Chapter 7: Past Events (2)

Her enthusiasm for watching the movie was interrupted by a painful memory. Jiang Zhizhou rubbed her eyes and switched to reading the script instead.

The little girl in the corner had remained perfectly quiet the whole time, neither eating nor drinking, neither crying nor making a fuss.

When night fell and it was time to turn off the lights for bed, Jiang Zhizhou lay down and noticed the little girl huddled in the corner, trembling nonstop.

Jiang Zhizhou flicked on the light. The sight of tears streaming down the little girl’s face stirred a rare flicker of pity in her heart. She quickly sent her assistant over to comfort the child.

She was afraid of the dark. That entire night, Jiang Zhizhou left the light on. Only after the little girl finally drifted off to sleep did she and her assistant dare to close their eyes.

The next day, the cast on Jiang Zhizhou’s leg came off. Her legs still couldn’t bear her weight for walking, but she could get out of bed. She gave her assistant two days off to go home and rest. The assistant hesitated at first, but Jiang Zhizhou hopped a couple of times on the floor and snapped, “I’m not some helpless cripple who can’t fend for herself. I can hop around just fine, and there are bodyguards outside. What do I need you hovering for? Go home and get some rest.”

Rebuked, the assistant headed home without further protest. The hospital room was now just Jiang Zhizhou and the little girl.

Propped on crutches, Jiang Zhizhou made her way to the balcony to bask in the sun.

She leaned back against the railing, facing into the room, and caught the little girl in the corner watching her. With a smile, she said, “You’ve been staring at me this whole time. Have you figured out who I am?” After a long silence with no reply, she shrugged it off and went on smiling. “Guess my fame has spread far and wide—even to kids like you.”

The weather was glorious, the sunlight warm and soothing. Jiang Zhizhou’s spirits lifted with it. Even talking to herself with no one to answer, she found it amusing.

“Earlier, I spotted a pond down below full of lotus pods. It reminded me of all the ponds back home. In third grade, we studied this poem: ‘Low thatched eaves, green grass by the brook. In my cups, the sweet Wu dialect enchants; whose white-haired old woman is that at home? The eldest hoes beans east of the stream, the middle weaves a chicken coop. My favorite is the naughty youngest, lounging by the water, peeling lotus pods.’

I was so jealous of that little kid in the poem—no chores, just snacks. The moment class ended, I’d dash to the neighbor’s pond to steal some pods. The lotus seeds inside were delicious, but each one had this green core that’s bitterly awful. One time, I’d peeled a bunch and was about to dig in when the neighbor’s aunt came charging over. Scared she’d catch me pilfering their pods, I shoved every last seed—cores and all—into my mouth and chomped them down. The bitterness brought tears to my eyes.”

At nineteen, Jiang Zhizhou still had the heart of a child, her moods as changeable as spring weather. Just yesterday, she’d resented the extra person cluttering up her room and frozen her out with icy glares. Today, basking in the sunshine, she prattled on about her childhood to the girl, her smile warm and radiant.

The little girl in the room said nothing, but her amber eyes stayed fixed on Jiang Zhizhou. On a sudden impulse, Jiang Zhizhou asked, “Want me to go down and snag one for you?” Without waiting for a response, she added to herself, “Oh right, you’re the strong, silent type. I’ll take that as a yes. Hold on—I’ll go steal you one right now.” She hopped back into the room, snatched the white mask and black baseball cap from the bedside table, grabbed her crutches, summoned a bodyguard, and took the elevator downstairs.

Before long, Jiang Zhizhou returned, cradling a fresh green lotus pod.

The seeds inside were plump and perfect. She peeled a whole plateful and set it in front of the little girl. The child glanced down at the seeds, then up at Jiang Zhizhou, still silent.

“I’ll show you how to peel off that outer green skin.” Jiang Zhizhou picked up a seed and demonstrated. “Wash your hands first, score the skin with a toothpick like this, then tear it open. That green core in the middle? Super bitter. Some folks eat it to cool off internal heat, but not me—I always pick it out. There you go. See?”

She split the cleaned seed in two, popped half in her own mouth, and held out the other half on her palm. “Delicious—crisp and sweet.”

After a long moment, the little girl reached out, took the half seed, and slipped it into her mouth.

Jiang Zhizhou handed her a toothpick. The girl accepted it, selected a seed, peeled away the skin, flicked out the core, split it in half, and offered one piece to Jiang Zhizhou before eating the other.

Smiling, Jiang Zhizhou said, “You don’t have to share every time. Just eat what you peel.” But the little girl paid no heed, stubbornly dividing each one.

Jiang Zhizhou gave up persuading her and happily accepted her share.

At noon, the caregiver delivered a nutritious meal. Jiang Zhizhou figured the girl might pick at it, but she left it completely untouched.

She’d eaten the lotus seeds that morning without hesitation. Jiang Zhizhou frowned in confusion but didn’t press the issue. She finished her own lunch, napped for twenty minutes, then got up to watch a movie.

That evening, the caregiver brought dinner as usual—and carried it away equally untouched.

This time, Jiang Zhizhou didn’t stay silent. She paused the movie, took off her earphones, and turned to the little girl. “You don’t want to die, do you?”

The little girl looked at Jiang Zhizhou without responding, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. She always had that listless, lifeless look about her, but when her gaze fell on Jiang Zhizhou, a spark of light glimmered there—like a fragile flame clutched in the darkness.

“I’ve heard them say that when your mom jumped off the building, she tried to pull you with her. But you clung to the glass railing for dear life and didn’t go over. Is that right?” Jiang Zhizhou delivered these words with her usual casual air, the kind that made her seem infuriatingly punchable.

The little girl clearly didn’t want to talk about it. She pressed her lips together and looked away, refusing to meet Jiang Zhizhou’s eyes.

But Jiang Zhizhou pressed on relentlessly. “So it seems you didn’t want to die back then. So what’s this now—not eating, not drinking? Giving up on yourself? Waiting for someone to come console you? To hold you close and beg you not to cry? To plead with you to eat something? To heal you with love and warmth?”

“Who are you waiting for? That father who doesn’t care about you? Your dead mother? Or maybe those relatives of yours far away overseas?”

Her tone was soft, even carrying a hint of a smile, but her words were brutally cutting—hard for any adult to stomach, let alone a twelve-year-old child.

The little girl clenched her teeth, her small fists balled up tight. Anger flushed across her delicate, childish face.

“Don’t be naive. Life isn’t a movie. No one’s lining up to save you or heal you. There are more people like me out there—people without a shred of empathy, people who watch from the sidelines with cold indifference. And maybe even some who’ll kick you while you’re down. If you don’t want to die, then take care of yourself. Don’t count on anyone else to pull you out of the pit.”

The little girl couldn’t take it anymore. Rage and pain twisted inside her, turning her eyes red. She glared at Jiang Zhizhou and spat through gritted teeth, “Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to lecture me?”

Jiang Zhizhou fell silent for a moment, then shrugged it off with a smile. “Who am I? I’m Jiang Zhizhou, that’s who. I wasn’t trying to preach some grand lesson. I just couldn’t help telling you this: other people might give up on you, but don’t you dare give up on yourself.” With that, she slipped her earphones back on, tapped the spacebar, and resumed watching her movie and taking notes as if nothing had happened.

Suddenly, a soft sobbing reached her ears—quiet, restrained, muffled. It never escalated to hysterics, never turned into the full-throated wail of a child.

Jiang Zhizhou’s pen paused for a split second before continuing as if uninterrupted.

Half an hour later, the sobs had faded away. Jiang Zhizhou finally turned her head and glanced at the little girl in the corner.

Exhausted from crying, the little girl had frowned in her sleep, faint tear tracks still lingering at the corners of her eyes. Her exquisite, beautiful face looked like that of an angel fallen to earth.

Jiang Zhizhou shifted her body to get off the bed. She grabbed a wet wipe, leaned on her crutch, and hobbled over to the girl’s bedside. Sitting down, she gently wiped away the tears from her eyes and tucked the blanket around her.

As she started to turn away, Jiang Zhizhou hesitated. She reached out and lightly smoothed the furrow between the girl’s brows, wondering if she’d gone too far, spoken too harshly. But in the next moment, she noticed the unnatural heat on the girl’s forehead.

She touched her own forehead, then pressed her palm to the girl’s. The fever was real—far too high.

Jiang Zhizhou called for the on-duty nurse and doctor.

The temperature read 38.5 degrees Celsius.

The doctor, roused groggily from sleep, examined her with bleary eyes and wrote up the orders. The nurse carried them out.

The IV drip, previously for nutrition, was switched to something for fever reduction.

The little girl’s caregiver had been shooed away earlier by Jiang Zhizhou, who wasn’t responsible for overnight care.

At the time, ignoring her assistant’s eye-roll, Jiang Zhizhou had assured the director with absolute confidence: “We don’t need a caregiver here at night. My assistant can handle twice the work—she’ll take good care of the little girl. Besides, three people in this room is already crowded enough. I don’t want any more eyesores.”

Now, with even the assistant sent home to rest, Jiang Zhizhou had no choice but to handle this emergency herself.

She had the bodyguard push the two beds together. Propped against the headboard, she let the delirious little girl lie on her right side. Every so often, she’d check her forehead, all while revising her speech for the press conference tomorrow afternoon.

In her sleep, the girl mumbled fragments of dreams now and then. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes with every twitch of her lips, soaking the pillowcase.

Even in dreams, she was crying. It must be a nightmare.

Jiang Zhizhou pulled out a tissue and dabbed at the tears.

“Who knew she could cry like this? Has it been so long since she last cried that she’s making up for it all at once in her dreams?” After going through two packs of tissues, Jiang Zhizhou murmured to herself, gazing down at the sleeping girl.

She tucked the girl’s hand under the blanket. As her right hand pulled away, a small finger suddenly gripped her index finger tightly.

She didn’t move, letting the little girl hold on.

“Cry if you want. I’m right here with you.”

Around midnight, heavy rain began to fall outside the window.

The downpour was relentless. Jiang Zhizhou gently withdrew her hand, rose to close the floor-to-ceiling window, and sealed the sound of the rain outside.

The little girl had stopped crying but was still asleep. Thankfully, her fever had broken.

Having memorized her speech for tomorrow’s press conference, Jiang Zhizhou found herself with nothing to do. She picked up a Little Bear Plush Toy from the little girl’s bed and fiddled with it.

As she held it, she noticed a split seam on the bear’s belly, with white stuffing poking out.

Jiang Zhizhou rummaged through her suitcase for her sewing kit, sat at the head of the bed, threaded the needle, and began mending the bear’s belly.

When the little girl opened her eyes, this was the sight that greeted her: the fierce, untouchable female celebrity from earlier in the day was now sitting quietly by the bed, sewing up a Little Bear Plush Toy.

Sensing her gaze, Jiang Zhizhou turned her head.

Their eyes met.

“You’re awake?”

The little girl turned her face away, ignoring her.

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

The little girl closed her eyes and fell silent.

“Don’t ignore me. Look, crowds of people out there are begging and crying for my autograph, but I didn’t sign a single one. Instead, I embroidered this for you. Check it out.” Jiang Zhizhou dangled the Little Bear Plush Toy in front of the little girl.

The little girl opened her eyes and saw “JZZ” embroidered crookedly on the bear’s belly.

“Its belly split open. After sewing it shut, that extra stitch looked so out of place, so I turned it into a ‘J’ and added ‘ZZ’—my initials. Pretty creative, huh?”

The little girl pursed her lips. “It’s ugly.”

“…”

Jiang Zhizhou was left speechless for a moment.

Fine, she couldn’t hold a grudge against a sickly kid like that. She simply asked, “Feeling any better?”

“Someone without any empathy… someone who just watches from the sidelines… why do you even care about me?”

The little brat sure knew how to hold a grudge.

Jiang Zhizhou tossed the Little Bear Plush Toy aside, leaned down until their faces were inches apart, locked eyes with her, and said earnestly, word by word: “But I do have empathy for you. I can’t stand by and watch you suffer coldly. With you, I’m utterly helpless… Does that answer work for you?”

They were so close that she could hear each other’s breathing.

Her gaze traced the woman’s jet-black hair, deep eyes, straight nose, full red lips, and smooth neck. The little girl bit her lip, lowered her eyes, and rasped, “It does.”

So easy to coax.

Jiang Zhizhou straightened up with a smile, patted her stomach, and asked, “I’m starving. Care to keep me company for some late-night snacks?”

In the end, though they were supposed to share midnight snacks, a plain bowl of congee sat before the little girl, while a steaming bowl of instant noodles was in front of Jiang Zhizhou.

The little girl eyed Jiang Zhizhou’s noodles, then stirred her own congee. After mumbling to herself for a while, she finally asked, “Why are ours different?” She hadn’t eaten in ages, so even her petulant words came out weak.

Jiang Zhizhou arched a brow. “You think you can handle instant noodles? Braised beef flavor?”

“Why… couldn’t I?”

“If I let you have that, your doctor would hunt me down tomorrow.”

“But I want some…”

Her voice was soft and pleading, drawing a resigned sigh from Jiang Zhizhou. She had the little girl finish half her congee first, then sent her bodyguard to the nurses’ station for hot water and a pack of plain instant noodles—no oil, no spices, just salty noodles.

After their snack, drowsiness settled over Jiang Zhizhou. She yawned, reached habitually for a cigarette on the bedside table, and was about to light it when she caught the little girl staring. Public figure instincts kicked in; she tossed the cigarette in the trash and said, “Smoking’s bad for your health.” She paused, then added, “I’m trying to quit anyway.”

The little girl nodded and asked softly, “Are you sleepy?”

Jiang Zhizhou rubbed her nose. “Nah, I’m fine.”

Truth be told, she was exhausted.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, the rain bucketed down—a perfect rainy night for sleep.

But the girl beside her was afraid of the dark and wouldn’t dare drift off first.

“No worries. Let’s chat. What’s your name? I heard the caregiver call you Little Meng—is that your nickname?”

“It’s not a nickname. I’m Xie Xiaomeng—the ‘Xiaomeng’ from Zhuang Sheng Butterfly Dream.”

“Xiaomeng. Xie Xiaomeng. That’s a lovely name. So, Xiaomeng, what do you like?”

Jiang Zhizhou was fishing for a common topic.

After a moment’s silence, the little girl shook her head. “I don’t know. What about you?”

“When I was your age? I loved snacks—chips, hawthorn candies, spicy strips… all kinds of stuff. What about you? Got a favorite snack?”

“Sugar-roasted chestnuts are so tasty. When I was little, Grandma bought them for me once, but after she passed away, no one ever bought them for me again.” Her parents didn’t love her—what she received from them was nothing but endless indifference. No one had ever stayed by her bedside like Jiang Zhizhou, watching over her without ever stepping away.

For someone who had spent so long in the darkness, a single ray of light was enough.

“I love sugar-roasted chestnuts too. I’ll buy them for you from now on.” Jiang Zhizhou keenly sensed the shift in her mood, offered some comfort, then changed the subject. “What do you want to do most right now?”

“Grow up.”

The little girl whispered those two words, as if finally voicing a thought she had been nurturing deep in her heart for a long time.

“Why?”

“Once I’m grown up, I can like someone.”

“Hm? Can’t you like things now? You can like yourself right now—like snacks, like dresses, like handsome boys. You can like anything you want.”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

The little girl pursed her lips, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She didn’t answer the question. Instead, she turned it back on Jiang Zhizhou. “When I grow up, will you still remember me?”

“Of course. When you grow up, you’ll be so beautiful—I’d recognize you at a glance.”

That night, Jiang Zhizhou held the frail, skinny little girl as they drifted off to sleep together.

Rainy nights were perfect for sleeping, and by then Jiang Zhizhou was exhausted beyond measure. She fell asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow and naturally didn’t notice the little girl’s kiss on her forehead.

It was a tentative kiss, cautious and gentle, carrying all the innocence of childhood—like a dragonfly skimming the water’s surface before darting away.

The next morning, when Jiang Zhizhou woke up, she headed to the press conference in the city. Before leaving, she asked her assistant to stay behind and look after the little girl.

But by the time she hurried back from the conference, the only one left in the hospital room was the assistant.

The little girl had been picked up by her grandfather and taken abroad for treatment.

Before she left, she’d left behind a box of quit-smoking candies for Jiang Zhizhou.

Jiang Zhizhou clutched the box of candies, a pang of disappointment in her heart: She slept in my arms all night and then just ran off without even saying goodbye.