Jiang Xun used to think winter was the hardest time of the year to endure.
The orphanage's heating ran hot and cold, and the quilts were thin enough to let light through.
He had to dig out his thickest coat and spread it on top. When the cold woke him in the middle of the night, he curled into a ball, buried his face against his knees, and hugged himself for warmth.
Shen Wangjing's winters were colder than his.
The mud-brick house in Shiban Village let drafts in from every direction, and the north wind rattled the paper covering the windows. Before winter arrived, he had to chop enough firewood, sew extra padding into his grandfather's cotton trousers, and stuff his little brother's old padded shoes full of straw.
His own padded jacket was too short, leaving his wrists exposed, and the wind cut across them like a knife.
These two people, who had each endured winter on their own, now leaned against each other, and no matter how cold the river wind blew, it could not disperse the heat between their interlaced fingers.
Shen Yuxing and Duan Qizhao had long since tactfully moved a dozen paces ahead, one looking up at the moths around the streetlights, the other chattering away with an arm hooked around his shoulders.
Jiang Xun looked up. There were only a few scattered stars overhead, almost washed out by the city lights.
He suddenly remembered that night when the Milky Way had poured down over the mountaintop, and he had held up a telescope to look for his mother.
Back then, he had thought happiness would remain out of reach for the rest of his life.
Now he turned his head and saw Shen Wangjing's profile close beside him. His back was perfectly straight as