Chapter 8

The winter dusk wind was light and cold—but the hands clasped together were warm.

Zhou Siyou pulled Zhong Qing along, striding forward in great sweeps.

Zhou Siyou felt as if she were treading on wind itself, and her heart floated along with it.

Then Zhong Qing, behind her, asked without warning:

“Do you know where we’re going?”

Zhou Siyou’s steps halted; her brows knit.

She’d meant to retort: You’ve only been back a few days—how could you know this area better than me?

But what came out was pure humility. “No idea, Teacher Zhong. Please, enlighten me.”

Zhong Qing smacked her hand away. “Then follow me properly.”

Zhou Siyou nodded obediently. “Okay.”

“That way.” Zhong Qing gave Zhou Siyou’s sleeve a light tug, indicating a direction.

“Okay.”

Zhou Siyou fell in step behind her.

Along the street, voices murmured and stirred; the passing breezes collided, layering three and five overlapping shadows into one.

Zhou Siyou watched those kaleidoscopic shadows settle on the tips of Zhong Qing’s hair like flowing light.

The green light’s countdown hit zero. They stood beneath the signal.

Zhong Qing spoke again. “Jiang Jin is a housewife.”

“Ah…” As if struck by a thought, Zhou Siyou answered without meaning to, “What a terrible thing to be.”

“I know. But don’t interrupt.” Zhong Qing shot her a mild glare and repeated herself. “Jiang Jin is a housewife. After marrying, her every day follows the same script: cook something, clean the house, go out to buy groceries, come home and cook again. Day after day.”

Zhou Siyou asked: “She has no other interests?”

Zhong Qing said: “She does.”

But after that single word, she offered nothing more, the implication obvious: ‘Yes—but you’ll have to find the answer yourself.’

The red turned green; Zhou Siyou stepped out first.

She walked beside Zhong Qing. “My guess is, the part Jiang Jin loves most is being out of the house. Or after the groceries—wandering the neighborhood streets a little longer on her own. It’s only then that she belongs entirely to herself.”

Zhong Qing said nothing, neither confirming nor denying.

Zhong Qing continued. “Jiang Jin and Yuan Qinghua—the heroine and the male lead—were teacher and student over a decade ago. Jiang Jin suffered school violence and was left with a permanent scar on her wrist. That’s why she so often ties a colorless ribbon around it.”

“Perhaps Jiang Jin knew that in some violence, fighting back only invites worse violence. But for some people, not fighting back is impossible.”

“Killing him outright was too hard; Jiang Jin would rather perish together with him. And it was then that the male lead, the music teacher, appeared.”

A car streaked past; Zhong Qing drew Zhou Siyou toward the other side of the street, her unhurried voice steady. “But as you said in the waiting room, none of these relationships can withstand scrutiny. Yuan Qinghua’s so-called salvation is more like a retread of the Lolita story.”

“So then… the person in the church—was it Jiang Jin who killed him?”

Zhong Qing didn’t answer. She asked in return: “Zhou Siyou, do you know who Giulia Tofana was?”

Zhou Siyou shook her head.

In the night wind, Zhong Qing looked away—and then, abruptly, a soft laugh escaped her. “Look it up when you’re home. I’m not explaining this one now.”

Zhong Qing’s smile was gone in a flash, so brief it might have been an illusion.

But it left Zhou Siyou staring, stunned.

Zhou Siyou realized suddenly: the Zhong Qing of the past had simply been a woman of few words—not a woman who didn’t smile.

It was only after what happened back then that genuine smiles had become… truly rare on Zhong Qing’s face.

Each wrapped in her own thoughts, they walked in silence from the street onto the mountain path.

Only the last band of afterglow remained in the sky. Looking up, at the end of the path rose a low little hill.

Were they climbing it? Zhou Siyou peered up, not quite following.

But she couldn’t be bothered to ask.

Following Zhong Qing’s lead was enough.

The moment she stepped onto the path, Zhou Siyou blinked and ventured, a little uncertain, “Still—Zhong Qing, about the script, one more question.” She said, “The scar on Jiang Jin’s wrist… self-harm? A failed suicide? It’s not that, right?”

Zhong Qing’s footsteps stopped.

“Zhou Siyou, you know this. On some questions—or rather, to some degree—my view and yours are the same. Suicide is cowardice. And yes, sometimes letting go of yourself looks like the easier road—but we find a swaggering enemy harder to stomach still. If I am like you, then you and Jiang Jin… must be alike too.”

Zhong Qing hadn’t answered directly—yet she had answered all the same, in another way.

Zhou Siyou gave a half-understanding “Oh.”

The wind on all sides thinned; the sunset’s colors thinned with it.

Zhong Qing checked the time, quickened her pace, and pulled Zhou Siyou up the path at speed.

As they walked, Zhong Qing thought of last night’s call in the small hours.

The person on the other end had claimed to be the chief investor’s special assistant, wanting to discuss casting with her “out of respect for the investing boss.”

Zhong Qing had taken a dislike to that overly familiar tone. “I don’t know any Boss Li. All I know is that this is my script.”

And she’d hung up.

When the man called back, she’d silenced the phone and let it ring.

Before her, all the materials had flashed past, and Zhong Qing had made her selections and her cuts based on understanding and experience.

…Or perhaps because she simply could not point the camera at anyone else.

Zhong Qing had believed herself to have no habit of pre-chewing a story and spoon-feeding it to anyone.

Yet now, facing Zhou Siyou, she had started walking her through the scenes despite herself.

The script. The characters. The backstory. Her own views. Every last detail.

A quarter hour later, they reached the low summit.

The hill was far too small to be any prime sunset-viewing spot.

And yet it still let them witness the sun’s dying, just before the sky folded away its last sweep of rich, blazing cloud.

In the bamboo pavilion on the hillside, Zhong Qing spread a sheet of paper on the stone bench, sat, drew the iPad from her bag, took up a stylus, and began tracing the afterglow.

Zhou Siyou leaned against her, watching her, her thoughts drifting untethered, her hands seemingly idle.

Would Jiang Jin love watching sunsets? Or did she love sunrises more?

Zhou Siyou’s thoughts wandered without destination, but her gaze patrolled—until it settled on the cheek of Zhong Qing beside her.

She keeps slipping into illusions today, Zhou Siyou thought.

Why else would she take leaping points of light for musical notes, and the endless river of traffic for wind through an open hall, or a spill of iridescent shadows?

Nothing looked quite real; everything felt like a phantom.

Just like now: she was feeling the sunset, yet it was as if, within the sunset, she were catching thread after thread of chamomile scent.

…Chamomile?

Since when did the wind smell of chamomile?

So Zhou Siyou fixed her eyes on the woman beside her, gaze burning.

Zhong Qing scribbled away, head down, entirely unaffected by the blatant stare.

Zhou Siyou didn’t quite dare lean closer, and only asked quietly, “Are you wearing perfume? It smells like chamomile… with a bit of geranium in it.”

Zhong Qing still didn’t look up, only said flatly, “Probably just laundry detergent that didn’t rinse out.”

Zhou Siyou: “…”

In her mind, the chamomile wind stopped blowing.

Zhou Siyou shut her mouth.