A couple of days later during lunch break, Liu Ran habitually opened her tablet to watch a drama while eating. She suddenly remembered the shredded copies of the literary film contract and searched for Glass Sea Has No Echo, then started watching it.
After watching the opening, she felt like something was missing. She rewound and watched it again, discovering that the production, filming, and distribution credits made no mention of Ming Media under Ming Entertainment. Wasn’t this a Ming Group production?
Out of curiosity, Liu Ran searched on her phone. The producer turned out to be a film company with little name recognition in the industry. The movie hadn’t made much of a splash either, with most reviews calling it “boring.”
But she was sure she had heard of this film somewhere.
Sometimes, when you deliberately try to recall something, it escapes you; but just when you’re about to forget it, it suddenly pops into your mind.
On her way downstairs after work to drive home, inspiration struck: This seemed to be the last film her mother had directed before passing away—Glass Sea Has No Echo.
Back then, her mother had announced the news at the dinner table, saying the producer was very capable and the production team extremely reliable. She had even been a bit incredulous that such a project would be entrusted to her to direct.
But filming hadn’t gone on for long before her mother passed away. At the time, Liu Ran had been busy handling her mother’s funeral and her mom’s illness, so she hadn’t followed up on what happened to the unfinished film—whether it had been handed to another director or shelved entirely.
If that was the case, then Ming Group had very likely been the collaborator her mother had worked with back then.
Sorrow and excitement intertwined. Sorrow for her mother’s death, excitement that she and Ming Siyu might have had some destined connection all along.
During dinner, Liu Ran casually brought up Glass Sea Has No Echo. Lately, she had been wondering whether to find the right moment to confess her biggest secret to Ming Siyu—her past before the genetic modification. Perhaps this film her mother had collaborated on with Ming Media could serve as a good opening.
Ming Siyu had been angry the day before, and Liu Ran wasn’t sure if that anger was directed at Ming Siwei or at the contract itself. She decided to test Ming Siyu’s attitude first.
Ming Siyu’s previously relaxed expression instantly turned serious. “Did you look at yesterday’s documents?”
The reaction was quite strong.
Liu Ran said slowly, “I glanced at them while making the copies. What’s up with that movie?”
Her heart slowly sank.
Ming Siyu’s reaction made her intuit that… this wasn’t anything good.
Ming Siyu tapped her chopsticks against the bowl but didn’t explain the reason. She only said gravely, “Stay out of Group affairs. Don’t mention that movie again—it’s bad luck.”
At those words, Liu Ran was startled, nearly dropping the bowl in her hands.
Bad luck?
How could she use such a term?
With Ming Siyu putting it that way, even if Liu Ran lacked tact, she wouldn’t bring it up again.
But a thorn lodged itself in her heart. Liu Ran regretted not reading the full contract back then. She wanted to know if her mother Shen Yunhe’s name was listed under the production team.
For the first time, she had wanted to confess to Ming Siyu about her pre-modification past, but it fizzled out before it even started.
Next time, Liu Ran thought. Maybe now wasn’t the best moment.
With the matter weighing on her mind, Liu Ran had trouble sleeping that night. Ming Siyu came up from behind, hugged her, stroked her head, and murmured sleepily, “Go to sleep.”
Gently stroked on the head over and over, it felt like being back in childhood, patted on the back to sleep. Liu Ran inhaled Ming Siyu’s pleasant scent and drifted off in a daze.
Liu Ran found another opportunity to visit Huai Ci Sanatorium. Bai Yu’s condition hadn’t improved or worsened. With winter’s chill, Liu Ran lifted her into a wheelchair and pushed her to the balcony to bask in the sun for a while.
Some of Shen Yunhe’s belongings were kept under Bai Yu’s bed. Most items had been destroyed in the fire back then, leaving only a few. Liu Ran rummaged through the box and found some work-related contracts belonging to Shen Yunhe. Sure enough, there was one with Ming Media, seemingly the same as the one Ming Siwei had given her to copy.
The producer for Glass Sea Has No Echo was Chen Xi Studio, with Shen Yunhe as director. When Shen Yunhe first passed, colleagues from the studio had come to help, but soon after, they lost contact and never reached out again.
If Ming Media was the producer, why had it later changed to another company? Had they packaged and sold off the project? And why sell it?
Because of Shen Yunhe’s death?
Liu Ran felt that reason didn’t hold water. Shen Yunhe wasn’t a big-name director, and this film wasn’t one that absolutely required her. The film industry never lacked talented directors. Even if Shen Yunhe had passed, following Ming Media’s usual operational logic, they should have just replaced the director and continued filming, not hastily transferred the script.
Auntie Chen peeled a pear and gave it to Liu Ran to eat. Casually, she asked, “What’s all this?”
“My mother’s belongings.”
Auntie Chen had known Bai Yu was widowed when she first moved in. So she said, “Missing your mother?”
Liu Ran nodded and squeezed out a smile for Auntie Chen. “She passed so suddenly…”
Auntie Chen’s occupational habit kicked in. “What exactly was the accident that took your mother? If it’s convenient, could you tell me?”
Liu Ran first glanced at Bai Yu. In her current state, Bai Yu probably couldn’t hear external sounds—or if she did, she couldn’t process them. Shen Yunhe’s death was an inescapable shadow for Liu Ran. Her understanding of it all came from police and fire department reports. Though she always felt the official cause—mistakenly mixing psychiatric meds with alcohol, leading to respiratory paralysis and then a fire—sounded a bit far-fetched. Such a careless mistake shouldn’t have happened to Shen Yunhe. But the final report stated that, and stranger deaths weren’t unheard of.
The blow of Shen Yunhe’s death had been too great and sudden. Liu Ran had gone through a severe stress reaction, uncontrollably short of breath at the sight of flames from roadside barbecue stalls, like someone choking her. It took some time before things improved. Her body, in self-preservation, had actively blurred the memories related to Shen Yunhe’s death.
So many details were fuzzy for Liu Ran.
She simply told Auntie Chen what she could remember. Auntie Chen listened thoughtfully. “It was quite sudden. Did your mother show any unusual behavior before she passed?”
Speaking of that, Liu Ran felt deeply guilty. She had been abroad at summer camp then, calling Shen Yunhe and Bai Yu every couple of days on average. From the phone conversations, she hadn’t detected anything amiss. She often regretted it—if only she hadn’t gone to camp, if she’d stayed home, at least she could have reminded Shen Yunhe not to take meds after drinking.
Auntie Chen warmly offered, “I have friends in public security and the courts. If you need, I can help inquire about the details from back then.”
Liu Ran wanted to fill in those memory gaps, so she thanked Auntie Chen first. But she also knew Auntie Chen had come to the sanatorium to live with the long-comatose Bai Yu precisely to avoid too much contact with people. She added upfront that if it caused trouble, it was fine to forget it.
During the holiday, Ming Siyu took Liu Ran to play golf. She taught her hand-in-hand, with plenty of physical contact, making Liu Ran break out in sweat despite the winter cold. The caddie kept his eyes on his nose and nose to his heart. By the end of the round, Liu Ran’s face was red like a fried tomato.
The more Ming Siyu teased her like this, the more Liu Ran couldn’t help fixating her gaze on Ming Siyu.
After the game, they ate at the course restaurant. Liu Ran went to change clothes, leaving her phone on the table.
The restaurant was mostly empty, playing soothing, melodious pure music. Ming Siyu leisurely sipped tea, gazing at the endless lawn outside the window. In winter, the grass was slightly yellowed, adding a touch of desolate beauty compared to spring and summer.
Liu Ran’s phone on the table suddenly vibrated.
Ming Siyu glanced over. Someone was requesting to add Liu Ran as a friend. She casually picked up the phone and unlocked it using her own birthday.
Liu Ran had always obediently kept the lock screen password unchanged. At first, unlocking Liu Ran’s phone with her birthday had just been convenient for Ming Siyu. Now, it carried a special meaning. Ming Siyu loved the sound effect when the screen unlocked after entering the password.
After seeing the friend request note, Ming Siyu wanted to smash the phone right then.
Just then, Liu Ran came back after changing. She walked in to see Ming Siyu holding her phone with an accusing expression. Liu Ran didn’t like others casually flipping through her relatively private phone, but since it was Ming Siyu, she tolerated it and had never complained.
“What’s wrong?”
Ming Siyu tossed the phone onto the table with a clatter. “See for yourself.”
Liu Ran thought there probably wasn’t anything in her phone that Ming Siyu couldn’t see, so she picked it up. It was Zhu Xinghan, who had somehow gotten her WeChat ID, requesting to add her as a friend, with three pink hearts at the end of the message.
Fire blazed in Ming Siyu’s eyes. She said coldly, “Accept the request.”
Ming Siyu’s tone was off, and Liu Ran herself didn’t want to get too close to Zhu Xinghan, so she set the phone aside. “We’re not even at the same school. No need to add her.”
“She might have something to discuss with you.” Ming Siyu’s tone was a bit sarcastic. “Ranran—how intimate. I’ve already approved adding you; why are you being so picky?”
“How she addresses me is her business; I can’t control that.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know she has feelings for you.”
Liu Ran truly felt Ming Siyu was making a mountain out of a molehill for no reason, and her tone grew sharper. “Even if she likes me, I don’t like her, and I’m not adding her. You know my phone password anytime; you can check it whenever. You never say anything when I add company people. I’ve added a few classmates from school before, and you agreed. Why such a big reaction just for Zhu Xinghan?”
For a moment, Ming Siyu actually felt Liu Ran had a point.
Though she had only met Zhu Xinghan once, when she saw the name in the friend request note, it took her a second to recall the female student shivering in the cold wind, bundled in a down jacket.
Since she had chosen to let Liu Ran go out and interact with all sorts of people, it was inevitable. Ming Siyu had prepared herself for that.
But she couldn’t ignore the fervent, joyful look in Zhu Xinghan’s eyes when she gazed at Liu Ran.
He Qiange always said she didn’t understand romance. But even without eating pork, she’d seen pigs run. If Zhu Xinghan’s look at Liu Ran was innocent, Ming Siyu would eat the table on the spot.
