Professor Qian‘s Remittance

The old accountant at the university was surnamed Liu, named Liu Wenhe. His name was refined, but he himself was stout, like a freshly steamed white bun. He had managed the university's finances for decades, seeing people come and go, his hair turning from black to salt-and-pepper, ledger books replaced stack after stack. He kept a living ledger of the personnel changes within the university in his mind.

Every year come May, when the climbing roses were in full bloom, covering the red brick walls of the old administration building, and bees buzzed about, Liu Wenhe knew: Professor Qian's money would be arriving soon.

Professor Qian, named Qian Zhongyi, taught classical literature. He passed away five years ago—no, almost six years now—in the spring. He went quietly, like the sound of his lectures, neither high nor low, gentle and mild. Professor Qian was a small, thin, withered old man who wore thick glasses for severe myopia. He walked slowly, leisurely, and often wore a faded blue long gown, even in summer. He didn't meddle in others' affairs much, nor did he socialize widely; he preferred tending to his books and his few pots of orchids.

Professor Qian had no children, and his wife had passed away early. After he was gone, the university cleared out his dormitory according to regulations. Besides books, there were only simple furnishings. Later, the university received a letter from a lawyer stating that Professor Qian had made a will before his death, using his modest savings to establish a small scholarship. Each year, two thousand yuan would be disbursed to support a needy student of classical literature. The arrangements were handled properly: the money was deposited in a dedicated bank account, and every year in early May, it was punctually remitted to the university's account.

The first year, Liu Wenhe remarked to his colleagues, "Professor Qian truly was a good man."

The second year, the money arrived. Liu Wenhe followed the procedure: filled out the forms, stamped them, and handed them over to the Student Affairs Office.

The third year, the money arrived again. Liu Wenhe sat by the window, gazing at the glossy green plane tree leaves outside, feeling a bit dazed. People leave, tea grows cold—but how did this money still arrive so punctually? It was as if Professor Qian were still somewhere, watching slowly, and when the time came, reminding the bank that the remittance was due.

The fourth year, the fifth year... This year was the sixth. On the second Tuesday of May, just as Liu Wenhe had brewed a strong cup of tea, Xiao Wang from the finance department walked in holding a remittance slip: "Master Liu, Professor Qian's money has arrived again. Still two thousand, not a cent less."

Liu Wenhe took the slip, glanced at it: account number, account name, amount—all correct. The recipient was the University Education Foundation, with the note: "Qian Zhongyi Scholarship". It was the same every year. He skillfully found the corresponding ledger, made the entry, and filled out the form. The form was the old-fashioned kind, with vertical columns, best suited for brush calligraphy, though nowadays everyone used fountain pens. Liu Wenhe's fountain pen handwriting was decent, each stroke clear and distinct.

He suddenly remembered Professor Qian. One summer, when the heat was intense, Liu Wenhe had gone to the professor's dormitory area on an errand. He saw Professor Qian sitting on a small folding stool in the shade of the building, slowly waving a large cattail-leaf fan. Beside him was an enamel mug with a few pale yellow wild chrysanthemums steeping inside. Seeing Liu Wenhe, Professor Qian squinted his eyes, smiled, and beckoned him over: "Xiao Liu, come, sit for a while. Have some chrysanthemum tea to cool off."

That chrysanthemum tea was faintly bitter, but drinking it felt very soothing.

Professor Qian wasn't talkative, and he didn't say much that day. He just mentioned that there was little rain that year, making the orchids difficult to care for. He also asked about Liu Wenhe's children and how they were doing in school. It was all very ordinary, like neighbors chatting.

Liu Wenhe finished filling out the form and stamped it with the bright red official seal. This seal, too, he had been stamping for decades; it felt a bit heavy. He looked at the name, "Qian Zhongyi," and wondered: How long would this money keep coming? That bank account was inactive, unattended—would it stop one day? Or perhaps university policy would change, and this small sum would be absorbed into a larger fund, no longer listed separately?

He didn't know. Who could say for sure about the ways of the world? It was like the climbing roses outside the window—they bloomed every year, but the branches that flowered changed year after year.

He tidied up the slip, ready to take it to the Student Affairs Office. As he stood up, he noticed the spider plant he kept on the windowsill. Unnoticed until now, a new runner had quietly descended, its tender green tip poking out inquisitively, like a curious child.

Suddenly, Liu Wenhe's heart felt lighter. Professor Qian was gone, but this remnant of his thought, this legacy, was like the spider plant's runner—thin and delicate, yet possessing its own life force. Year after year, it would continue to grow downward. As for how long it could grow, who knew? But each day it lasted was a good day.

Holding the thin remittance slip, his steps seemed a little lighter too. Reaching the doorway, he glanced back at the spider plant and the vibrant climbing roses outside the window. He felt that the May weather was truly fine.