Chapter 35: What’s It to You?

When the stone representing the daughter tumbled off the cliff, I saw Gan Ling’s shoulders tremble noticeably.

Finally, Michelle Yeoh’s character followed after it. In the ensuing silence, the BGM kicked in. Gan Ling uncomfortably curled up her legs and hugged them to her chest. Even until the end credits rolled, she maintained that fragile, curled-up posture. I didn’t turn on the lights and stayed curled up on the other end of the sofa.

I suddenly started regretting showing Gan Ling a movie with this theme. But lately, artistic works had been pretty lackluster. I needed an excuse, and in my excuse arsenal, Michelle Yeoh was beckoning to me. I couldn’t ignore the most talked-about movie.

To dilute the mark this theme had left on Gan Ling, I ignored how late it was and stubbornly switched to season three of Love, Death & Robots.

Gan Ling didn’t object. Gibaro’s spinning dance steps and anguished wails made her change positions—one leg stretched out, her body slanted on the sofa as she calmly watched the final episode. By then, it was past midnight.

There was no reason for me to insist on Gan Ling staying to appreciate artistic works with me, unless I was some bootleg DVD seller.

From Jiaxing Supermarket to Jiaxing Residential Area, it was less than three kilometers. I’d invited this great Buddha over, but now I had no idea how to send her off. I’d observed, but I had no answers or conclusions. You can’t read people’s minds—what the hell was I doing?

Once the credits finished and the projection ended, the TV screen showed a monotonous blue-black. I grabbed my phone as an excuse to charge it. While pouring water, Gan Ling said she had to work the next day and left.

I sat on the sofa and rewatched the segments where Gan Ling had hugged her shoulders. A stone of sorrow leaped off the cliff, and another stone followed after her.

At four in the morning, Gan Ling posted on her Moments: first, my glowing TV in the pitch-black room; second, Michelle Yeoh as Evelyn facing the black hole with her daughter; third, me curled up on the sofa. I didn’t know when I’d gotten so absorbed—my face was coal-black in the darkness, eyes shining like lightbulbs, biting my finger with my head tilted, looking like an idiot.

The caption: This person is watching Everything Everywhere All at Once. She thinks it’s great.

My finger hovered over the little heart like button but didn’t press. I switched back to the chat—no message. When I refreshed Moments again, her post was deleted.

The next morning at seven, she asked me for the link to rewatch the movie.

I posted on Moments too: I’ve been watching this movie lately—really good, with a thumbs-up emoji. Gan Ling liked it.

After that, I had no excuse to invite Gan Ling over for artistic appreciation anymore. She interacted with me like some netizen from Langfang in Hebei, Fengtai in Beijing, or Baiyun in Guangzhou. After the Moments likes, she started asking me to help her “chop a knife” on Pinduoduo—not hers, but her colleague’s. I switched to my alt and chopped big chunks for her, then she sent me a red packet, which I didn’t accept.

From that day on, I started noticing traces of Gan Ling across various social platforms—not on purpose, but she shared links from the Pixian group with me, or some Weibo posts unrelated to parenting, law, or family stuff. Some were silly netizens, some hot news. She was always surfing ahead, reminding me once again of her age. Thirty-three.

She wasn’t some old hag. When she first returned to Neng County, she’d been crazy and neglected details—disheveled, unkempt, hair gone white. But after tidying up these past few days, her face looked brand new. Her expression was calm; she resembled a young Michelle Yeoh, strikingly handsome and beautiful. Only her hands were too rough, scars unhealable. When she WeChatted me that day asking to dye her hair, I was a bit stunned. Until she showed up at my door with two bags of dye, I hurriedly dragged out a small stool and grabbed an old towel.

“How did your hair turn white?” I asked her.

Gan Ling said, “Genetics.”

I didn’t believe her, but I was too tongue-tied to ask more. Gan Ling didn’t use the well in her yard but humbly came to my place and turned on my faucet. Thanking her benevolence, I blew her hair to seventy percent dry. Her gray hair was finally in my hands. She bowed her head, letting me use hair clips to section it up and pile it on top. This head was in my grasp—I held the power of life and death.

I’m great at doing kids’ hair. As a life teacher, I’m skilled in all sorts of techniques for little girls’ hairstyles, with a repertoire of quirky accessories. For Gan Ling, I poured the dye into a disposable cup, scooped some with a brush—jet black as ink—and applied it to her mottled strands.

Sometimes people do go white overnight. I’ve seen many suddenly gray from various reasons—not like dramas where they get full albinism-white, but patchy and gray, aging ten years in a flash. Gan Ling proactively wanting to dye her hair boosted my confidence—it felt like her gradually giving up on revenge and murder. I agreed readily.

Using the dyeing as a segue, I brought it up: “You know Elsa, right? Her hair is so nice to comb. Everyone likes me because of Elsa—I’m great at that side-back braid… Kids all love Elsa.”

Gan Ling said nothing. I knew I’d clumsily started the topic. No more words. I removed a clip, combed her hair, picked up another strand, and tied it—like a skilled stylist.

After a bit, as I was almost done with her whole head, Gan Ling said, “Ningning likes her too.”

When Zheng Ningning died, Elsa had long built her grand castle—no kid didn’t know Elsa.

I blew air into the plastic bag, feigning casualness: “Oh, did you do that hairstyle for her?”

“No, I don’t know how.”

I was focused on smearing dye on the fallen strands and stuffing them into the bag when Gan Ling suddenly said, “You’re very handy. Did you ever braid Ningning’s hair?”

“Yeah, I did it for every little girl.” I was too impartial; no favoritism for Zheng Ningning.

Gan Ling kept her head down as I pinched the nape strands, stuffed them in, and set the timer. She turned her head; I looked down. She didn’t disturb me, turned back, sitting on the stool seemingly lost in thought.

I’d rarely opened the topic of Zheng Ningning, only for my clumsy mouth to shut it down. I sat beside her on pins and needles, glanced at the dye bags in the trash, and awkwardly said, “Ah, dyeing hair at home… saves a ton. Salons charge over fifty now, all fancy, need appointments—even if empty. I’d rather get a ten-yuan street barber.”

“Oh, that dye was a gift from someone, half left over, no cost.”

“You’re always saving money, huh.” I recalled her saying she’d almost saved enough to take Zheng Ningning away.

Gan Ling was silent for a moment: “Yeah.”

“Saving for Ningning’s college early?” I checked the time, lifted the plastic bag off her head. Gan Ling let out a cold laugh.

“I’m very selfish… Not the kind you imagine, wholly devoted to the child.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t even asked—why was she jumping ahead? As I inwardly grumbled, I realized this was a golden opportunity and quickly followed up: “So, what you’re saving for—is some life goal?”

“Go out to sea.”

“Out to sea?”

She clammed up beyond that. She washed out a sink full of black water, simply toweled off, and sat on the stool for me to style. I picked up the blow dryer; Gan Ling said, “You’re not great at dealing with people.”

Here we go again, that confident tone judging me!

“Uh.”

“If I didn’t want to tell you, you’d never ask it out of me in a lifetime.”

Mocking now—I could only take it. She was right.

“I’m saving in two accounts… Half for Ningning’s college, the other half for myself. After food and basics, I think… once Ningning’s older, can understand my words after some schooling, I’ll pick her up, somehow move the household registration, go to a big place for school, see the world. Then give her this money—she can decide for herself.”

I lifted a strand, turned on the blow dryer. The whooshing wind rose. After a while, I realized I’d missed the best follow-up again. Gan Ling was staring in the mirror at her dyed-black hair. She finally looked thirty—much younger. Only her expression was still gloomy, though not so terrifying now.

She sat on the sofa. Maybe because I’d dyed her hair well, she volunteered the rest: “The other half, I want to go out to sea… Not really out to sea, just take a cruise vacation.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Neng County has no sea… I’ve always wanted to see the ocean. After I left, I went. The sea’s huge, endless to the horizon.” Gan Ling moved the coffee table, placed the trash bin nearby, twisted the hair ends into a bundle, stuffed it in, tied the bag, and carried it out.

“Oh… then…” I didn’t know what to say.

“Have you seen One Piece?” Gan Ling said.

I nodded, then shook my head. One Piece was too long; I’d only watched a few dozen episodes to have some common ground with the kids.

“I haven’t watched it either, but I’ve seen parts of the commentary. It’s like that mindset… like there’s something in the depths of the ocean, treasure or whatever? It’s really just a vast expanse of water—what’s there to go see? But you still feel like you absolutely have to go. I saved up money just for this inexplicable urge.”

Gan Ling finished smoothing her hair and got up to clean by herself. From start to finish, she never looked me straight in the eyes—maybe talking about dreams was too embarrassing for her.

I didn’t have the nerve to chime in and say it was great, either. It was like I’d dyed my own hair as I scratched at it awkwardly, fumbling for how to respond.

“When Ningning and I were on good terms… she said she wanted to be a ship captain, like the one in the SpongeBob intro. She thought every captain had to have a broken leg from smashing into a wooden beam, an iron hook for a hand, and a pet parrot.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Such a childish idea.

Gan Ling smiled too, tilting her head against the sofa backrest. “You say, what kid doesn’t love their mom? If you get along so terribly with a kid… the mom’s got to take full responsibility.”

The smile was still on her face, and I didn’t even have time to adjust my expression.

This time, I finally latched onto the topic. “Why do you think of yourself as the villain… I… I mean, you said before that you can’t stand anything, everything… I… if you want to talk about it…”

“You’re really afraid of offending me.” Gan Ling nailed another one of my traits with confidence.

“My personality is just… pretty cowardly and useless.” I admitted it upfront. Just as I opened my mouth to press on, Gan Ling cut me off. “Not necessarily. Those who look tough and invincible always turn out to be softies in the end—they run first. Someone like you, soft but resilient… there’s nothing they can do to you.”

I knew she meant something specific, but Gan Ling had already wrapped up the topic. “I’m such a pain for you, and you’re not even mad. Is it really that important to you that I don’t kill someone?”

“As long as you don’t kill… you can… you can bully me.”

I laid bare my bottom line. Truth be told, even if I hadn’t said it, Gan Ling had probably figured it out long ago. Introverted people always yield at every turn, but cross their line and they bite back. Others call them crazy for snapping out of nowhere, blind to how far things had already gone.

“Is that necessary? Teacher Xiao Jiang?” Gan Ling pulled out that long-forgotten title again.

“What?”

“You didn’t kill the person, and you didn’t abuse my kid. Sticking your neck out this far on the matter… You haven’t wronged Ningning at all, let alone me. No need to put up with this crap. You should’ve done it like the first time: call the cops, drag me off, get tough. Then no one would bully you.”

“This is because… because I feel this way myself! It’s got nothing to do with you.”

Gan Ling fell silent, smoothing her hair again. After a couple strokes, she fluffed it into a messy cloud and grabbed the trash bag to stand. “I probably said too much.”

“No… no—” I grabbed Gan Ling’s arm and blocked the door, hating how my clumsy mouth couldn’t hold onto the topic. But this felt like the perfect chance for Gan Ling and me to dive deeper into it. In a panic, I spilled everything. “I want to hear it. I… I suck at asking questions—you talk, just say it… I want to know more about Zheng Ningning. Talk till whatever hour, sleep in my bed, pick up tomorrow. I’ll take the sofa! I’ll cover food. I want to hear it—don’t go.”

Gan Ling’s eyes went wide as I yanked her back onto the sofa. I took the trash bag and set it by the door, kicking the empty bin aside with exaggerated helpfulness.

The woman’s face clouded over with that initial impatience and gloom. She tugged at her hair, combed it back, raked through it a few times, staring at me like some stranger shoving flyers for swim classes or gym memberships—utterly indifferent, her words ice-cold: “What’s it got to do with you?”