these first; we’ll discuss them in detail at next week’s meeting.”

Su Yao stuffed the cloth bag with pickled radish into his arms. “No need to thank me. If you finish them, come find me.”

Li Yifei carried the bundle and the heavy papers as he walked back.

Crunching through dry, yellowed leaves, the sound sharp and crisp, the distant chimes from the library’s bell tower rang out long and clear, piercing the cool air to announce the dawn of a new order.

Back in the quiet dorm, Li Yifei stored the pickled radish in the cupboard and organized the materials on his desk by dynasty.

The midday sunlight streamed through the freshly cleaned window, warming the open copy of “Wen Bing Tiao Bian” before him. Between its pages lay a ginkgo leaf bookmark he had found on campus last autumn, its veins clearly defined.

At that moment, his phone screen lit silently—it was a message from his father: “Arrived home safely. Your mother made more rice balls, will send them tomorrow.”

Outside, the early spring wind swept through the bare branches, scattering tiny snowflakes that tapped softly against the window frame.

Li Yifei rose to close the window, his gaze drifting down. The tall magnolia trees before the building bore silently their furry, gray-green buds—solid, stoic, stubbornly reaching toward the sky.

He recalled the opening lines of the Yellow Emperor’s Inner Canon: “In spring, the three months of renewal, the old is shed away.” The stale air decomposes underground, while new life stirs deep beneath.

The new semester, a new journey, unfolded quietly yet resolutely with the subtle warmth hidden in the chill—within the city’s corners, within the young body.

The dormitory was still, save for the low whisper of wind through the treetops.

He sat down again, his fingers grazing the cool ink on the pages—those ancient discourses on wind-warmth and spring febrile diseases seemed to pulse with the season’s ceaseless vitality.