Chapter 35: True to Her Name Part 2

She grabbed one of the two quilts neatly folded on the bed. It was still spring, and the night air was chilly. Without making Meng Yuhong get up, she carefully draped it over Chi Buyu.

Chi Buyu took it in stride.

Unaware of anything amiss, she naturally tilted her chin up the moment the quilt settled. She burrowed her head deeper into Meng Yuhong’s arms and curled up completely.

Meng Yuhong straightened the quilt for her.

She muttered a few words about how someone so grown still made everyone worry.

Then she turned her head, pursed her lips, and said to Cui Qijin, “Turn the TV volume down for me, would you? But don’t switch it off completely. Our Shuishui’er’s never been a sound sleeper, not since she was little. Other kids sleep through the night, but she always needed coaxing—stories, jokes, lullabies. Even after all that, she still wouldn’t drift off unless you held her close. If her head wasn’t right up against you, she’d wail at the top of her lungs. Put her down for a second, and she’d cry again. She just loved being held. Even at nine, she’d still beg to sleep with Mom or her big sister. She has a hard time sleeping alone. Once she’s out, though, she likes a bit of TV noise in the background. Turn it off, and she’ll wake right up…”

Our Shuishui’er.

Cui Qijin repeated those five words to herself in her mind. Meng Yuhong said them this way, Ran Yan said them that way, and even Chen Wenran let them slip now and then without thinking. It seemed the whole world had to soften for this one person—and she deserved every ounce of affection the world could give…

Our Shuishui’er.

She ran them through her mind once more.

Cui Qijin lowered the television volume for Meng Yuhong. She stole one last glance at their Shuishui’er before slipping quietly back to her room.

–

It might have been because the screen door wasn’t latched properly. Chen Wenran had been bitten several times by the buzzing mosquitoes. Irritated, she scratched at the spots as she dragged herself out of bed. She rummaged through her luggage for some mosquito coils, lit one, secured the screen door, and was about to climb back into bed when she vaguely spotted a lone figure sitting outside.

A rain had fallen unnoticed during the night. The trees were drenched, their branches drooping heavily. The figure wore a set of white pajamas with long black hair cascading down her back. She sat on the steps under the tree, hugging her knees—looking utterly forlorn.

With Qingming Festival coming up soon, Chen Wenran startled and shrank back onto the bed, squeezing her eyes shut.

Ran Yan stirred and mumbled sleepily. “What’s wrong?”

Chen Wenran swallowed hard. She nearly shrieked but glanced at the groggy Ran Yan and clamped her mouth shut.

After a moment, she calmed down.

Clutching her pillow, Chen Wenran crept cautiously to the window. She rubbed her eyes and finally made out the person’s face.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

But then tensed right back up.

What was Cui Qijin doing sitting out there alone in the middle of the night? Was she avoiding sharing a bed with someone by pretending to be a ghost and feeding the mosquitoes? If that was the case, Chen Wenran would have to have a serious talk with her. Pillow in hand, she headed out.

The living room was pitch black and empty.

Chen Wenran fumbled around for a bit before quietly easing the front door open like a thief. The moment she stepped outside, a gust of wind carried the scent of rain-soaked trees. Then she heard a voice—parched yet achingly familiar.

“I love U～”

?

Where had she heard that before?

Scratching her head, Chen Wenran looked toward Cui Qijin.

The air hung heavy with moisture, the moonlight hazy. Leftover raindrops plinked down from the leaves one by one, making the shadows even more diffuse. Cui Qijin sat beneath the tree, knees hugged to her chest. A suitcase lay open in front of her—it looked like she’d just rummaged through it; the lid was still propped up but not latched.

She held something in her hand. Every time she pressed it, it lit up.

The white light took on a strange bluish-gray tint in the night—moist, damp blue.

Each press illuminated Cui Qijin’s blank face as well, and the quiet spring night filled with those abrupt utterances.

“I love U～”

“I love U～”

“I love U～”

She was like…

Chen Wenran racked her brain and came up with a strained comparison.

She was like a little kid who’d never owned a toy before—scoffing at them by day, but sneaking out at night to press the button over and over, listening as an old Stitch keychain croaked out to her, one line after another.

“I love U～”

Chen Wenran didn’t know how many times she’d pressed it or how many raindrops had fallen. Still, she walked over and called out softly. “Cui Qijin.”

Cui Qijin froze for a few seconds before turning around.

She wasn’t wearing her glasses. Her lashes were misty, as if streaked with countless raindrops.

“Why aren’t you asleep yet? Out here playing with toys so late?” Chen Wenran yawned and plopped down beside her.

Cui Qijin pursed her lips and tried to hide the Stitch keychain in her hand.

“Come on.”

Chen Wenran couldn’t stop laughing. “I’ve been watching you play with it for over ten minutes. What’s there to hide?”

Cui Qijin pouted and slipped her hand behind her back anyway, clutching the keychain tight.

Chen Wenran went on. “That thing doesn’t even belong to Chen Xing, does it?”

Cui Qijin’s expression remained impassive. “I never said it was hers.”

Chen Wenran nodded. “Fair enough. My mistake, then.”

Cui Qijin said nothing more.

The rainy night hummed with wind rustling the leaves, distant motorcycle engines, and barking dogs. It wasn’t quiet at all, yet Cui Qijin sat there in perfect stillness—the quietest presence amid the din.

Chen Wenran watched her for a while.

A sudden thought struck her: Cui Qijin had probably done this before. It wasn’t her first time sneaking out at night to trigger those eternally looping, monotonously flat, emotionless phrases.

I love U.

“Where’s Shuishui’er?” she asked after a beat. “You didn’t come out here to feed the mosquitoes just because you didn’t want to share a bed, did you?”

Cui Qijin wasn’t wearing her glasses, so she had to squint to see. Dressed in pajamas with her arms wrapped around her knees, her back slightly relaxed, she looked nothing like her usual prim and proper posture. Her expression and posture made her seem just like a little kid.

She sat there in the rainy tree shade, curled up as if nestled in her mother’s embrace.

“No.”

Cui Qijin shook her head. “She’s sleeping with Grandma.”

“Oh.” Chen Wenran paused. “Then why are you out here feeding the mosquitoes instead of sleeping?”

Cui Qijin glanced at her. “I can’t sleep.”

“Made a habit of nightmares?”

To her surprise, Cui Qijin actually nodded and murmured, “Mm.” Then she buried her head back between her knees, her voice muffled and heavy.

“You go back inside.”

Chen Wenran had always felt that Cui Qijin’s aura when she was alone resembled some kind of shrub.

Unassuming and unobtrusive. It grew on its own terms, accepted what came its way, and adapted beautifully to any kind of weather.

It was as if even if the sky fell, nothing could truly shake her.

She had no idea what was wrong with her.

All she knew was that Cui Qijin probably wouldn’t tell her about it, whether it was confusion, torment, or pain… This woman never actively sought help. Most of the time, that reluctance came from resistance, but sometimes…

It stemmed from a helplessness that went beyond words.

Chen Wenran let out a sigh.

She reached out generously and patted her back, adopting an exaggerated tone of sympathy as she said,

“Aww, you poor little thing, tell your big sis what’s going on, huh? Did some jerk bully you?”

Cui Qijin’s tightly clasped hands twitched. Her pale, almost sickly fingers clenched tighter, as if repulsed by the gesture.

Without a word, she shifted Chen Wenran’s hand away. Her back hollowed inward, the delicate ridges of her shoulder blades protruding and stretching the folds of her pajamas flat, like a perfectly smoothed canvas.

After a moment, she spoke softly. “I’m fine. I’ll be better by tomorrow.”

Chen Wenran tried every nice word and harsh one she could think of, but nothing worked. She couldn’t help grumbling, “You stubborn breed! You had better be better by tomorrow!”

Cui Qijin fell silent. After a long while, another raindrop splashed down from the tree. Suddenly, she laughed. She kept laughing for a bit longer, then murmured softly, “I will.” She paused for an eternity before adding abruptly, “Someone told me I have to be better by tomorrow.”

“Who?”

Cui Qijin clammed up, her face sullen. She parted her lips just a fraction. “You should head inside. This place is crawling with mosquitoes.”

Chen Wenran puffed out her cheeks. “You know I’m out here feeding the mosquitoes with you! Spill it! If not, fine!”

Cui Qijin lifted her head, looking somewhat puzzled. “Why do you sound just like Chi Buyu right now?”

Chen Wenran rolled her eyes. “Want me to go call your Shuishui’er over here right now, Cui Muhuo?”

“No.”

Cui Qijin rejected it swiftly and buried her face back into her knees. “Don’t go wake her up.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she seemed to realize her tone was off. She coughed awkwardly, then buzzed like a mosquito as she emphasized,

“What I mean is, she’s not my Shuishui’er either.”

Chen Wenran let out a “Yoh!”

“As if I’d really go wake up our Shuishui’er just for you!”

Hearing her say that,

Cui Qijin didn’t get annoyed. She just started laughing again. Chen Wenran suspected Cui Qijin had snuck some booze. Or if she hadn’t…

Maybe she should just grab some alcohol. Didn’t people always say to drown your sorrows in drink?

With that thought, she glanced at Cui Qijin—head buried as if she might drift off to sleep or ponder the meaning of life—then tiptoed inside. She pulled two cans of ice-cold beer from the fridge, shut the door extra carefully, and stepped back out. Once more, she caught sight of Cui Qijin’s silhouette. It hadn’t changed at all, yet for some reason, it left her momentarily stunned…

Cui Qijin was still sitting there.

Knees hugged to her chest, her back exuding a touch of melancholy. In her left hand, she clutched something dark—probably her phone. Her right hand pressed the “I love U” button again and again. As if she were repeatedly triggering her own confusion, her anxiety, her utter helplessness.

Chen Wenran, holding the two cans of frosty beer, slowed her steps. Amid the patter of her rain-dampened footfalls, she heard Cui Qijin under the tree murmuring words at a glacial pace.

“I clearly… I clearly…”

Her tone brimmed with frustration. “I clearly locked all that stuff away, shut it in the suitcase.”

Cui Qijin’s voice seemed laced with dampness too. Or rather, she herself was like a cloud of mist, sitting there.

“But somehow I forgot—the suitcase has wheels. It grew legs, or maybe it can fly. It moves without asking, sliding around my house. It makes me lose track of it, makes me overlook it, but it’s always there, everywhere. I clearly put it away—how can it pop up so easily again? I clearly locked it—how could you open it so effortlessly, how could I open it? It’s always with me, never leaving my side. It even followed me to this city with no memories of it…”

Chen Wenran had always thought Cui Qijin was the type who did everything cleanly, without loose ends. But later, she’d witnessed—or heard about—it more than once: Cui Qijin doing things that looped back on themselves, full of contradictions and reversals.

For instance, she’d leave but then return, standing by that Loopy Snowman for over an hour, just to keep anyone from messing with it.

For instance, she’d descend the stairs and hit the street, only to double back to the lighting shop, buy a bulb, and go replace the old one.

For instance, she’d hang up the pleading call after their first breakup, declaring “Impossible,” only to ring back less than ten seconds later, irritated as she demanded, “Where are you right now?”

And now… She’d be stubborn in front of her, hiding the toy away, refusing to show it. Yet the moment she stepped away, Cui Qijin pressed that button over and over, listening to Stitch recite that mechanical line.

Contradictory enough to split herself in two.

Cui Qijin, Cui Qijin.

Chen Wenran murmured the name to herself twice in her mind. Even the name fit her too perfectly.

Did her parents know this when they named her? Or had naming her that sealed her fate from the start, dooming her life’s path to revolve around those two characters?

—Qijin.

The qi of perching, the jin of embers.

She remembered how Cui Qijin always introduced herself with that pair of words.

One was wood, the vibrant qi of nesting, abstract and bright.

The other was fire, the lifeless jin of ashes, concrete and murky.

Which was the real her? Maybe neither. Maybe both.

People did live up to their names.

Chen Wenran pondered in silence.

She walked over and sat down beside Cui Qijin. With a sharp hiss, she cracked open one can of ice beer and held it out to her right. She stared straight at the rain dripping from the tree, avoiding Cui Qijin’s gaze.

After a long while, the ice beer was accepted. The fine fizz of bubbles bubbled up in the quiet night. A breeze blew through, carrying a chill. She felt Cui Qijin right there beside her—like those vanishing bubbles, or the rain-soaked shrub: feather-light, yet impossibly heavy.

She heard Cui Qijin take a sip of the ice beer. Quietly, but with profound bewilderment, she said,

“How can she just… completely ignore everything I say?”

Chen Wenran sighed and chugged a gulp of her own ice beer. At those words, she took the liberty of assuming “it” meant “she,” and for no particular reason, she wondered—

Once this rain finally let up tonight, which direction would Cui Qijin choose to go?