Red Envelopes for Strangers

Red Envelopes for Strangers

The night train to Xi’an was always too warm in winter.

Liu Shan sat by the window, her coat folded on her lap, watching frost blur the glass. Outside, villages flickered past like brief memories. Inside, the carriage smelled of instant noodles, oranges, and tired people going home.

Chinese New Year was three days away.

She hadn’t planned to travel. She rarely did anymore. But her father’s voice on the phone had sounded smaller than usual, and that was enough. At thirty-two, Liu Shan had learned that some decisions didn’t need debating.

Across from her sat a man about her age, neatly dressed, reading nothing in particular on his phone. Every few minutes, he glanced at the overhead rack, as if checking that something important was still there.

At the next stop, an elderly woman boarded, struggling with a heavy bag. Before Liu Shan could stand, the man was already up.

“Let me,” he said, lifting it with both hands.

The woman thanked him, breathless. There were no seats left. Without hesitation, the man offered his.

“Sit, auntie.”

She waved him off at first, then accepted, patting his arm as if he were family. He stood near Liu Shan instead, steadying himself as the train lurched forward.

“Kind of you,” Liu Shan said.

He smiled, slightly embarrassed. “She reminds me of my grandmother.”

They fell into easy silence. The train hummed. Someone nearby peeled an orange, the scent sharp and bright.

“I’m Liu Shan,” she said after a while, surprising herself.

“Xu Yichen,” he replied. “Going home?”

“Yes. You?”

He nodded. “For the holiday. Same as everyone.”

But there was something in his tone that suggested it wasn’t that simple.

They talked in pieces. Where they worked. How long it had been since they’d lived at home. The strange pressure of returning during Spring Festival, when every meal came with questions disguised as concern.

“You’re not married,” Xu Yichen said, not prying, just stating what her parents would soon confirm.

“Neither are you,” she replied.

He laughed quietly. “No.”

When the lights dimmed, Liu Shan dozed. She woke briefly to find a blanket draped over her shoulders. Xu Yichen looked away when he noticed she was awake.

“Sorry,” he said. “The conductor handed them out.”

“Thank you.”

She slept again, deeper this time.

Xi’an greeted them with cold air and noise. Red lanterns lined the station entrance, already glowing faintly in the gray morning. The crowd surged forward, people reunited in hurried hugs.

Xu Yichen hesitated. “Do you… want help with your bag?”

She nodded. “That would be nice.”

They walked together until the flow of people thinned.

“This is me,” Liu Shan said, stopping near the taxi stand.

Xu Yichen handed her bag back, careful. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yes,” she said, then added quickly, “Happy New Year.”

He smiled. “Happy New Year.”

They parted without exchanging numbers. Liu Shan told herself that was fine. Trains were full of almosts.

At home, the days filled fast. Cleaning. Cooking. Relatives arriving with gifts and opinions. Her father moved slower than she remembered. He laughed less, but when he did, it still warmed the room.

On New Year’s Eve, Liu Shan helped him count red envelopes.

“You always prepare too many,” she teased.

Her father shrugged. “In case someone unexpected comes.”

That night, firecrackers cracked open the sky. Liu Shan stood on the balcony, watching smoke drift between buildings. She wondered where Xu Yichen was, whether he was also standing somewhere familiar, feeling the same mix of comfort and distance.

On the second day of the New Year, her father asked her to walk with him to the neighborhood market.

Halfway there, he stopped suddenly.

“Shan Shan,” he said quietly. “My blood pressure medicine.”

Her heart jumped. “You forgot it?”

He nodded. “At home.”

“I’ll go back,” she said immediately. “Wait here.”

She hurried through the crowd, past stalls selling paper cuttings and sugar figurines. At the pharmacy near her apartment, the line stretched out the door.

She checked her watch, anxiety tightening her chest.

Someone stepped up beside her. “Liu Shan?”

She turned.

Xu Yichen stood there, holding a plastic bag of medicine, eyes wide with surprise.

“You live here?” they said at the same time.

They laughed, a little breathless.

“My father,” Liu Shan explained quickly. “I need to get back.”

Xu Yichen didn’t hesitate. “I have his medicine,” he said, glancing at the label. “Same one. Take it.”

She stared. “Are you sure?”

“My grandmother takes it too,” he said. “I can buy more.”

They ran back together. Her father was sitting on a low wall, chatting with a neighbor like nothing was wrong.

Xu Yichen handed him the medicine with both hands.

“Thank you,” her father said sincerely, studying him. “You’re a good young man.”

Xu Yichen smiled, a little shy.

They walked back slowly.

“Maybe this is what your father meant,” Xu Yichen said, “about unexpected people.”

Liu Shan looked at him, heart warm. “Maybe.”

Over the next days, they kept meeting. Once at the bakery. Once at the park by the city wall, where lanterns hung like low stars. It felt natural, like something quietly choosing them both.

On the Lantern Festival, Xu Yichen asked, “Can I walk you home?”

They stopped by a stall selling red envelopes with gold characters.

Xu Yichen bought two.

“What are these for?” Liu Shan asked.

“For strangers,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“My grandmother says,” he continued, “kindness counts more when it’s not expected.”

They slipped the envelopes into a donation box by the temple gate. Fireworks bloomed overhead, loud and brilliant.

Xu Yichen turned to her, serious now. “I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Liu Shan met his gaze. “Neither do I.”

As lanterns rose into the night, she realized something simple and steady. Some journeys were long. Some were short. And some began on a warm train, with a blanket and a stranger who didn’t stay one.