When the Songhua River froze over, winter in Harbin truly began.
On the coldest days, the thick ice stretched across the river like a vast white slab, extending to the very edge of sight. The wind swept over the frozen surface, carrying fine grains of snow that stung the face like needles.
As a child, Li Ming loved standing by the river, watching people cut through the ice. Before dawn had fully broken, several men would already be out on the river, carrying iron picks and wooden buckets. The dull, rhythmic thud of metal striking ice echoed across the open expanse. Eventually, a round hole would crack open, and dark river water would slowly well up from below.
Someone would lower a bucket with a long rope to draw water. When first lifted, it steamed faintly, but within moments, a thin layer of ice formed along the rim. Li Ming would stand on the bank, watching for a long time. The river lay in silence. Occasionally, the distant bark of a dog or the creak of a passing cart would drift across the air. The wind came in waves, tightening her breath with its cold.
Her mother would always call to her from not far away:
"Mingming, come back."
The voice was not loud, yet it carried far across the open riverbank.
Back then, her mother was still young, working as a sales clerk in the Harbin Department Store, standing behind a counter all day. Inside the glass cases were neatly arranged towels, bars of soap, and enamel washbasins. In winter, the store was filled with the mingled scent of coal stoves and damp cotton coats.
Li Ming often slipped away to visit her. Behind the long counter, her mother wore a thick wool coat, her sleeves covered with protective cuffs, head slightly lowered as she arranged the merchandise. Towels were stacked in perfect order. The enamel basins reflected a cold white sheen under the lights. Occasionally, she would look up and smile at a customer.
"Can I help you?"
Then she would lower her head again—wrapping purchases, counting change, checking the ledger—each movement practiced and composed.
Li Ming would quietly slip through the small side door behind the counter. When her mother saw her, she would pause in surprise, then smile, lifting her into her arms and whispering softly:
"It's slippery outside. Be careful not to fall."
Li Ming loved standing behind the counter, watching her mother at work. Outside, the wind, the snow, the hurried footsteps of passersby—all seemed shut out from this small, warm space.
At night, her mother would sometimes tell stories of her own childhood and family.
Those stories lingered like shadows from another era, appearing and fading in Li Ming's memory. At the time, she did not fully understand them.
She only remembered that whenever her mother spoke of her grandmother, she used a particular name—
Erniang.
Erniang had once been a dancer.
She was of mixed Russian heritage, with light brown eyes and skin so pale it seemed almost translucent. In her youth, she performed at the Modern Hotel on Central Avenue.
That was a long, long time ago.
Later, she was taken into the family as the grandfather's second wife.
—
Harbin, decades earlier, had been a complicated city.
Merchants, soldiers, foreigners, and exiles all mingled together. On the streets, one could hear many different languages.
Li Ming's grandfather and his first wife ran a sizable textile business. Their shops, warehouses, and workshops spread across several streets, and business was steady.
Her grandfather rarely involved himself in the details. Nearly everything—accounts, supply chains, social relationships—was managed by the first wife, who kept the household and business in perfect order.
Until the Japanese arrived.
At first, only a few businessmen came—well-dressed, polite, speaking through interpreters. They proposed cooperation, hoping to expand trade.
They sat in the living room for a long time.
Her grandfather leaned back, smoking his pipe, saying little.
It was the first wife who refused them.
Closing the account book, she spoke calmly but firmly:
"We will not do this business."
The men did not argue. They simply nodded and left.
But the matter did not end there.
Someone in the family was deeply dissatisfied—her mother's older half-brother. He had studied in Japan and believed himself worldly. He saw the family business as outdated, overly dependent on old networks.
He began contacting the Japanese privately, even suggesting they exert pressure.
Not long after, the military police arrived.
Boots struck the stone pavement with heavy, jarring force. At first, it appeared to be a routine inspection, but everyone understood their true purpose.
One winter afternoon, the situation spiraled out of control.
They demanded that the grandfather and his wife sign the agreement.
She refused.
The argument grew heated. The courtyard filled with onlookers—workers from the household, neighbors watching from a distance.
Then, suddenly, two soldiers stepped forward and seized her arms.
The handcuffs snapped shut.
Heavy shackles were locked around her feet.
She did not struggle.
She simply turned her head slowly and looked at the people in the courtyard—her gaze passing from her husband to the children.
In that moment, the silence was so deep it felt as if one could hear the snow falling.
They took her away.
She never returned.
Later, the older brother fled.
His wife, unable to bear the pressure, took her own life.
Whenever her mother reached this part of the story, she would fall into a long silence.
Only years later did Li Ming understand—
this was not just her family's tragedy, but a fragment of a much larger history.
—
Her parents met at a gathering between a military unit and local organizations. At the time, her father worked in an administrative role in the army—tall, articulate, quietly refined. But in his hometown, he already had a wife, three years older than him, and a son.
Later, he fell in love with Li Ming's mother and divorced his first wife.
The period that followed was turbulent. His former wife came to the military unit repeatedly, causing disturbances. Only after he transferred to a civilian government position did things settle.
After marriage, they had Li Ming and her younger sister, Li Wen.
Years later, her mother insisted on having a son. She tried all kinds of folk remedies and herbal treatments.
When Xiaoming was born, the family believed their wish had finally come true.
But after medical examinations, they learned—
he had Down syndrome, along with a congenital heart defect.
The news fell on the family like a heavy stone.
Xiaoming did not learn to walk until he was five. His speech was slow. The outside world was rarely kind to those who were vulnerable.
He was often bullied.
His clothes were torn, his face smeared with paint and mud. Once, someone even stuffed a live chicken into his shirt.
Li Ming remembered that day.
He huddled in a corner, trembling with fear.
She and Li Wen stood nearby, too angry to speak.
The next day, Li Wen confronted the boys who had bullied him and beat one of them badly.
But such incidents never truly stopped.
If Xiaoming was the one who needed the most protection, then Li Wen was the one who caused the most worry.
She disliked school, barely finished primary education, and dropped out in middle school. She spent her days wandering the streets.
Their parents' discipline grew harsher—more scolding, more punishment.
Li Ming often stood between them, shielding her sister.
Gradually, she realized that their family was like a rope on the verge of snapping—and she was the one trying to hold it together.
Later, Li Wen rarely came home.
Harbin nights were long and bitterly cold.
Whenever her sister disappeared, Li Ming would walk the streets searching for her. Neon lights reflected off the snow, casting a cold glow.
She would call her sister's name as she walked.
Many times, she found her at dawn and brought her home.
"Don't worry about me, sis," Li Wen would say stubbornly.
Yet she always followed her back.
—
Winter, 1998.
Li Ming stepped out of a metro station in Washington, D.C., pulling her suitcase behind her.
Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting a warm orange glow across damp pavement. The air carried a faint trace of frost.
She instinctively slipped her hand into her pocket, gripping her passport tightly.
It was her first winter in America.
From a nearby café drifted the scent of roasted coffee beans. A few pedestrians passed by, their footsteps echoing softly.
She stopped.
Looked down at her shadow.
Long. Thin. Alone.
In that moment, she remembered walking through the streets of Harbin years before, searching for her sister in the cold night.
Washington seemed calm, orderly—subways, cafés, clean streets.
But she knew what could not be escaped was not the city, but memory.
Harbin had never left her.
By day, she buried herself in work, trying to forget. But inside, she was never at ease.
Xiaoming's medical bills, treatments, medications… all required money. Li Wen, working in Shenzhen, occasionally sent some home. Li Ming sent nearly everything she could spare back to China.
Late at night, she sat at her computer, calculating expenses—hospital, medicine—rows of numbers forming an invisible net tightening around her life.
Snow would sometimes fall silently outside the window.
On such nights, she thought of her mother's stories—war, displacement, loss, endurance.
She understood that her life was only a continuation of something much larger.
Her family, far away, still depended on her.
And she had no choice but to keep moving forward.
—
Years later, Li Ming opened her own architecture firm in Washington, D.C.
One evening, not long after the company began, she stepped out of her office. Streetlights were coming on; the sky had not yet fully darkened. The air carried the damp chill of early spring.
Her phone rang.
It was a friend from Harbin.
They chatted briefly about real estate investments in D.C. Just before hanging up, the friend hesitated.
"I was in Shenzhen on a business trip recently… I think I saw your sister."
Li Ming froze.
"Where?"
A pause.
"…that kind of place."
The line went dead.
She did not ask further.
She stood by the roadside for a long time, watching headlights pass one after another.
Memories resurfaced.
After graduating from university, she had been assigned to a state-owned architecture company. She met her former husband there. They later married and started a small design firm together.
In the beginning, there were only a few employees, very few projects.
Gradually, things improved. Her ex-husband's father had connections in state-owned enterprises, bringing in projects. The business slowly grew.
Around that time, more and more women from Russia began appearing in Harbin after the collapse of the Soviet Union. They worked in nightlife—karaoke bars, nightclubs—blonde hair, heavy makeup everywhere.
Her ex-husband often said deals were made at dinner tables and in karaoke rooms. Sometimes he stayed out all night.
At first, Li Ming didn't question him.
Until the day Li Wen burst into her office.
"Do you know what your husband does out there?"
That night, they went straight to the apartment.
The moment the door opened, smoke and heavy perfume filled the air. A blonde woman sat smoking by the bed. Her husband leaned against the headboard.
Li Wen lunged forward immediately, pulling off her high heel and striking him.
Chaos erupted.
But her anger ran deeper than that moment.
It traced back to an earlier night—
a violation, an unspoken wound.
(…continued…)
—
The call with her sister came years later.
When Li Wen finally spoke again, her voice was calm, almost distant.
"Just think of it as… your sister no longer exists."
—
Li Ming tightened her grip on the phone, her fingers turning pale.
Snow drifted onto her shoulders.
Her shadow stretched long beneath the streetlight.
She understood then—
that call had not only ended a conversation, but closed a chapter of her life… and severed the last fragile thread between her and her sister.
She looked down at her phone and typed slowly:
"I have to remember. And I have to learn to let go."
The night was still.
The wind moved softly through the air.
The past had shaped her, but it would not define her future.
She would learn to breathe differently.
To live again.
To see the world anew.