Chapter 53: “I’ll Carry You.” Part 1

Alone in the car for that brief stretch of time, Qiu Yiran had many dreams that were like bubbles.

These dreams were not long, all very fragmented, yet incredibly real.

At first, she found herself plummeting wildly from high in the sky, the weightlessness intense. Then the scene shifted, and she discovered herself wrapped in cotton candy.

Finally, she was suddenly pulled into a machine and pulverized to pieces.

There was also Li Chunfeng.

Perhaps due to some anxious psychological suggestion, the Li Chunfeng in her dreams always appeared within her lens—

At the fried chicken shop, on a drizzly rainy day, wearing black-rimmed glasses, peering through the foggy glass, slightly tilting her neck upward with eyes curved in a smile, writing “come here” stroke by stroke on the glass—that was Li Chunfeng.

On the nighttime T-stage under warm-toned lighting, wearing a white T-shirt, casually sitting on the high platform, childishly swinging her legs, smiling at her, face tilted up, eyes dazed and melancholic in the light—that was Li Chunfeng.

On Christmas Eve, amid multicolored lights, wearing a ridiculous red Santa hat with a few green stars stuck to her eyelashes, not looking at the lens but slightly furrowing her brows at her outside the frame, reaching out to snatch her camera—that was Li Chunfeng.

During an ordinary movie night, dozing off while watching those romance films, so she slumped on the sofa in a tank top with straps layered over suspenders, eyes half-narrowed at the upturned corners, propping her face as she nodded off to sleep, yet still endlessly alluring—that was Li Chunfeng.

…

Click—

The photos froze, one after another.

Pop—

The bubbles burst, one by one.

Qiu Yiran abruptly opened her eyes.

The surroundings were very dark and cramped. She nearly tumbled off, but steadied herself. Her heart raced, and when she looked down, she discovered she had already put on her prosthetic leg.

This dream had been very brief. But because all the content was crammed together, it nearly robbed her of her ability to distinguish reality.

Fortunately, though, she always had one very clear piece of evidence.

Qiu Yiran stared fixedly at her left leg.

She slowly came back to her senses.

The muscles in her left leg also slowly recovered from their stiffness.

She let out a breath.

Then she realized she was the only one in the car. Outside, two vague shadows stood there, illuminated by the faint car headlights.

But because the weather was so cold, a thick layer of frost had formed on the windows.

Thus, the two people outside also looked like two drenched, heavy fog figures.

In a daze, Qiu Yiran wiped the glass.

The two fog figures sharpened into focus.

One was their aurora guide Fried Egg, and the other was… Li Wuhui.

Perhaps because the night was too cold and desolate, devoid of color, Li Wuhui stood by the lakeside in her windproof suit, hood up thick and large, covering her entire face.

She tilted her head slightly upward, like a lonely shadow waiting for the northern lights to descend.

Qiu Yiran pursed her lips.

She wiped the car window harder. This time, the clear area grew larger, revealing an indisputable fact—she learned that there were no northern lights that night.

Qiu Yiran gazed at the pitch-black Li Wuhui in the distance but didn’t feel any relief because of it.

She didn’t rush to get out of the car.

Instead, she somewhat desolately shoved her hands into her pockets.

But in her left pocket, she felt something cold and hard. She slowly pulled it out—

It was that silver film camera.

Only then did she remember they still had that bet.

The dust had settled.

Qiu Yiran was the winner of this bet, so naturally, she no longer needed to feel anxious about it.

Li Wuhui was the loser. She seemed to have simply lost the chance to have the timid Qiu Yiran take a photo for her in an ordinary way, and they hadn’t seen the northern lights either.

The result was determined by the northern lights—unquestionable, fair to both sides.

Qiu Yiran stared blankly at the camera in her hand.

She had held it for so long that it had absorbed her body heat, warm and slick with sweat. She wondered if it was because the bet had been too tense, causing her to sweat profusely.

For the first time in a long while, it reminded her of the feeling when she first picked up a camera—

That was Olivia’s professional camera, heavy in her hands. She was extremely cautious, afraid she’d drop and smash someone else’s expensive gear. Her fingers clumsily rested on the shutter, but she hesitated to press it.

Olivia laughed beside her, then casually told her that most ordinary thing.

No matter if you become a big photographer later or remain an obscure nobody, your first photo—even your hundredth—will definitely be a dud.

So, don’t think anything, just press it.

Thus, Qiu Yiran’s hand slipped back then, and she fired off dozens of shots in a flurry, all terrible, without even a subject.

Later—

Qiu Yiran truly became a professional photographer, with lenses and cameras as her most intimate companions.

She completely forgot that rookie incident. She no longer sweated palms when raising a camera, nor did she slip and fire off dozens of subjectless shots when handling new equipment because of unfamiliarity.

Now, in some car in Murmansk, Qiu Yiran stared dazedly at the unremarkable film camera in her hand, recalling those things as if they were from a past life.

This camera was a very common and ordinary model.

It cost less than a thousand bucks, operated simply, required no learning—a true point-and-shoot foolproof camera.

But she still clumsily raised it, peering through the viewfinder, only to find the lens all fogged up.

She lowered it.

Carefully wiped the lens.

Then wiped the car window again with her coat sleeve.

When she raised it once more—

She had no thoughts, face wooden, fingers stiff, but through that tiny viewfinder… she saw Li Wuhui.

Just like the Li Wuhui in those dreams moments ago.

Head bowed without speaking, head tilted up, straining to discern the northern lights from the pitch-black horizon, hiding her disappointment at not seeing them, occasionally turning her face to listen to Fried Egg speak…

Li Wuhui.

Which Li Wuhui should she photograph?

The film was limited, the light dim, making focus difficult enough already—now it was even harder.

Qiu Yiran held her breath.

She tried to concentrate.

But suddenly, she gasped heavily, her throat and lungs aching from the strain.

She felt utterly at a loss.

As if a rib had been inexplicably removed, her finger on the shutter trembled uncontrollably…

Because her movements were so slow.

Even this simple task wasted time, so soon the car window fogged up again.

She had to lower the camera and hurriedly wipe it once more.

Then she stiffly raised it again, desperately trying to focus in the darkness.

But she still failed.

Even though she held her breath with all her might, wanting to just snap a shot heedlessly as she pleased.

She tried, more than once.

Then she had to admit she couldn’t even manage something as small as holding steady focus.

Finally, in an utterly embarrassing position, Qiu Yiran knelt on the car seat.

She woodenly and slowly gathered her embarrassing self, confirming no one had seen, wanting to isolate the impact on herself.

And just then—

In the distance, amid the darkness, Li Wuhui’s hood suddenly blew off in the wind.

That moment.

The woman first ducked her head against the wind, then quickly lifted it, squinting slightly.

Her face thus fully exposed, skin pale, nose tip and lips faintly red, long curly hair whipped wildly by the gale, tousled like in a mountaineering magazine shoot.

A rare, fleeting instant.

In a daze, Qiu Yiran saw her smile ordinarily at Fried Egg.

Almost instinctively—

The shutter pressed down.

No thoughts, no miraculous focus, no composition or lighting to speak of.

But a film camera couldn’t show the result.

So in that instant—

Even Qiu Yiran, who pressed the shutter, was bewildered, unsure what had happened.

She blanked out.

Hastily wiped the car window again.

Looked toward Li Wuhui over there.

Li Wuhui’s first reaction to the flash was to look up at the sky.

If Qiu Yiran hadn’t known it was the flash herself, she might have thought the northern lights had miraculously appeared tonight in a flickering form.

But it was just an ordinary flash.

Successfully wasting a frame of film.

Qiu Yiran froze for a few seconds.

Slowly, she opened the car door. She wanted to explain to Li Wuhui that it was an accident—

This flash wasn’t intentional but coincidental. She’d tried several times but still couldn’t achieve what she wanted.

Her heart pounding, she pushed open the door, breathing raggedly, only to see Li Wuhui in her windproof suit stepping through the swirling snow, rain mist, and colorless wind, walking toward her step by step, calling out from afar,

“Why are you awake?”

The woman stepped from the darkness into the direct beam of the headlights, casting a black silhouette on the ground—like that day long ago—

The empty T-stage, single spotlight beaming down.

She sat on the edge of the high platform, hands braced, legs casually dangling, profile sharp, lazy shadow at her feet.

She said she would definitely become an amazing model someday. She asked how she was so sure?

She said she was thirty-year-old Qiu Yiran from the future, come back just to tell her she could do it.

That was the first time.

They formally met as model and photographer.

A distant scene.

Yet it made the thirty-year-old Qiu Yiran inexplicably raise her camera.

Click—

The wind whipped snow onto Qiu Yiran’s tightly gripping fingers on the camera—cold, chilling. She flexed her curled fingers.

She took a difficult deep breath; the air carried a faint scent of Li Wuhui, drifting around her.

The photo froze.

Still unknown if this shot would focus properly, have decent composition, capture even a thousandth of Li Wuhui’s beauty…

The second one.

Qiu Yiran gripped the camera tightly, lowered her face, exhaled a puff of white breath.

When she looked up again—