On the wind-chilled evening of December 25th in Manhattan, the sky was not yet dark, yet I had nowhere to go. The snow in New York fell strangely, carrying the damp, moldy scent of Xi’an’s rainy season. The streets were adorned with festive red and green decorations, neon lights and the cold wind swirling together, making the mannequins in the shop windows—dusted with gold glitter—seem to writhe like wild beasts. Even my shadow was blown away.
I leaned against the steam vent at the corner of Fifth Avenue for warmth, with Saks Fifth Avenue’s giant facade flickering with Jingle Bells lights behind me. Mechanical marionettes performed their cheerful routine again and again. In my hand was a crumpled paper cup, its bottom holding only a few coins, clinking like the holiday bells or my own bones.
Suddenly, a sharp, crisp sound of leather shoes shattered the heavy air—clack, clack—like a hammer striking frozen ground. One step, two steps, straight to my side.
I looked up. A black umbrella unfurled in the snow, revealing half a face—Admin. For a moment, I felt dizzy, as if time had shifted, and the past years, like a long-dead ghost, suddenly stood before me.
He was impeccably dressed: a tailored deep-gray overcoat, seamlessly stitched to ward off the world’s chill. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt and a dark blue tie peeked out. His hair was slicked back with pomade, gleaming unnaturally clean, paired with polished leather shoes that might reflect the dim sky’s light. A briefcase was slung over his shoulder, and in his right hand, he held a steaming latte, while his left ear pressed against his palm as if listening to something unseen.
“Yes, yes… Simmons’ feedback still hasn’t arrived… but I must secure that new factor before the market opens.”
His voice, though near, sounded distant—like it came from another world, through thick glass, across the divide between life and death. His gaze locked onto me, then faltered. That expression I knew—like a living person suddenly encountering a corpse they thought long buried.
“…You are…?”
I didn’t know how to answer. The words cut through years of dust, like a block of ice shattering my chest. I nodded, my voice so low I barely heard myself.
“Oh… it’s really you.” His tone carried excitement, but it felt distant—like hearing it through glass. You could see it, hear it, but couldn’t touch it.
“How… how are you here?” he asked.
Admin’s hand emerged from his coat sleeve, the platinum ring on his ring finger digging into my palm. The neon reflections behind him were brighter than the university’s admission list from years ago. “Coincidence, huh?” His English-infused Mandarin was polished. “I’m VP at Renaissance—work from 7 AM to 9 PM, dealing with people… or maybe not even people. And you?”
Renaissance. A fancy word. I tried to smile but only twisted my lips.
“Not well. Wandering. Begging.”
He fell silent, his gaze shifting between my tattered coat and the coins in my cup—now feeling like knives pricking my feet.
“I have Knicks season tickets. Want to go next time?” He fumbled for a wallet, trying to ease the awkwardness.
I saw the boy he once was, holding a badminton racket, shouting from the dormitory steps: “Let’s go play!”
The snow fell harder. As he pulled out his wallet, I caught a glimpse of a family photo—a mixed-race boy in a tiny suit, wearing a VCA dog pin, standing on Central Park grass.
He smelled the cheap marijuana on me and took a step back, frowning.
“Don’t do that…” His voice was awkwardly formal, like we were still in Xi’an Jiaotong’s bright classrooms.
“You’ve changed.” I said.
“So have you.” He replied.
The wind grew colder. He pulled out a hundred-dollar bill and handed it to me. The note fluttered away like a broken-winged pigeon into the gutter’s filth. We both bent to pick it up, our scents—his cologne, my stench—mixing in the snow. When we stood, I saw the silver strands at his temples. Wall Street’s snow wasn’t just for December.
I clutched the damp bill like a stone pressing my chest.
“Thank you.”
He nodded, glanced at me as if wanting to say more, then turned and walked away. The thud-thud-thud of his shoes faded into the Fifth Avenue evening wind, sharp and clear.
The subway’s rumble crushed memories. Warm air from the ventilation carried the stink of urine. I pulled out a half-frozen slice of pizza—its cheese hardened like the dregs of fate. In the distance, the Empire State Building’s spire pierced the clouds, like a giant syringe injecting Wall Street’s heroin into the world’s veins.
That night, I lay on a bench by Central Park, wind slipping through my tattered blanket like invisible hands. I pulled my coat tighter, tucking the Franklin note deep into my shirt pocket.
Snow began again. Dazed, I watched the falling flakes—silver, dark—drift toward the Christmas lights, slanting down.
It was time to leave for the West.
Yes, all of New York was snowing. It fell on the towering streets of Manhattan, on Fifth Avenue’s bizarre glass display windows, on the giant Christmas tree at Bryant Park, piling on Rockefeller Center’s frozen rink railings. It drifted onto the crumbling subway stairs, softly landing on Central Park’s frozen lake, and further south, silently settling on the Hudson River’s gray, silent waters. It fell on the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, on every patch of soil in Woodlawn Cemetery, accumulating on the crooked crosses and gravestones, on the pointed roofs of tiny mausoleums, and in the abandoned thorn bushes.
My soul drifted into a slow slumber. In the faint, distant carols, I heard the snowflakes drifting through the universe—slowly, like our final fate—settling on the living and the dead.
