Chapter Forty-Nine: The Boisterous First Night

According to the customs of the Snow Village, the day before the wedding is called “the First Night,” or “the Bright Procession.” On this day, the groom’s family decorates the house with lanterns and banners, displaying all the wedding preparations for friends and relatives to see. Guests come to warm the house—a lively gathering known as “noisying the house.”

In Brother Sun’s courtyard, the old elm tree was hung with red lanterns. Newly crafted furniture had been moved into the bridal chamber, each piece adorned with a bright red “Double Happiness” emblem. The kang bed was covered with brand-new bedding embroidered with dragons and phoenixes, while the table was heaped with peanuts, sunflower seeds, and candies, symbolizing fertility and sweet blessings.

The whole village had come, filling Brother Sun’s small courtyard to overflowing.

When Yi-Yi and I arrived, the “house-warming” was at its peak. Several young men were teasing Sun Lei in the middle of the crowd.

“Sun Lei, it’s not enough just to marry a wife—you have to show us your skills!” shouted a young man named Er Zhu.

“That’s right! How about carrying your bride around the village!”

“No, that’s too easy! He should sing ‘The Eighteen Touches’!”

Sun Lei was pushed into the center of the courtyard, his sun-darkened face flushed deep red, yet he grinned foolishly. Clumsy with words and unable to outtalk his friends, he could only let them have their way.

Meanwhile, Xiaoyan was surrounded in the new bridal room by a group of young women and wives, chattering and peppering her with questions.

“Xiaoyan, is Sun Lei good to you?”

“He’s so quiet—does he ever say sweet things?”

“You’ll have to keep him in line; you can’t let men get spoiled!”

Flushed but smiling, Xiaoyan answered them all with calm composure. Unlike brides in the south, who need a bridesmaid to shield them from such banter, she handled this well-meaning, boisterous teasing with unfailing poise.

Yi-Yi was both startled and fascinated by the scene, sticking close to my side, her eyes wide with curiosity. This was a kind of raucous joy she had never known—a celebration without restraint, where blessings were offered not with subtle words but through laughter and playful jests.

After a while, Sister Sun brought out huge bowls of food, inviting everyone to share the house-warming meal. There were no tables or chairs; people simply stood or squatted in the yard, eating from bowls in their hands.

Li the Carpenter, holding a bowl of pork stewed with vermicelli, came over to me, slurping as he spoke, “Doctor Jiang, look how lively this is. Here, marriage isn’t just the affair of two people—it’s two families, even two villages. If there’s no noise, if it isn’t lively, then it isn’t real life!”

I agreed wholeheartedly. This boisterousness was a ritual, a way to quickly integrate an outsider into her new family and village. It was also a public declaration: from this day on, these newlyweds belonged to all of us, and we would protect and support them.

As night fell, the crowd gradually dispersed. Sun Lei, thoroughly drunk, was helped to the new room by his friends. According to custom, he couldn’t spend the night with Xiaoyan yet; instead, several lucky village children would sleep on the bridal bed to bring good fortune.

Yi-Yi and I walked home along the muddy path, moonlight glimmering coldly on the thawed earth. Laughter and chatter still drifted from the village.

“Papa,” Yi-Yi said softly, “I watched Sister Xiaoyan tonight—everyone teased her so much, but she never seemed upset.”

“She knows the jokes carry no malice, only blessings,” I replied.

She nodded. “I used to think love belonged only to two people—quiet and private. But tonight I saw it can belong to many, be so loud, so lively.”

She paused, looking back at the warm red glow of Brother Sun’s house.

“The love in the south is like a delicate poem, meant to be savored slowly. Here, it’s a song sung out loud, with simple lyrics, but it fills your heart with light.”

I saw in her clear eyes reflections of distant lanterns and a new understanding. She was learning, in her own way, to comprehend the many forms of love and life in this world.

Ten years have passed in a blink. We have witnessed the cycle of Snow Village’s seasons ten times. What once seemed novel and overwhelming has become our bones and blood, this place truly our home.

Yi-Yi has grown from the little girl who needed my constant care—taller now, slender and graceful, with the quiet strength and openness shaped by these northern mountains and rivers. The childishness in her face has faded, replaced by a calm wisdom. She still reads on the kang, devouring books about everything from astronomy to history.

More importantly, she has learned to connect her book knowledge with the pulse of this land. She discusses joinery with Li the Carpenter, consults Old Gao about the habits of forest plants, and helps the village chief balance the books with her math skills.

She has become the village’s “little teacher” in every sense.

As for me, I remain Doctor Jiang of the Eastern Clinic. Time seems to have spared us—ten years have left no mark on our faces. The villagers, curious about our apparent agelessness, often ask why we don’t seem to grow old. I always laugh it off, saying it’s the mountain air, the good water and soil, and my knowledge of medicine that keeps us healthy.

Their simple faith accepts this explanation, convinced of my skills, even believing I can delay aging. This little “mystery” adds a layer of protection to our quiet life here.

We thought these peaceful days would flow on forever.

Until that autumn.

It was a high, clear afternoon when the village loudspeaker, instead of broadcasting news or weather as usual, fell silent. Then came the hoarse, heavy voice of the village chief, Brother Sun.

“Dear folks… our Sister Sun… today at noon… passed away at home.”

His words came in broken, choked fragments.

In that instant, the entire village seemed to fall silent.

I was in the yard, drying newly picked herbs. At the news, my hands froze. Yi-Yi ran out, shock and disbelief on her face.

“Papa… Aunt Sun, she…”

Sister Sun’s health had been failing since last winter. A severe cold triggered her chronic heart and lung ailments. I did all I could with my medical skills, but could only preserve her strength, not reverse the decline. We all knew this day would come, yet when it arrived, the blow was still sharp.

The cheerful woman who used to bring us frozen pears, who taught Yi-Yi to cut window paper, who debated simple truths with her at the kang—she was gone forever.

When Yi-Yi and I reached Brother Sun’s house, the yard was already full of people. No one spoke loudly. The men smoked in silence, the women wept quietly. Grief hung in the air like a heavy autumn mist, silent but all-encompassing.

Inside, Brother Sun sat on the edge of the kang. The man who always stood so tall seemed, in that moment, bent and worn down like a mountain weathered by wind and rain. His son, Sun Lei, and daughter-in-law, Xiaoyan, knelt on the floor, already arranging the mourning hall.

Every trace of red had been removed from the walls. In the center, a white cloth hung. Xiaoyan was setting up a table for Sister Sun’s portrait. Her eyes were swollen, but her movements were steady, showing no sign of panic. The girl who married into this family ten years ago was now its true pillar.

Yi-Yi clutched my hand, her palm cold. She looked at the solemn, sorrowful scene, at the familiar faces now shrouded in mourning. She had experienced Lin Mo’s departure—a lonely, piercing pain. But now she felt a grief larger and heavier than one person’s loss—a communal farewell.

The village elders began to busy themselves. Some went to notify distant relatives, others prepared items for the funeral. Li the Carpenter, eyes red, went home to fetch his tools—he would make the finest coffin for Sister Sun with his own hands.

The autumn wind swept the fallen leaves in the yard, rustling softly.

Yi-Yi looked up at the old elm tree, its leaves mostly yellow, trembling on the edge of falling.

“Papa,” she whispered, “I think I finally understand why autumn… always feels so sad.”

Because when the autumn wind rises, it means life has reached its fullness—and a grand farewell is about to begin.