The next morning, she left Crane City and headed back south.
She’d left her duffel bag and backpack at the train station; someone would probably turn them in to lost and found.
She took the subway to the docks, her shoulders light without the bags.
At the pier, she scoped out the boats for a bit before approaching one with an outboard motor. “Heading to Maple Island?”
The man at the helm gave her an extra glance. “What you going there for? It’s so far, and totally undeveloped.”
The nearby waters were dotted with islands. Some had been developed into hot tourist spots, but the smaller ones or those in awkward locations had been abandoned outright.
Maple Island had gotten its name from its leaf-like shape—and it had both drawbacks: tiny and remote. Developers had blacklisted it from the start.
Meng Ning smiled. “I’m shooting a vlog to post online.”
“How many followers you got?” The man eyed her—she was pretty, after all. “What’s your handle? I’ll give you a like, comment, and subscribe.”
She smiled again. “Just starting out. Haven’t posted anything yet.”
“A vlog on Maple Island won’t work. No one’s going there—it’s tiny, rundown, and the views suck.”
“That’s exactly why I’m shooting it. The popular spots are all covered by the big influencers.” Meng Ning said, “I know it’s far. I’ll cover extra for the fuel.”
“Alright.” The man had nothing better to do. “Where’s your gear? Camera or whatever?”
“My phone’s good enough.”
After what felt like forever, he steered with one hand and chatted. “See how far it is? Nothing ahead but open ocean.”
Meng Ning smiled again. “Yeah.”
She stepped onto the island, and he asked, “How long you shooting? How you getting back?”
Meng Ning straightened her T-shirt. “I’ve got a boat arranged to pick me up.”
“If it’s not too long, I can wait. Give you a discount on the way back.”
“Sorry, it’s all set. Can’t leave them hanging.”
“Fair enough.” He wasn’t too bothered and added helpfully, “Don’t shoot too late. Be back before dark.”
Then he motored off.
The island really was tiny, completely undeveloped, with vegetation so dense it was intimidating. Meng Ning tried pushing inland but even in her long sleeves and pants, progress was tough. She retreated to the shore and found a rock to sit on until nightfall.
She didn’t dare think of Wen Zenian. Instead, she thought of Qi Xiao.
She wondered what Qi Xiao was doing right now. She probably hadn’t gotten off shift yet. If the schedule hadn’t changed, Qi Xiao would be lounging in the control room out of the sun, hollering at Ju Mengya, “Did you drink my soda water from the fridge again?”
Ju Mengya, a northerner too, would fire back in her crisp retroflex accent, “Nah.”
Meng Ning’s lips curved upward at the thought.
The shoreline at dusk was the most beautiful. Vast swaths of orange-gold spread across the horizon, like fire blazing on the sea, forging a future out of sheer will.
But as the orange-gold faded bit by bit and the sky fell silent again, that hope felt like nothing more than human illusion.
Night crept in slowly.
Meng Ning reached into her pocket and chuckled. She’d brought all three of her lighters today—like a street vendor.
She pulled out the one she’d secretly kept from Wen Zenian, flicked it open, and struck the flint.
The tiny flame barely pierced the darkness. A gust of wind made it flicker pitifully.
Meng Ning cupped her hand around it, staring into the flame in a daze.
Then she snapped it shut and slipped it back in her pocket, unwilling to waste more.
Next, she took out the used lighter she’d meant to give Wen Zenian, lit it, extinguished it, lit it again, then out.
After several rounds.
The flint sparked twice, but no flame.
What the hell? No fuel?
Meng Ning wasn’t mad at all. She just smiled good-naturedly and pocketed it.
She sat quietly on the beach, night breeze ruffling her hair, knees drawn up slightly, arms wrapped around them.
The nearest developed island was far away. The sea was eerily dark, without a hint of light. No moon tonight either.
Meng Ning checked her phone.
Midnight.
She loved this magical hour.
Some stories ended then. Others began.
She stood and pocketed the phone.
From another pocket, she drew a small milky-white pill bottle—one she’d peeled the label off herself.
The psychiatrist had prescribed it back then for her poor sleep. It had helped at first, but later she realized even these pills couldn’t save her. She fell back into sleepless loops.
Even sleep had abandoned her. Even the refuge of dreams had slammed its doors.
Leaving her to toss and turn through endless nights, eyes open till dawn, curled fetal on the bed—still brutally awake—battered by waves of emotion.
Did it hurt? More like chaos.
Just exhaustion. An indescribable weariness no one else could grasp.
If even dreams offered no escape, then flee to the ocean’s edge.
Swim till exhaustion claimed her, no longer forced to face the torment awake.
She hurled the bottle far into the sea, shed her jacket, and struck out into the deep.
It was serene—the current cradling her limbs, inky water darker than the guilt-ridden memories in her mind. It swallowed everything, blurring the past’s sharp edges.
She swam till her strength ebbed, drowsiness settling in. Her limbs grew heavy.
She hadn’t felt sleepy in ages. So relaxed. So comfortable.
“Xiao Ning.”
Her arms and legs froze at the voice.
It was Shi Yang’s.
From memory, when Shi Yang was very ill, her voice thin and soft, like the hair scarf she’d once used to tie back her hair.
Shi Yang had once had thick, silky black hair. By then, it was nearly gone. No need for scarves—just a thick knit cap.
Meng Ning remembered that sunny day, sitting by Shi Yang’s bed, peeling an apple. “Mom, what if we stop treatment.”
“This time, I’ll let you go.”
She’d said it smiling.
Shi Yang’s delicate face, ravaged to the size of a palm by illness, glowed almost translucent in the winter sunlight from the window.
Meng Ning watched her hand on the blanket—skin over bone, IV needle in place, fingers twitching faintly.
Then Shi Yang smiled too. “Xiao Ning, you’re braver than me.”
“Thank you.”
Meng Ning had kept smiling then, lips trembling from the effort.
But now, wrapped in seawater, she realized she was crying. Opening her mouth to breathe, she choked on a gulp.
She remembered Shi Yang taking her hand, patting the back. “I’m tired. Time to go. The life I never lived—you tell me about it when we meet in the sky.”
“Tell me about winter snow and spring sun.”
“About the beef noodle shop at our alley’s mouth.”
“About autumn days with good sun, how many kites on the riverbank.”
“About the person you love—what they look like.”
Salty tears welled, instantly swallowed by saltier sea.
Mom, I miss you so much.
After you left, I never dared return to Crane City.
The riverside pear blossoms whitened again. Kite-flying kids grew into brooding teens.
Meng Ning snapped awake. How could she truly vanish from the world?
Her eyes were Shi Yang’s eyes. The world she saw was the one Shi Yang had seen.
Shi Yang knew her too well—too sensitive, heart too heavy.
Shi Yang had feared leaving her unmoored. So she’d left a task to tether her, trip her up.
She tried swimming shoreward, but she’d gone too far—like these five years, every struggle pulling her deeper into the Black Sea of emotion, farther from shore.
Her strength nearly gone, limbs leaden. After the first gulp of seawater, then the second, third.
Screwed.
What now, damn it.
Her mind foggy, she thought of Wen Zenian.
Last time in Wen Zenian’s hotel room, Wen Zenian had stood on the sea-breezed balcony, beautiful and cruel as a deity, asking what she’d have done if Wen Zenian hadn’t walked in on the investor harassing her.
Then Wen Zenian had half-joked, lips quirking. “You could call my name. I’d come save you.”
She wanted to call Wen Zenian’s name.
No—Wen Min’s.
The one who could save her wasn’t the commanding Wen Zenian, but the round-faced girl from back then, always head down as she walked.
But after choking on so much seawater, how could she make a sound?
In her heart, she called: Wen Min.
Wen Min…
But why would Wen Min forgive her?
When she heard the rotor blades, she thought it hallucination.
Maybe from always picturing Wen Zenian under the helicopter that day—one-shoulder evening gown blazing like fire, burning away the past, rewriting it all.
A spotlight swept over, jittering on the waves, brushing her ear tips—warm.
The rotors hovered overhead, lingering.
Qi Xiao, in headphones on the chopper, yelled at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t hear herself, didn’t know if Wen Zenian could, but she shouted desperately, “This is dangerous!”
Wen Zenian had kicked off her heels and shed her black suit jacket.
Her usually perfect hair whipped wild by sea wind, the cut on her face not yet healed. Hanging from the dangling ladder, she looked uncannily like a Valkyrie.
Fearless. Heading into hell to steal a soul back.
The helicopter lowered its rope ladder as close to the sea’s surface as possible. Wen Zenian had received professional training for such maneuvers—one of her specialized skills—but in that moment, she acted on pure instinct, leaping down. By then, several speedboats were closing in, and a number of lifeguards plunged into the waves.
The first to support Meng Ning was Wen Zenian.
From the helicopter, Qi Xiao watched their figures rise and fall amid the inky sea swells.
Soon the lifeguards clustered around, taking Meng Ning from Wen Zenian’s arms and helping both women aboard a speedboat.
Outside the hospital room, Qi Xiao and Wen Zenian sat side by side.
This was one of the city’s premier private hospitals, its corridors decorated with homelike warmth. Qi Xiao stared absently at a painting on the wall, unable to make sense of its overly abstract style.
Meng Ning was fine.
An accomplished swimmer, Meng Ning’s self-rescue instincts had kicked in the moment she hit the water. Now she slept soundly in the hospital room, the medication’s effects slowly fading.
Wen Zenian hadn’t gone home for a shower; she’d simply changed clothes. A white button-down shirt paired with black slacks, her hair undone from its bun, towel-dried, and recombed—it looked a touch more disheveled than her usual polish.
Qi Xiao recalled her first glimpse of Wen Zenian not long before.
“The helicopter’s waiting,” Wen Zenian had said. “Let’s go.”
Qi Xiao was the first to sense something was wrong.
After Meng Ning left, she’d called her several times, but Meng Ning never answered.
By the norms of adult etiquette, it was probably time to stop. Meng Ning might be busy traveling. Or perhaps she’d accepted that their lives had diverged, making distance inevitable.
But Qi Xiao huffed indignantly to herself: Why? Hadn’t she said they were friends?
Sometimes friendship demanded the same recklessness as romance—crossing that line called “politeness” without a second thought.
She dialed a few more times, but Meng Ning never replied.
Coincidentally, the next day brought a call from an unfamiliar number. “Is this Qi Xiao?”
“Yes.”
“Could you ask Meng Ning to call me back? Tell her it’s Qin Zhi; she’ll know who I am.”
“You can’t reach Meng Ning either?”
“What?” The woman on the line paused. “Isn’t Meng Ning staying with you?”
That was when Qi Xiao learned Meng Ning had been seeing a psychologist all along.
Once it was clear Meng Ning was still unreachable, Qi Xiao didn’t hesitate long before phoning Wen Zenian.
Her only worry was that Wen Zenian’s domestic number might be out of service. But it rang through, and Wen Zenian answered promptly, her voice as elegantly familiar as ever: “Hi, Sharon.”
Qi Xiao explained her concerns, and Wen Zenian fell silent for a beat.
Just as Qi Xiao braced for a rebuke about overthinking, Wen Zenian said, “Give me ten hours. I’ll see you here.”
Qi Xiao took the day off, her mind uneasy the whole time.
Until Wen Zenian’s call came: “Head to the helipad. I’ve pinpointed her location.”
Qi Xiao scrambled headlong to get there.
She had no idea how Wen Zenian had tracked Meng Ning’s phone, but that was precisely why she’d called her—Wen Zenian always had a solution, no matter the crisis.
Yet with night cloaking everything, the sight of Wen Zenian in her black suit standing beside the helicopter’s whirling blades struck Qi Xiao as both powerfully resolute and achingly vulnerable.
She gave Qi Xiao only one instruction: “The speedboats launched ahead of us. We’ll take the helicopter—better sightlines.”
“Mm.” Qi Xiao pressed her lips tight.
“Don’t panic,” Wen Zenian said. “Wherever she’s gone, I’ll drag her back.”
