Chapter 14: “The Black Umbrella”

She actually had the nerve to say something like that.

Have her treat her to dinner?

Fu Tingli was a woman who hated taking advantage of others. If someone gave her a gift or lent her something, she always returned the favor with something even more valuable to make it even.

And she was a woman whose family had gone bankrupt. She’d finally gotten a bit of unexpected cash in her pocket, only to spend it at a convenience store on a pack of cheap cigarettes that were hard to smoke—and now she was still regretting it.

Sure, it had been Fu Tingli who’d first brought it up, but when the words slipped out of her mouth, she hadn’t even considered the issue.

Who would treat whom?

In the end, Fu Tingli was the one who treated Kong Liyuan.

It was an old shop hidden along the roadside, its big headlights piercing the snowy night. The sign boldly proclaimed it a “ten-year-old brand,” though who knew if that was true.

They pushed open the glass door and stepped inside. On a big holiday like this, people who came out to eat weren’t just having tangyuan. The place wasn’t crowded—just a few scattered customers, plus the owner, who sat at the long service window humming a little tune as he kneaded dough. A phone sat on the table beside him, where a female streamer was shouting about the top ten rules for feeding pigs.

Two people, three bowls of tangyuan in different flavors—fresh meat, sesame, and shepherd’s purse—plus a serving of soft, steaming nian gao.

When they placed the order, Kong Liyuan had her face mask and hat on, sitting in the corner. The owner poked his head out from the window and asked Fu Tingli what flavor her sister wanted.

Fu Tingli felt around in her pocket for her few dozen yuan in loose change, then looked up at the dazzling menu board. She glanced toward the table, where Kong Liyuan lifted her eyelids to meet her gaze.

“Accepting a favor makes your mouth too full to speak freely,” Kong Liyuan said. “I’m not picky. Any flavor’s fine.”

So Fu Tingli turned back to the owner, who had already drifted back to his pig-feeding live stream, and crisply ordered one of each flavor, plus the nian gao—half with sugar, half without.

The loose change she’d just unpacked from her pocket was instantly emptied clean. It hadn’t even lasted through the night.

Luckily, the three bowls of tangyuan and the nian gao that came out were piping hot, sending up curls of steam. With the glass door blocking the wind and snow outside, she didn’t feel quite so cold—or so empty.

“Why order so much?” Kong Liyuan asked as she wiped her hands, her tone casual. “There are only two of us.”

“I found some money today. If I don’t spend it all, I won’t feel right—afraid no new cash will grow in my pocket next year.”

Fu Tingli was warming her hands under the AC vent, her voice full of regret.

“You said you didn’t know what flavor you wanted,” she added. “And on a big holiday like this, of course a little sister has to try all three of our shop’s best-selling, most delicious flavors.”

The owner arrived with his phone still playing the pig stream, carrying an extra bowl of lamb soup for them as well. There were only a few bits of lamb in it, topped with a few strands of chopped green onion.

“It’s the holidays,” he said. “On the house—no need to thank me.”

Fu Tingli’s chopsticks paused. She poked a sesame tangyuan in her bowl until it burst. She glanced at the lamb soup beside it. “What kind of lamb soup is this? There isn’t a single piece of lamb in it.”

Kong Liyuan burst out laughing—no telling if she was laughing at Fu Tingli or the owner. When she finished, she picked up the lamb soup. “He’s giving it to you, and you’re complaining?”

As she spoke, she scooped up a spoonful, blew on it carefully to cool it, then took a sip. Without a care for her lips now slick with broth, she said, “There’s nothing to complain about. The lamb flavor’s stronger than I expected.”

“Really?” Fu Tingli was skeptical.

“Don’t believe me? Try it.” Kong Liyuan pushed the soup-filled bowl toward her.

Not one to back down, Fu Tingli scooped up a spoonful, blew on it to cool, and took it into her mouth. It wasn’t bad—the broth was rich, warming her straight through to her core.

But she still didn’t taste any lamb stock.

She was about to argue when she glanced across the table at Kong Liyuan. Her white face mask was pulled down to her chin, her eyes half-lowered, the brim of her duckbill cap casting shadows over the deep, hazy upper half of her face.

She divided the three flavors of tangyuan into two bowls, along with the nian gao—half for each of them.

Sharing food like this somehow made it taste better. Every time she sat at a table with Kong Liyuan, it deepened Fu Tingli’s impression of that fact.

The New Year’s Day snow showed no signs of stopping. Neither did the owner’s pig-feeding live stream. Fu Tingli sat across from Kong Liyuan, basking in the warm AC air, watching her divvy up the tangyuan.

The effects of that not-so-tasty soup were delayed. It took a full minute before Fu Tingli realized her feet were warm now—her whole body was warm.

It kept her from saying the free lamb soup wasn’t good.

“Can you finish all this?” Fu Tingli asked once the tangyuan were divided. “No close-up shots tomorrow?”

“If I can’t, I’ll deal with it then. Tomorrow’s problems can wait till tomorrow.” Kong Liyuan glanced at her and said softly, “It’s a holiday today.”

Fu Tingli asked casually, “If it’s a holiday, why are you eating so late?”

For an instant, Kong Liyuan’s gaze landed on her face before shifting away. “If it’s a holiday, why’d you come all the way out here, stand under that busted billboard, and smoke those awful cigarettes?”

She paused, not looking at her. “You still can’t get used to smoking. You’re forcing it.”

“It was far because I was reporting to the team lead nearby. The billboard? I just ended up there.” Fu Tingli bit into a tangyuan and scalded her mouth with the sesame filling.

Hearing Kong Liyuan mention the cigarettes, she asked belatedly, “You saw?”

When had Kong Liyuan arrived? How much had she seen?

“I did.” Kong Liyuan didn’t deny it. She even added, “Starting from when you pulled the money out of your pocket.”

She’d laughed like a blooming flower—then cried like one wilting away in an instant.

Kong Liyuan couldn’t quite say when she’d first spotted Fu Tingli.

She only knew that by the time Fu Tingli entered her view, she’d already been standing across the street for a long time.

Light blurred into shadows, the crowd a noisy haze.

She stood in the snow and watched Fu Tingli dig a bill out of her pocket. Watched her eyes redden. Watched her take the money into the store to buy bread and cigarettes. Watched her cough her lungs out from the smoke, her face paling to near ghostly white.

Watched her pale face, her fingers red from the cold—not wearing the gloves she’d given her—standing under her billboard, calling the mall management to report the damage. Watched her bend to tie her shoelace, brush past the old Fu Tingli, then never straighten up again.

Stooped over, dazed, nearly dissolving into nothingness amid the white snow—a faint trace of blue.

Those crumpled bills in her pocket had probably started wrinkling somewhere in all that.

Before this, she’d gone to the same convenience store and bought a black umbrella. It was the only color they had.

It was the only umbrella she had.

And now she had three flavors of tangyuan, half a portion of nian gao, and half a bowl of shared lamb soup. Had it all come from that black umbrella? Kong Liyuan wasn’t sure anymore.

“Oh.” Fu Tingli said, “My mom must’ve secretly slipped the money into this coat of mine. When I found it, I couldn’t help myself.”

Her tone sounded perfectly honest, as if she didn’t mind at all that Kong Liyuan had seen her sobbing uncontrollably.

And yet it also felt like damage control—since she’d already seen it, what was the point in hiding?

“Why secretly slip money into your clothes?” Kong Liyuan asked, as if she genuinely didn’t understand. “A holiday blessing?”

“No.” Fu Tingli explained, “When I was little, I got lost in Xinjiang once. I had no money on me and passed out from hunger before they found me. So from then on, my mom’s always hidden cash in my coat pockets. That way, even if I get lost again, I can at least cry my way through a decent meal.”

She tried to say it without too much sentiment.

Kong Liyuan laughed at that—lazy and unrestrained. “I thought that was how you folks celebrated New Year’s Day over there.”

“What do you mean ‘you folks’? Oh, do you think I’m from Xinjiang too?” Fu Tingli felt the need to correct her. “My mom’s Kazakh, but I’m registered under my dad’s Han household.”

Kong Liyuan nodded and asked, “Do you usually eat tangyuan for New Year’s Day at home?”

Fu Tingli replied, “Yeah, it’s New Year’s. Eating them brings family reunion and happiness next year.”

“And nian gao?” Kong Liyuan pressed.

“Yeah, New Year’s. Eating it means you’ll rise higher every year.”

“Why aren’t you wearing the gloves I gave you?” Kong Liyuan asked next.

“Eat… New Year’s—”

Fu Tingli nearly bit her tongue. The fingers warmed by the AC started to itch, like her nearly healed frostbite was acting up again.

She looked up to find Kong Liyuan gazing right at her. She’d finished eating, her mouth wiped clean. Under the warm yellow lights, her eyes seemed veiled in a layer of illusion.

But they were piercing enough, direct enough to hold her in place.

Her face gleamed with a sheen of oil under the calm expression—she’d finished too.

“Who says I’m not wearing them?” Fu Tingli wiped her mouth.

“I’ve never seen you wear them once.” Kong Liyuan tilted her chin toward Fu Tingli’s slightly withdrawn fingers. “But I’ve never seen you take off those ear muffs someone else gave you.”

“Have I?” Fu Tingli couldn’t quite remember. She definitely wasn’t wearing the ear muffs right now. “Maybe the gloves you gave me are too expensive. I can’t bear to wear them.”

Kong Liyuan stared at her until she looked away.

Then she laughed again and placed a pair of gloves in front of her—simple fingerless style, fleece-lined and thick, lying soft and limp on the table.

“Twenty-five yuan, just bought them at the convenience store.” Kong Liyuan’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She even glanced behind Fu Tingli. “If you still don’t want them or won’t wear them, I’ll give them to the owner. He gave me a bowl of lamb soup, after all, and he’s glued to that live stream on his phone. He might need them.”

“Huh?” The owner poked his head out from the window and grinned at them. “How’s the lamb soup, sis? Want another bowl of tangyuan? It’s the holidays, after all~”

Fu Tingli stared blankly at the pair of twenty-five-yuan gloves. They had a soft brown fleece lining, with two little bear ears embroidered on top.

She glanced again at the boss’s thick, dark hand holding up his phone.

She hesitated for a few seconds.

Then she heard Kong Liyuan let out a soft sigh, so languid it seemed to seep right into her chest.

“Take them,” Kong Liyuan murmured. “You’ve got to celebrate the holiday right, or the whole next year won’t go smoothly.”

The boss had already switched off his phone’s live stream. In a daze, he asked, “What? Why do I keep hearing someone call my name?”

“No one’s calling you,” Fu Tingli replied crisply. “You must have misheard.”

The boss let out an “oh” and shrank back into his shell.

Kong Liyuan sighed again. She rose to her feet and paused in front of Fu Tingli, her silhouette blocking the light spilling over them both.

“Are you finished eating?”

At those words, Fu Tingli turned her head, trying to make out Kong Liyuan’s face.

But she couldn’t quite see it—only, beneath the hazy shadow of the hat brim, a pair of lax, distant eyes.

“I’m done,” she replied, a beat late.

Then, another beat behind, she realized Kong Liyuan had bowed her head and was slipping the gloves onto her hands. Kong Liyuan’s eyelashes trailed silently over a dense whirlwind, her fingertip gliding across the scar on the inside of Fu Tingli’s knuckle.

That mark came from an entire winter of frostbite-prone skin. Even after it healed, the vivid red scar would itch now and then.

It was like a faint cry for help hanging by a thread—one that surfaced only in winter, yet sprang from the profound madness of summer.

Right now, it was caught gently between Kong Liyuan’s fingers, teetering on the edge of unraveling.

Fu Tingli yanked her hand back on instinct, flustered as she stammered, “I can put them on myself, Teacher Kong. Thanks.”

Kong Liyuan slowly withdrew her hand, her knuckles whitening at the joints. Then, just like old times, she reached out and patted the back of Fu Tingli’s head.

Gently, like a caress—like they had always been this intimate, separated only by the drifting air between them, a tenderness too soft to count as the spark of something fleeting and combustible.

“Happy holidays,” she heard Kong Liyuan say.

“And for the whole year ahead, at least promise me you won’t let yourself get frostbitten again.”