It had been raining for days. The waters of the Xin River had risen past the steps. Today, the temperature dropped, the air was no longer sticky, and a fresh breeze began to drift through the city. By afternoon, the sun softened. I picked up my film camera and took my younger sister to the park.

Through the viewfinder, I watched her move in the sunlight. I pressed the shutter, feeling a quiet surge of satisfaction—what a beautiful shot, I thought.

The whole way, I kept watching her through the lens. A film camera's viewfinder is different from a phone screen. The person on the other side of the lens doesn't just appear—they pass through optics and light, through the small miracle of "image formation," until they arrive, framed and trembling, into my eye. With a phone, none of this happens. Perhaps it's just psychological, but photos taken with my phone always feel stiff, lifeless—like something's missing.

02

The park was crowded—with people playing cards, singing, daydreaming, walking dogs. Each was absorbed in their own little world, and the background of all these small worlds was the same: the Xin River, thick and muddy after days of rain. The river had risen high, submerging all ten stone steps along its bank. The trees planted near the water's edge now stood half-drowned in yellowish floodwater, their moods unreadable.

My sister wandered into a group of old men playing cards at a stone table. Most of them were male. One woman wore narrow, high heels, her legs swinging as she calculated her next move. The clicking of her heels against the damp earth kept time with the rhythm of her thoughts. I raised my camera again. Through the viewfinder, the scene took on a strange kind of life: a child weaving through absorbed elders, none of whom noticed her presence. Green trees shaded about seventy-five percent of the sunlight; the remaining twenty-five percent landed precisely on her.

A breeze rose from the riverbank. My sister's hair lifted slightly. I pressed the shutter. Click. Satisfied, I lowered the camera and took her to get some cotton candy.

03

My sister crouched beneath an old camphor tree—someone had said it was decades old—happily eating her cotton candy. At some point, a little boy wandered over and crossed the final line of acceptable closeness. He stared intently at her face, then said something that seemed like it was meant for her, yet wasn't really addressed to her at all:

"Grandma, what is she eating?"

I looked around and spotted an elderly woman exercising by the railing, nearly 200 meters away. That must have been his grandma. The boy first crouched on my sister's left, then darted to her right, shifting quickly with the turn of her head. Eventually, my sister stood up and let him pick off a piece of the cotton candy. He accepted it like treasure and exclaimed, "Grandma! She gave me this yummy thing!"

When the cotton candy was gone, it was time to say goodbye. I had captured a few more frames on my camera—tiny moments of contact, sweetness, and the short-lived connection between my sister and this boy. He got the sugar. She walked away with flair. A happy ending. I was content, and we moved on to the next corner of the park.

04

After walking another two hundred meters, my sister refused to go any farther. She crouched on a stone bench and played with her toys. The wind from the river blew again, lifting strands of her hair, but she stayed focused, untouched by it all—just like the river behind her, which seemed still, though it never stopped flowing. Why is it that the river moves, yet appears motionless?

I knelt in the grass, lifted the camera toward her, adjusted the focus ring, pressed the shutter—those few actions, though simple, felt different each time.

Then I remembered: I had come to photograph the river. I looked at the yellow-brown current before me and fell into thought. After a while, I stepped back, into the shade of a large camphor tree. Across the river, I spotted a woman slouched on a stone bench, her head bowed over her phone, long hair covering her face. From where I stood, it looked as if she were sitting in the middle of the river. In that moment, it felt like she was drifting, slowly being carried downstream.

I raised the camera again—this time as a voyeur. Through the lens, she wavered in and out of focus, near and far, sharp and blurred. She became a wanderer floating down the river, no different from the other wanderers of the park. Drunk on familiarity, asleep beneath the camphor trees, they dream, then wake again in the same place. The trees grow taller. The waters rise and fall. Their skin wrinkles with time. Some choose to keep floating. Others simply watch the water pass. And some let the river turn them into background.

05

I glanced at the camera. The frame count read 27—just a few shots left. My sister no longer wanted to follow me. "I just want to play," she said. I pointed toward an open space ahead and told her there was a table we could play at. Reluctantly, she shuffled forward a few steps.

The tabletop had been baking in sunlight all day. Though it had begun to cool, it was still warm to the touch. When my sister laid her palm on it, she immediately pulled back, pretending she'd been burned. Clutching her cheek, she muttered, "Hot, hot, hot." I laughed, charmed, and instinctively raised the camera to capture the moment—but she refused to perform again. So I let it go.

A thin sheen of sweat had formed across her face and neck. An elderly woman passing by with her grandson saw this and told me, "Tie her hair up." Without thinking, I complied, quickly putting it into a bun. As I did, a small thought flickered—Why did I listen to her? After I tied her hair, something about my sister changed. I couldn't quite name it. But through the lens, as she turned to look at the Xin River behind her, there was a new trace of solitude—of something distant and quiet.

Out on the water, a boat had appeared. It moved slowly. A pair of bronze statues—women washing clothes on the steps—had been almost entirely submerged. Only the top of one head remained above the surface. The boat glided past the statues, past floating branches, drifting toward the far end of the river. I leaned over the railing and looked into the distance: rows of houses lined the riverbanks, and the channel blurred as it receded. The weak sunlight didn't flare into a proper sunset; it left only pale yellow flecks scattered across the leaves and grass.

06

Up ahead was a long corridor, a local fixture lined with makeshift barbershops—five or six of them, all busy. The afternoon light fell on the polished wood and lacquered chairs, casting a golden glow over the barbers and their clients. A small child, dressed in a bright orange shirt, dashed across the scene, layering himself into their quiet composition. They all coexisted, side by side—like the midday sun and the moon that had arrived too early.

My sister set down her toy and ran to a path paved with stone slabs. Through the viewfinder, I watched her carefully step across the stones. I took the final photo of the roll.

Then I crouched down beside her and said, "I'm going to take the roll out now. I'll show you a magic trick." She looked at me earnestly, said nothing. I tried to rewind the film—but the lever wouldn't budge. Was the camera broken? I gently opened the back, afraid of exposing the film. But when the latch clicked open, I saw… nothing. There was no film.

In that instant, all the images in my mind began to rewind—clear, luminous, almost tangible. They had passed through the lens, through the laws of light and focus, into the viewfinder, into my eye, into the body of a camera that held no roll. They lived only in the sound of the shutter, and with each click, they disappeared.

The Xin River flowed on, chasing the sun as it sank westward. Perhaps it would grow clearer, as the silt settled. Or perhaps it would grow murkier, as storms returned. I remember the woman slouched on the bench with her phone. When the wind rose and brushed across her, I truly believed she had begun to drift away—quietly, toward the horizon.