Curled up on the sofa on a rainy night, I turned the very last page just as the rain outside stopped falling. Closing the book, my fingertips still held the warmth of the pages, yet my heart felt full and gently tugged at — this was my truest feeling reading Winter Begonia. It was not a thunderous shock, but a lingering, bone-deep emotion.

At first, I picked up this book only because I was drawn to its English title Winter Begonia and the faint Peking Opera water sleeves on the cover. As an ordinary reader who knew little about the Republican-era history and almost nothing about Peking Opera, I never imagined a story set more than 80 years ago would hold me captive for an entire weekend.

In the first half, I could not help seeing the world through Cheng Fengtai’s eyes, curiously gazing at Shang Xirui, who lived only for the stage. He was so vivid, as if he could step right out of the pages: on stage, he was a peerless star with flowing eyes and fluttering sleeves, singing eternal love and sorrow to perfection; off stage, he was an obstinate, pure, almost childlike “opera fanatic”, nitpicking over a single note and fighting tooth and nail to keep his troupe alive. I watched him teach his disciples basic skills in a shabby theatre, pour all his savings into rebuilding the Shuiyun Building, and stand up to powerful threats by declaring, “Opera is greater than life itself.” In that moment, I suddenly understood why Cheng Fengtai fell for him at first sight. It was not worldly affection, but the recognition between two souls: a man numbed by the business world met someone who lived with blazing purity.

What moved me to tears was never the ambiguous tension between them, but the silent understanding of “you truly see me”. Cheng Fengtai understood Shang Xirui’s artistic soul and his obsession with his craft, so he spent a fortune to build him a stage and shelter him from the storm in chaotic times. Shang Xirui, in turn, understood Cheng Fengtai’s powerlessness and his struggle between family duty and inner longing. He would sing quietly for him when he was tired, and protect the cultural roots behind the lines in his own way when Cheng joined the resistance against the Japanese. One line from the book stayed with me: “The word ‘bosom friend’ weighs more than a thousand pieces of gold.” It found its most touching interpretation in Cheng Fengtai and Shang Xirui. Their bond transcended gender and romance; it was simply two lonely souls finding spiritual refuge in a war-torn era.

The world of Peking Opera painted by Shui Rutianer was a pleasant surprise. I had expected obscure professional descriptions, but instead it felt like an immersive performance: from the kingfisher-feather hair ornaments on female performers’ heads to the pheasant plume skills of martial roles, from the subtle shifts in singing and breathing to the face painting backstage, every detail came alive. Through Shang Xirui’s eyes, I learned for the first time that every gesture in Peking Opera has meaning, and every line holds a story. Even more stunning was that the author did not treat Peking Opera merely as a backdrop, but as a spiritual thread running through the whole story. When war came, troupes disbanded and stages were destroyed, yet Shang Xirui insisted on singing — for he knew the opera told not just joys and sorrows, but the backbone of a nation. In that moment, I realized art is never a pastime in an ivory tower, but the most resilient flame in troubled times.

More than once, I was touched by the lives of ordinary people in that era. Cheng Fengtai evolved from a businessman who only wanted to protect his family to someone who resolutely joined the anti-Japanese cause. Fan Xiang’er grew from a traditional feudal wife to one who understood and supported her husband’s choice. Even rivals who once clashed fiercely with Shang Xirui put aside their grievances for national justice. None were perfect heroes; all had their cowardice, selfishness and struggles. Yet it was these imperfections that made their choices all the more precious. In a time when the country was torn apart, they upheld kindness and justice in their own ways. The faint light of these ordinary people moved me more than any grand narrative.

After closing the book, I searched for clips of Peking Opera to listen to. As the melodious, gentle singing began, Shang Xirui’s figure on stage suddenly became clear. I seemed to finally grasp the deep meaning of the title: the begonia red by the temples may fade easily, but the perseverance and deep affection rooted in one’s bones can cross turbulent times and never fade.

If you also love delicate emotional writing, warm historical stories, or simply want a book to calm your heart, I wholeheartedly recommend Winter Begonia. It will not give you all the answers, but it will make you believe that no matter how noisy the world is, there are always pure emotions and firm commitments worth being moved by, worth remembering.

Now I have placed this book in the most prominent spot on my shelf, waiting for another rainy night to step once again into that Republican-era world — full of opera, affection and unyielding spirit.