N-M Chapter 122 First Snow
Chapter 122 First Snow
The peeled persimmon skin was so thin it was translucent, revealing the fine fibrous texture on its surface. It curled up and fell onto the table, piling up like layers of a flower. The peeled persimmon revealed its entire flesh, orange-red in color, with a smooth, glossy surface that shimmered slightly in the sunlight.
She repeated the second, the third, and the fourth. Each time, the same action, the same rhythm. Soon, the bamboo sieve was filled with peeled persimmons, one after another, a golden expanse. Sunlight shone on them, and the reflections on the surface of the fruit blended together, like a sieve filled with amber balls.
Xiao Zhang happened to witness this scene when he came to deliver something. He stood at the gate of the courtyard without saying a word, just watching for a long time. He had seen his mother peel persimmons, and he had seen other women in the village peel persimmons, but he had never seen anyone peel persimmons with such rhythm. He remembered his mother telling him that the pretty girl from the Lin family next door was quite famous online, but he hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now, standing outside the courtyard, watching those hands steadily turning the blade, he couldn't utter a single word.
Su Peixue picked up a roll of hemp rope. The rope, hand-twisted by the village elders, was rough and sturdy, carrying the distinctive grassy scent of hemp fiber. She cut the rope into sections, each about a meter long. Then, she picked up a peeled persimmon and tied the rope one by one to the small section of twig remaining on the stem—she wrapped the rope around the persimmon twice, pulled and tightened it, the knot making a crisp sound. One by one, the persimmons were strung together, their flesh clattering softly against each other.
She carried a whole bunch of persimmons to the drying rack in the yard. The rack was an old-fashioned bamboo frame, the bamboo poles worn smooth and shiny by time. Several bunches of last year's dried chilies and dried tangerine peel, their dark brown color a testament to the passage of time, already hung on it. She hung the new bunch of persimmons on it, adjusting the spacing between each bunch to prevent them from crowding each other and to ensure sufficient ventilation. The bamboo poles clinked together, making a crisp sound. The camera tilted upwards, revealing a row of red persimmons hanging under the blue sky, the persimmons swaying slightly in the gentle breeze.
A bamboo mat was laid out beside her, and she spread all the persimmon peels she had peeled on it, smoothing them out with her palms. The persimmon peels made a rustling sound under her palms as she spread them out one by one, ensuring that each piece could be exposed to the sun.
It was already afternoon when they finished shooting this set of scenes. Lin Ran packed up the equipment, and Su Peixue sat on the doorstep drinking water. The sunlight moved from above the courtyard wall to her knees. The persimmons on the drying rack swayed gently in the wind, like a row of wind chimes strung together.
In the days that followed, Lin Ran came to the yard twice a day, morning and evening, to take photos from the same fixed position. He set up his tripod in the same spot in the yard, shooting from the same angle and with the same focal length each time. On the first day, the persimmons' skin was still smooth and brightly colored. By the second day, the skin began to wrinkle, and the moisture was evaporating. By the third day, the persimmons' color had changed from orange-red to a deeper orange-brown, the skin was more wrinkled, and the whole persimmon was smaller than when it was freshly peeled. The wind blew through the drying rack, and the persimmons gently bumped against each other, making a duller sound than before.
Su Peixue stood in front of the drying rack and took a few semi-dried persimmons from the rope. She placed the persimmons in her palm and gently pinched them with her fingers—not pressing hard, but applying even pressure with her fingertips, slowly flattening the flesh from the inside out. The flesh made a slight squeezing sound, soft and tender.
She shaped one and placed it back on the shelf, then took down the next one, shaping each one into a roughly flattened oval. Her fingers lingered on the persimmons for a long time, not because she was slow, but because this step required patience. If she squeezed too lightly, the shape wouldn't hold; if she squeezed too hard, the fruit fibers would be damaged. It had to be just right.
Another cycle of day and night. In a fast-forward, cloud shadows swept across the drying rack, the light changing from morning sun to midday sun to sunset, the shadows of the persimmons moving, shortening, lengthening, and disappearing on the rack. The sound of the wind changed from warm to cool. By the seventh day, the persimmons had completely changed—their color had changed from orange-brown to deep amber, their surfaces were dry and slightly wrinkled, and they were only a third of their original size. Su Peixue took down the persimmons again and squeezed them with her fingers once more. This time the flesh was much firmer, more resilient to the touch, and the sound of squeezing was more muffled. After squeezing the last one, she took the whole bunch of dried persimmons down from the drying rack and untied the knot.
Inside, Lin Ran had already arranged a ceramic jar, dried persimmons, and dried persimmon peels on the table. The jar was an old one that Grandma Lin had kept at the bottom of her trunk; a fine crack ran along its surface, worn smooth by time. Su Peixue laid a layer of dried persimmon peels at the bottom of the jar, the peels making a rustling sound as they went in—dry and crisp. Then she carefully placed the dried persimmons inside, one by one, each one securely positioned, sandwiching a layer of peels between each layer. The persimmons made a dull thud as they touched, a slight echo reverberating from the depths of the jar. After the last layer was laid, she lifted the lid of the jar with both hands and slammed it shut—the lid made a deep, heavy sound as it met the rim of the jar, as if the entire jar had been sealed.
The same earthenware pot, the same spot. In a fast-paced shot, the light and shadow outside the window change day by day, from dawn to dusk, from sunny to cloudy. The shadows of trees sway on the window paper, frost melts and condenses again, and sparrows hop around on the windowsill.
Winter deepened. The first light snow fell in the courtyard, the air cold and clean. Su Peixue sat under the eaves, a rough earthenware dish on the small wooden table in front of her. She walked to the earthenware jar storing dried persimmons, grasped the lid with both hands, and gently lifted it—the lid made a dry sound as it rubbed against the rim, and a sweet aroma unique to dried persimmons wafted out. She reached in and took out a dried persimmon, her fingertips touching a fine white frost. She took the persimmon out and looked at it against the light—the surface was covered with sugar frost, as white as the first snow, shimmering with tiny crystals in the light. She clapped her hands clean and closed the lid again.
Three frosted persimmons sat on a rough earthenware plate. She picked up the earthenware pot and poured a cup of hot tea; the tea poured into the cup, and steam rose. She picked up a persimmon, bit into it—the inside was molten, amber-colored and translucent, and the sugar frosting cracked gently as she bit into it. She picked up the plate and looked at the empty drying rack in the yard, which had once been laden with persimmons. A thin layer of snow had settled on the rack.
The screen dims. A line of text appears on the black screen: "A dried persimmon, waiting for a whole season."
The night the persimmon video was released, Lin Ran put the link into the Magic Book and Bilibili's backend.
Su Peixue lay down next to him, her toes pointed, watching him operate the device. She then tapped the publish button on the screen.
When Lin Ran woke up the next morning, the video had already surpassed 500,000 views on Bilibili. The comments were layered upon layered; Lin Ran leaned against the headboard and scrolled down.