Chapter 12: “Happy New Year’s”

Fu Tingli realized she had zoned out.

It wasn’t until Xia Yue leaned right in front of her and waved a hand that she snapped back to attention. “Teacher Fu, you…”

She seemed to hesitate, words on the tip of her tongue.

Fu Tingli startled awake and yanked off the earmuffs perched on her head.

She locked eyes with Xia Yue for a moment, then glanced down at the earmuffs Kong Liyuan had just handed back to her.

“Sorry about that, Little Teacher Xia,” she said with a touch of apology. “I borrowed the earmuffs you gave me and lent them to Teacher Kong without asking you first.”

“It’s no big deal at all,” Xia Yue replied with a generous wave of her hand. “I’d already given them to you! Why would I care who you lend your own things to?”

“Then why were you staring at me like this—” Fu Tingli traced a circle around her own face “—with that exact expression?”

“Ah!” Xia Yue let out a mischievous giggle. “I was just wondering why Teacher Fu’s earmuffs ended up with Teacher Kong.”

“Because I lent them to her yesterday—” Fu Tingli started to explain, only to pause mid-sentence.

“Exactly!” Xia Yue scooted closer, her eyes sparkling with eager curiosity. “I saw you wearing them when we left work together yesterday. So how did they get to Teacher Kong later on?”

“Were you two secretly—”

“Nothing secret about it—it was just a coincidence!” Fu Tingli cut her off.

She punctuated her own words with an exclamation, and the emphatic tone seemed to strike a chord with Xia Yue, who nodded obediently.

“I get it!”

Only then did Fu Tingli relax into a soft smile.

Xia Yue leaned in close to her ear, whispering conspiratorially. “I heard Teacher Kong doesn’t like taking advantage of people. So if anyone gives her something or lends her anything, she’ll return the favor the next day with something even more valuable.”

“Did you get one too, Teacher Fu?”

“Is that right?” Fu Tingli blinked in mild surprise.

Her mind drifted back to that infuriating woman in California—the one who’d snatched her clothes to wear, grabbed her half-eaten burger (still with a huge bite taken out) and polished it off without a second thought, and who had never once considered reciprocating.

With a sigh, she hesitated before murmuring, “I suppose you could say that.”

~~~

Time had a way of blurring the important details, flashing by like the rapid montage cuts in a movie—chaotic shifts in scenes, weather, street decorations, and people’s outfits.

The California of her past dreams felt even more deeply buried now beneath Shanghai’s hectic, damp chill, unlikely to resurface anytime soon.

New Year’s Day arrived before she knew it.

By the time Fu Tingli stepped out of Wen Yingxiu Studio, the sky had taken on the flamboyant glow of a vivid dream. Lights buzzed noisily overhead, while the air pressed in, crowded and indifferent.

She visited the studio regularly to update Wen Yingxiu on how the sculptures were being integrated into the shoot.

Wen Yingxiu always claimed she was too busy and openly grumbled about her sculptural art being prostituted out to a commercial film.

Yet the woman, well into her fifties, took her responsibilities more seriously than anyone. She insisted on weekly reports and furrowed her brow deeper than anyone else’s whenever they discussed the crew’s handling of her pieces. Every time they needed to relocate one, she oversaw the transport, inspection, and repairs herself.

Fu Tingli was grateful she hadn’t slipped up anywhere and always respected Wen Yingxiu’s exacting standards. Gradually, the older artist had come around to some of her ideas, and her demeanor had softened noticeably.

In a sense, Wen Yingxiu’s perfectionism and grueling work hours were precisely why others in the industry shied away from such gigs—they were too much hassle for too little pay. For Fu Tingli, though, it was a golden opportunity.

The studio was surrounded by art galleries, and stepping straight out led right onto Art Street, lined with exhibition posters and scale models everywhere you looked.

Traversing that street felt like slipping into another world entirely.

All sorts—art lovers and skeptics alike—wandered among them, trampling Shanghai’s rigid divides into a jumble of opening and closing dates.

Fu Tingli scanned those dates aimlessly. Not a single one had anything to do with her.

The public seemed to impose such fleeting lifespans on art, rigid and predefined.

Most ran from nine-thirty in the morning until five in the afternoon—seven and a half hours at best.

They didn’t even overlap with her days off.

Lost in those thoughts, she zoned out again and walked headfirst into someone.

The woman had a similar distracted posture: early thirties, backpack slung over her shoulders, eyes glued to the posters as she pored over them intently. She was scribbling notes in a notebook with clumsy but earnest focus, as if committing every art show’s “survival dates” to memory.

After the collision, Fu Tingli clutched her throbbing forehead.

When she looked up, the girl who’d bumped into her was staring back with earnest curiosity. Suddenly, she thrust out a fist toward her.

Even amid the street’s free-spirited crowd, that distinctive face drew stares and quiet murmurs among friends.

Fu Tingli paused for a few seconds before curving her eyes into a smile. She extended her own hand solemnly and gave the offered fist a gentle bump.

“Hello.”

The girl stared at her for a long moment before blinking slowly. Her gaze drifted to Fu Tingli’s head.

She seemed tempted to reach out and touch it, her hand hovering uncertainly in the air before finally making light contact.

“Hello… Your head feels good too.”

The girl’s features were distinctive, her speech slightly slurred, her reactions delayed—classic signs of Down syndrome.

“You look just like a friend of mine,” Fu Tingli said, chuckling at the gesture.

“Really?” The girl’s eyes went wide.

“Really,” Fu Tingli affirmed with a serious nod. “And what a coincidence—you like checking out exhibitions too?”

“Yeah.” The girl kept her eyes wide.

“She does too.”

Fu Tingli narrowed her eyes slightly. She hadn’t thought of California in ages, but now she couldn’t help recalling her good friend from those days.

“She loved sculptures, and so do I. That’s why we were such good friends.”

“Later on, she became a model and showed off those sculptures in her own unique way. Everyone loved her for it.”

The girl fell silent, still watching her intently.

“What’s that you’re writing?” Fu Tingli asked patiently.

“I like… sculptures too.” The girl spoke up abruptly, then fixed her with a steady stare.

A long moment passed before she added, “So… does that make us friends too?”

Fu Tingli smiled. “If you don’t mind me, then absolutely.”

The girl nodded. “If we’re friends… then I can tell you this…”

She thrust her notebook forward. “These are the exhibitions I want to see.”

The wind bit cold under the night sky, crowds surging around them.

Amid art’s fleeting “lifespan,” Fu Tingli had made a new friend.

The two of them huddled close, crouching right there on the street.

Nothing but pure shared passion lay between them as they pored over the art they adored and chased.

As the new year dawned in this vast Shanghai, another gaze swept across a similarly indifferent, clamorous streetscape. It landed blankly and silently on the face of the magazine reporter sitting opposite.

The reporter was Uyghur, her features sharp and striking. She smiled as she asked Kong Liyuan, “Teacher Kong, what do you think is most important for an actor?”

Kong Liyuan thought calmly: So it’s true—their smiles really hold moons in their eyes.

She smiled back fluidly. “Passion. For me, at least, it’s the source of all freshness. You have to have something you truly love—whether it’s a role or just a simple hobby—to keep from looking empty and adrift…”

The reporter nodded as she jotted it down in her notebook. “And what do you usually do in your downtime, Teacher Kong?”

There seemed to be a long pause before the answer came.

When the reporter looked up after finishing her notes, she noticed Kong Liyuan had hesitated for a second or two. Then Kong met her eyes with a smile and replied, “Sorry, I zoned out there for a moment. When I’m not working, I do pretty much the same as everyone else—watch movies, read books. If I have more time, I go for a swim…”

Kong Liyuan spoke in a light, gentle voice. She could feel the corners of her mouth turning up just right, her tone perfectly pitched. There was nothing to pick apart in her response.

And yet she felt utterly detached from the scene, wearily and covertly observing a woman she’d known her whole life as she fielded the reporter’s questions. An inexplicable impatience welled up inside her.

Not toward the reporter—but toward that lifelong acquaintance.

Perhaps she should calmly add that, compared to books, swimming, or trips, this woman preferred collecting specimens of birds that had died naturally. One room in her home was lined wall-to-wall with them.

Her “love” of movies amounted to sitting amid that collection—of bird corpses, really—and coldly watching life flicker out on screen.

But she never said any of that, not even by the interview’s end. Her agent had advised against it: Don’t come off as some eccentric loner; people would think she was crazy.

She didn’t mind being seen as crazy, but she held her tongue anyway.

Once the reporter had gathered her materials, she beamed. “Happy New Year’s, Teacher Kong!”

Kong Liyuan took in the reporter’s light hazel eyes. “Do people where you’re from celebrate New Year’s too?”

“Oh, yes—at least us Uyghurs do,” the reporter said, sounding a touch unsure. “My family always has.”

She checked the time. “Yay! Still early enough to catch my mom’s handmade fried treats!”

With a quick bow, she added, “Thanks for your hard work, Teacher Kong! Even when you’re busy, make sure to enjoy the holiday. That way, next year will go smoothly!”

Kong Liyuan rose and watched her dash off joyfully, her own gaze deep and smiling. “Thank you. I’ll make sure to enjoy it. Happy New Year to you too.”

Only once the reporter was out of sight did Rong Wu step forward, her eyes fixed on the faint quiver of Kong Liyuan’s lashes.

“Teacher Kong, shall we head straight home?”

Kong Liyuan tilted her head back slightly. Blue light and shadows flowed over her eye sockets, giving her the look of someone lost in a daze.

It wasn’t until Rong Wu asked again that she snapped back to herself. Her voice was as soft as a ball of unraveling yarn.

“Didn’t you say your mom wanted you home early tonight? Go ahead and celebrate the holiday. I’ll drive myself back.”

Rong Wu froze for a few seconds.

Her phone buzzed suddenly in her pocket. She pulled it out to see a transfer from Kong Liyuan—a staggeringly large sum.

Resisting the urge to tap on it, she looked over at Kong Liyuan.

But Kong Liyuan wasn’t looking at her. She lazily pocketed her phone, screen still glowing.

She sank back into the sofa chair, her expression blank—or perhaps not entirely.

The dim blue light and shadows, along with the lush, crowded New Year’s street scene beyond the transparent glass window, made her seem distant, almost unreal.

She was like a lonely shop window display, holding nothing but a swirl of restless air.

Kong Liyuan seemed to be smiling, or maybe not.

“Go on, take it. Happy New Year’s Day. Even if work keeps you busy, make sure you celebrate properly. That way, next year will go smoothly.”

She was passing on the blessing she’d just received, as if her own life couldn’t bear such an ordinary wish.

~~~

Her new friend was heading home for New Year’s Day. Apparently, her family had a pot of steaming-hot soup waiting.

Fu Tingli let out a quiet sigh of relief.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with her new friend. She just hoped that friend wouldn’t end up like her, wandering the streets alone on a holiday like this.

Perhaps to set the winter scene, the wind had picked up, rustling fiercely and carrying scattered snowflakes drifting silently through the air.

It was snowing in Shanghai again.

Fu Tingli walked along the road, rubbing her hands together and breathing warm air onto them. A halo of white mist from her breath surrounded her face, making her feel like she’d been shoved inside a sack frozen solid in the fridge.

She didn’t head back toward her rental. Probably because the 30-watt light bulb there would only shine a harsh light on her scattered holiday memories, stabbing right at her heart.

The snow was light, but it froze the echoes of past excitement in place.

She reached casually into her pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred-yuan bill. The sudden windfall left her stunned.

She rubbed it carefully between her fingers, and the memory came rushing back anyway.

As a kid, she’d gotten lost a few times from playing around too much. Once, after a full day and night, they’d found her. She was starving, her vision spotting with stars, her head spinning, her little cheeks sunken in.

Qiao Lipan had scolded her for not knowing her way home even at that age. But the very next day, she’d slipped money into every coat pocket, muttering, “At least if you get lost again, you can buy a decent meal.”

Once the habit stuck, Fu Tingli never got lost again. Later, when mobile payments took over, she’d assumed Qiao Lipan had dropped the habit.

Who knew she hadn’t.

And somehow, it felt like Fu Tingli had gotten lost all over again.

Snowflakes tumbled down in flurries, some catching on her eyelashes and melting into hazy tears.

She sniffled, then dialed Qiao Lipan. No answer—probably too swamped to even remember it was New Year’s Day.

She sent a text instead: Remember to eat. At least something hot.

In the blink of an eye, she found herself on an unfamiliar street. She pushed open the door to a convenience store.

Impulsively, she used the hundred-yuan bill to buy a pack of cigarettes and a loaf of bread. She borrowed a lighter from the clerk with a sheepish grin and lit one up—brand unknown.

The snow was coming down harder now. She ducked under an advertising billboard. Bright, blurry light and shadows washed over her face, mingling with the white clouds of smoke she coughed out.

She still couldn’t smoke worth a damn. Tears streamed from her eyes as she choked.

She crushed out half the cigarette, sparks dying, and tossed it in the trash. The lingering smoke finally faded as her snow-splattered canvas shoes squelched on the wet pavement.

She took a few steps out from under the billboard, then staggered back.

Exhaling a puff of icy white breath, she dialed the mall management number with fingers numb from the cold.

The second the call connected…

She tilted her head up to the 3D screen. The bright lights stung her eyes as she gazed at the distant beauty in the woman’s eyes.

Spotting the darkened corner on the screen, she stomped her foot and said, in a voice trembling from the chill, “Hello, this is the east exit one at your mall. One of the panels on the 3D ad screen here is broken.”

She coughed from the cold snow, then added softly, “Yes… it’s Kong Liyuan.”

The man’s voice on the line assured her they’d handle it.

She hung up and stood under the billboard for a good while. She noticed her shoelaces had come undone and bent down to tie them.

Chewing awkwardly on the bread bag, she fumbled with her numb, reddened fingers. Just then, two girls with art supplies slung over their shoulders brushed past, chatting and smiling.

In those few seconds as they passed, Fu Tingli overheard them say,

“Ugh, so annoying—exams right after New Year’s?”

“You study at all?”

“Nah, isn’t today New Year’s? Sure, holidays kinda suck, but it’s snowing! And my sister’s coming home. We’re gonna bug Mom into making us some late-night snacks together…”

That brief intersection of unrelated lives, a fleeting brush of shoulders, was enough to blur the bustling crowds on the street into tiny specks of light.

Fu Tingli’s feet went numb from squatting on the cold, damp ground, but she still couldn’t stand. It felt like if she did, it wouldn’t just be snowflakes tumbling down around her.

Her fingers were too frozen to work properly. It took real effort to tie the loose laces back into a proper bow.

Under the billboard’s harsh glow, the pure white snowflakes sparkled like jewels on her eyelashes.

Seconds passed—or maybe whole centuries. The cold crept in slowly.

The snowflakes melted, blurring her vision until she wanted to rub her eyes.

And she did. She rubbed until her hands warmed up and her eyes burned.

When she opened them again…

A black umbrella canopy hovered overhead, blocking the swirling snowflakes. It stood out sharply against the hazy white blur of her vision.

First, she noticed the snow sliding off the umbrella’s edge in flurries, then the headlights of cars streaming by on the street.

It unfolded like a dreamy, melancholic painting in her field of view.

Finally, the howling wind carried a sigh so faint it was barely there.

“You hate the gloves I gave you that much?”

The woman’s voice cut through the roar of the cold wind, seizing her pulse out of nowhere.

“Shanghai’s freezing like this, and I’ve never once seen you wear them.”

Fu Tingli bit her lip and said nothing. She kept her head down, refusing to look up or stand.

Kong Liyuan seemed to understand why she was silent. She didn’t step around to her front, just stayed at her side, watching.

She took in the bread bag clenched in Fu Tingli’s mouth, the crumpled cigarette pack in her hand.

She watched the tears welling in those reddened eyes. Watched as they finally spilled over.

She held the umbrella over her.

Outside, footsteps and snow swirled in chaos. Under the umbrella, Kong Liyuan watched Fu Tingli’s sobs leak out from between her fingers as she covered her face.

“I should probably ask why you’re crying. Should probably comfort you like a normal person and tell you not to.”

Kong Liyuan’s voice sounded hollow but carried its usual lazy drawl.

Then she crouched down, gently brushing the snow from Fu Tingli’s eyelashes. In the blurry, scorching winter chill, she gave her a smile that didn’t sting.

“Why are you crying like this? Don’t tell me I scared you just now.”