So this New Year, Fu Tingli seemed to be the only one left on set.
Of course, that wasn’t entirely true. But to her, it felt the same everywhere— just her, alone.
On New Year’s Eve, Fu Tingli slept in late on purpose. She brewed herself a mug of the instant milk tea her roommate had left behind, pitying her for spending the holiday solo.
It was already afternoon. She cooked some noodles in the room and ate them. Afterward, she lounged by the window, sipping the too-mild milk tea while video-calling Qiao Lipan.
Kazakhs didn’t celebrate on this day, but Fu Tingli had grown up in Shanghai, steeped in Han Chinese New Year’s Eve traditions. Even in California, she’d kept them.
This was the first New Year’s Eve she and Qiao Lipan weren’t spending together.
But Qiao Lipan couldn’t drop everything and fly back just for the holiday, not with creditors circling.
Fu Tingli understood.
Over the video call, she reassured Qiao Lipan, who peered at her from the tiny screen, fretting over the pimple from her dry lips. “Drink more hot water, stay hydrated,” she nagged, then warned against licking her lips in the dry air. “Just use that lip balm properly, or you’ll get those nasty chapped corners.”
Fu Tingli showed off the lip balm her roommate bought, insisting she wasn’t a kid anymore and wouldn’t get something so silly. Still, she promised to behave and told Qiao Lipan to enjoy the holiday outside—at least make sure her little sister had a good New Year.
Before hanging up, Qiao Lipan asked, surprised, “Your hair’s grown so long?”
Fu Tingli looked down. Months without a trim, it now brushed her ribs, swaying in the breeze. The ends were dry and frizzy, the color a faded reddish-black from cheap dye. It looked awful.
“I’ll cut it when I get back to Shanghai,” she said, twirling a frizzy strand and sighing. She suddenly missed her old golden locks.
The call ended, but half the instant milk tea remained. Fu Tingli stretched, spotting a plane streak across the brilliant white sky, trailing a long, curling vapor.
Under that fading trail, an unbidden thought struck: Where was Kong Liyuan right now?
She hadn’t even reached the point of wondering why she kept thinking of her—or forcing herself to stop.
A car rumbled slowly through the snow, leaving clear tracks. Fu Tingli tossed her unfinished milk tea, yanked on her felt hat and down jacket, and dashed downstairs.
She hitched a ride with the local guy driving. He asked warmly where she was headed.
Pockets empty, snow crunching underfoot, she hesitated.
“I want to go see Hewatu.”
Compared to remote Kanas, Hewatu bustled with more locals. She’d thought they didn’t celebrate New Year’s, but a few Han families were decked out: red couplets on doors, lanterns hanging, everything cheerful and crimson. One host ladled steaming rice cakes, steam billowing out, flushing faces rosy too.
It smelled like the holidays.
Fu Tingli wandered slowly to Saliha’s doorstep, then saw Saliha step out—hair in joyful new curls, arm linked with a woman who looked just like her.
Saliha’s eldest daughter was back. Fu Tingli was genuinely happy for them but didn’t want to intrude on family time.
She turned to leave, but slipped in the snow. Cold slush seeped into her shoe, making her yelp.
Saliha spotted her like that and called out in delight, inviting her inside and scooping her a bowl of milk tea fragrant with cream.
She took a sip, the milk tea warming her stomach. Saliha rubbed her stiff, frozen hands and asked with a smile,
“Why didn’t you come with Liyuan?”
Fu Tingli’s fingers grew hot around the bowl as she slowly took another gulp. So here at Saliha’s, they were still just Liyuan and Li, nothing more.
Catching her eldest daughter’s curious gaze, she smiled and said,
“She’s working out in the wider world, far, far away. But she asked me to pass on our New Year’s wishes for the holiday. She hopes you’ll be happy and healthy.”
She figured someone as wonderful as Kong Liyuan would surely say the same thing if she were here herself—sincerely wishing Saliha all the best.
It wasn’t a lie at all.
“Good. Thank Liyuan for me,” Saliha said, grinning as she stuffed a handful of candies into her hand.
They were a local treat, wrapped in deep blue with gilded lettering and strings of letters printed on them.
The flavor of roasted peanuts bloomed sweetly on her tongue, a bit sticky at first, but softening after a few chews. Even long after swallowing, her mouth stayed sweet.
“Stay for dinner. Spend a few days here,” Saliha said as she was leaving, still rubbing her hand. “Share the old room with Maiyila.”
Maiyila was Saliha’s eldest daughter, who had been working away but had rushed back for the holiday break.
The old room was Maiyila’s, the very one Saliha always mentioned where Liyuan and Li had stayed before.
Fu Tingli crunched into the candy in her mouth. She shook her head with a soft smile.
“You and your daughter enjoy it together. I need to head back early.”
Saliha tried to convince her to stay, but she refused with a laugh. Once outside Saliha’s home, she pocketed the candies and walked alone through the lively scene.
Passing the aid station, Doctor Mu emerged from inside, still wearing that red scarf and holding a cigarette between her fingers.
Doctor Mu glanced at her, recognized her, raised an eyebrow, and exhaled a puff of smoke.
“Come in and sit for a bit?”
Fu Tingli eyed the somewhat worn red scarf and couldn’t refuse. Doctor Mu nodded, stubbed out the freshly lit cigarette, and led her into the sheet-metal building. She brewed her a cup of hot tea.
The snow had eased up these past few days, leaving the aid station empty of patients—just Doctor Mu.
There were the familiar empty beds and the creaky wooden table.
This time, Fu Tingli sat at the table, holding her hot tea. She wondered if she should offer Doctor Mu one of her candies, but she only had one left in her pocket.
As she hesitated, Doctor Mu pulled out her phone and set it in the middle of the table. It was a replay of a gala.
The camera panned across the audience, landing on a female star with red lips and black hair. She wore a sleek black gown that hugged her figure, a necklace of pure white pearls gracing her neck.
Her profile, captured so intimately by the lens, was nearly flawless. Even in the dim light, she resembled an ancient Greek deity dragged into the mortal world.
“You still watch this?” Fu Tingli asked in surprise, her eyes glued to the small phone screen.
“Don’t you?” Doctor Mu countered.
The camera moved on, and Fu Tingli curled her fingers, finally shifting her gaze to Doctor Mu’s face. They were staring at her with a smile.
“I didn’t have time. Been busy these days.”
Doctor Mu nodded, then tsked, eyeing the glamorous starlet on screen. “So cold out there, dressed like that.”
Fu Tingli looked too, fixating on Kong Liyuan as she flashed by—on her bare shoulders in the chill wind, on her smile half-hidden in the shadows.
She sighed. “Yeah, really cold.”
Once Kong Liyuan had passed from the screen and the camera focused on the performers on stage, she took a slow sip of her tea and asked,
“Doctor Mu, are you staying at the aid station over New Year’s too?”
Doctor Mu took a steaming sip of her own tea. “Nowhere else to go, so yeah.”
“How could you have nowhere to go?”
Fu Tingli assumed Doctor Mu was like her and pressed her lips together, not planning to pry further.
But Doctor Mu narrowed their eyes, as if reminiscing, and went on casually,
“My spouse died around this time in 2004, so I’ve spent the years since here. No point going back.”
Years? It had been nearly twenty.
Fu Tingli froze.
Doctor Mu smiled again, gazing out the window at the heavy snow. She continued,
“She died in a blizzard right around here. No aid station back then. We were young and reckless, thought we’d take a self-driving road trip. Hit a freak storm, and I was the only one who made it out.”
“So…” Fu Tingli hesitated but asked, “that’s why you came to the aid station?”
“Is it?” Doctor Mu chuckled, rubbing the red scarf in their hand. “Thinking about it that way, I guess it makes me sound like a good person.”
Fu Tingli opened her mouth, wanting to say, “Don’t you know?” Then she wondered if Zhu Manda and Zhu Muzi might end up with a fate like this.
But she would rather those two live freely in this world, charging ahead wildly like the outlaw lovers in her memories—rather than settling into something ordinary or painful.
In the end, she couldn’t find words of comfort. Doctor Mu had wrapped up the story briskly and stood from the wooden chair, shooing her out.
“Alright. If I hadn’t casually promised to tell you before, I wouldn’t have gotten all sentimental. It’s late—head back. I’ve got to get to my place for dinner.”
So Fu Tingli pocketed her last candy and set off.
This New Year’s Eve wasn’t so empty or dull after all. She’d seen two familiar faces, drunk two cups of hot tea, and eaten a pocketful of sweet candies.
She was supposed to head toward Kanas. Azati had told her it was a thirty- or forty-minute drive—not great roads. Walking would take an hour or two; hitch a ride if she could, or just walk back. No big deal.
But she hesitated.
Stepping out of the aid station’s sheet-metal hut with her left foot, she found the sky nearly dark. The fierce wind whipped her face, billowing her clothes.
With the holiday, Hewatu buzzed with energy. Every house she passed glowed with warm little lights—some yellow, some white.
Everywhere was bright, joyful, raucous—like a wild, flamboyant dream.
She went to that little diner from before, planning a simple New Year’s meal, but hit a snag there too.
With only one candy left in her pocket, a child waddled out crookedly, slipped, and fell into the snow with a thud. The child grabbed her pant leg. Looking at the chubby little face, she helped them up and said with curved eyes, “Good kid.”
She didn’t give the child her last candy.
Her body grew colder in the relentless wind as she wandered aimlessly down the open road.
The wind was like a razor-sharp blade, slicing with every gust, thinning her into a sheet of ice.
At last, she reached a vast, empty snowfield, desolate and uninhabited. She could hear her heart beating slowly. She bent to catch her breath, then lay back.
Just like last time.
Even alone this time, this vast openness melted that razor blade better than any crowded, bustling home.
She sprawled out in a starfish, exhaling puffs of white breath, then rolled, pressing a human shape into the thick snow. The sky hung low like slate-blue frost.
No little bird flew overhead this time—a small regret. The wind’s roar drowned out the clamor from those lively homes.
Then she decided only Hewatu’s snow felt warm, forgiving the absent bird.
She lay there who knew how long.
Eyes closed, her mind serene and empty, she thought—New Year’s Eve was nearly over. The Renyin Tiger Year was coming. She should sleep soon.
In the sound of her own breathing, a phrase slipped in unbidden:
“Celebrate the holiday properly, and the new year will go smoothly.”
The massive wind roared in her ears like an embrace around the earth, her heartbeat pounding like crashing waves against a giant reef.
Fu Tingli found the image oddly amusing. She squinted, exhaled, and pushed up to sit—time for a proper New Year’s meal, to see the holiday through right.
But the instant her hand hit the ground, another sound emerged—slow footsteps crunching the snow nearby, drawing closer.
One step, another, soft and steady on the loose layer.
She slowed her breathing, listening closely. The steps grew jumbled but stayed unhurried, solidly pressing the ground, heading this way.
Someone was coming.
It wasn’t the sound of a single person’s footsteps.
Could a whole family be skipping New Year’s celebrations, deciding instead to come frolicking here in the dead of night? And manage to find such a remote spot, right at the end of this very road?
Fu Tingli struggled to prop herself up from the ground.
She rose in a fluster. The felt hat that had tumbled with her was on the verge of falling off, dangling over her eyelids and blocking nearly half her vision.
She straightened the felt hat, accidentally dislodging a clump of snow onto her eyelashes. While wiping the snow from her eyes, she peered toward the source of the sound.
The snow-covered ground was shrouded entirely in the dark blue of night.
The border winds still howled fiercely in her ears, blowing and roaring. By now, the scent of burning incense wafted through the air around her.
It was like the strains of a horsehead fiddle playing a distant, vast, and solitary melody, intent on stealing away every shred of one’s mind and spirit.
The footsteps echoing from afar remained erratic—one steady, the next unsteady.
Fu Tingli looked up. Her blurry vision slowly came into focus. In the vast, silent expanse of snow, a dark, indistinct shadow drew slowly nearer.
Braving the wind and treading through the snow, it approached her.
New Year’s Eve was nearly at an end. Fu Tingli clutched the last piece of peanut candy in her pocket. Its rich fragrance seemed to rise again, dense and soft.
Dazed, she listened to the chaotic footsteps and gazed out at the vast, desolate white snowfield.
A woman in knee-high black boots and travel-worn clothes kicked up white snowflakes with each step. Her black hair whipped wildly in the wind, her face indistinct. A long wisp of white mist curled from her lips, and a faint glow flickered between her fingertips.
It was Kong Liyuan, leading a white horse and smiling at her from afar.
Many years later, when she looked back on this moment, she would always inexplicably recall one particular thing.
From the age of six, she had wanted a brown pony—and remarkably, this woman had appeared with a horse three times.
She had probably been doomed to have no escape ever since that very first encounter.
