Shanghai had never seen snow like this before, and neither had Kong Liyuan celebrated a holiday like this.
To her, holidays were no different from ordinary days.
Except for those sweltering summers over 37 degrees that left her restless and on edge.
The other three seasons felt like they’d been crammed into aluminum cans, speeding down an assembly line faster and faster.
All the cans were identical, differing only in production and expiration dates.
She had never imagined that the can marked January 1st would be any different.
That evening, as heavy snow fell over Shanghai, Kong Liyuan leaned against her car, smoking a red wine burst-bead cigarette.
The smoke billowed out only to be scattered by the wind. Amid the swirling snow and faint mist, she lowered her head, watching the glowing ember burn down to the marked line on the cigarette.
For some reason, California came to mind.
She lay back in the open-top car, smoking, while a young woman leaned against the side, either enjoying the breeze or chatting with some new “friend,” or taking photos—squinting to focus on passing little birds, on distinctive pedestrians… on her.
No matter what she was doing, that woman always leaned in for a drag, only to choke on it. Her hazel eyes would mist over with tears, looking so fresh and exquisite.
Kong Liyuan found it amusing. The woman clearly couldn’t handle smoking, yet she always begged for a puff, making Kong Liyuan burst into laughter every time—and snuff out the cigarette, grabbing the young woman’s collar.
She bent down; the woman tilted her head up.
A massive gust scattered their hair as they bit into the red wine burst-bead, exploding it against the crimson sunset.
Kissing like that felt like drowning in the earth itself.
Red wine burst-bead cigarettes weren’t great to smoke—too mild, with a harsh bite going down the throat. After coming back, Kong Liyuan smoked them less often. Only now and then did she recall that young woman asking her,
“You only love this brand of cigarettes?”
She hadn’t before. But after returning, she really did smoke only this brand.
Kong Liyuan slowly exhaled the last puff of white smoke, leaning casually against the car. Her boot ground into the thin layer of snow.
A lock of hair fell across her face in the wind; the burning cigarette flickered in the breeze, its ember nearly singeing the tips. She stared at the damp snowflakes, oblivious.
It wasn’t until the intense heat scorched her fingers that she registered the pain, sluggishly. Still unhurried, she brushed the hair blocking her view behind her ear.
Then, she firmly extinguished the cigarette, burned down to the end of its mark. Time to head back, she thought.
Yet her boot kept grinding fresh snow, producing a crisp crunch.
She stayed leaning against the car, watching the brightly lit path under the streetlamp, watching that shrinking figure turn into the apartment building.
Watching the trail of fresh footprints left on the thin snow.
Watching a little bird flit lightly away from her side.
She stared at those footprints and thought: At least this holiday isn’t over yet.
So she followed the brightly lit path, trailed the footprints, and walked inside.
Snow drifted down steadily; she didn’t bother with an umbrella, just pulled on a face mask and a duckbill cap, head down. By the time she reached the building, Fu Tingli had already gone upstairs.
A few kids clustered at the alley’s edge, setting off those little ground fireworks that burst with a crackle.
It was as if fireworks—meant to bloom in the sky and flutter down in sparks—could no longer reach the heavens.
At least not in Shanghai.
But people were adaptable about such things. Banned from the sky? They’d set them off on the ground instead, or in more remote spots, even if just a tiny spark. Flight didn’t matter; the point was to burn off all that pent-up energy from daily life.
Looking at the fireworks, the red banners dangling haphazardly from the crisscrossing clotheslines overhead, and the neatly parked old motorcycles, she could tell:
This was beyond the outer ring, where residents brimmed with a vivid, steaming vitality. Living here made even moths flying into flames seem unafraid.
The light in the sixth-floor window never came on.
Kong Liyuan stared at it for a moment, then glanced at the fading, dying fireworks. She called out to a kid slouching toward the entrance,
“Hey, kid, where do you buy these fireworks?”
Ordinary sheltered kids might’ve thought her weird and scurried inside with their hands over their heads. But this one was different. She sniffled, craned her neck, and pointed toward the smoke shop at the alley’s mouth.
“The shop up ahead has them. Lantern fireworks are thirty bucks each, but she got hers from some neighborhood group chat. Buy two together and she’ll knock off five bucks. Buy a bunch and make sure that chubby boss gives you a discount—he’ll rip you off if he sees a grown-up shopping!”
“Never mind! I’ll take you there!”
The kid wore grubby cotton boots streaked with wet snow, strutting like a little adult.
Kong Liyuan stood calmly in place.
The kid turned, feigning indifference. “Why aren’t you coming?”
Kong Liyuan hummed, pointing at the smoke shop. “It’s right there. I can go myself.”
“How could you!” The kid got flustered, eyebrows knitting together. “I told you the boss rips people off!”
Kong Liyuan lightly tapped the kid’s head. “Are you trying to rip me off, or is it the boss?”
The kid clutched her head, peeking with one eye, mumbling, “Who’d rip you off…”
She was just a little kid after all—shriveling up guiltily once called out.
Kong Liyuan hoisted her up by the collar. “Come on, to the smoke shop. I’ll buy one; you get as many as you want. But you have to do me a favor.”
The kid grinned. “What favor?”
Kong Liyuan paused, then asked, “What’s the longest-lasting firework you can get here?”
“Three-minute waterfall magic, eighty-one bucks!”
“You know your stuff.”
Kong Liyuan asked idly, glancing again at the dark sixth-floor window. Without waiting for an answer, she pointed at the building’s entrance.
“See that door?”
“Yeah, the one with the broken light.”
“It’s fixed now.”
“Huh? Really? I didn’t notice. When’d that happen?”
“If someone comes down and stands there without moving, right before the motion light goes off, set off a three-minute… waterfall magic for her.”
“Man or woman? What if no one comes?”
“Woman in blue clothes. If not, keep it for yourself.”
“Got it. But why?”
Kong Liyuan reached out; the kid ducked, expecting another head-tap like before.
But the masked strange woman didn’t. She didn’t answer the question either.
She just smiled at the sudden flinch. “Am I that scary?”
Then she sighed, her hovering hand settling gently on the kid’s head, carefully brushing off the snowflakes.
She said,
“Celebrate the holiday properly, and the new year will go smoothly.”
~~~
Fu Tingli pulled the tab on the aluminum can, and soda fizzed out in a burst of bubbles.
It was the drink Xia Yue had given her on set a few days ago. She’d just finished eating and felt too full to drink it. Today, glancing at the expiration date, she saw it was exactly January 1st.
Perfect timing.
She chugged the cold drink before midnight. Then she couldn’t sleep—stuffed, or chilled, or dazzled.
By the three flavors of tangyuan and rice cakes, the suddenly repaired hallway light and motion sensor below. Maybe the timing was too coincidental, or maybe she had an overactive imagination.
She couldn’t stop wondering: No way Kong Liyuan fixed the light, right? Was Kong Liyuan the type to be so thoughtful?
The one who always teased her to tears in California was Kong Liyuan; the one who sometimes lost control and gripped her too hard was also Kong Liyuan.
But no amount of imagining conjured answers. So she lay in bed, eyes open for a bit, recalling the check-in photos she’d taken for Kong Liyuan, remembering her saying she’d post on Weibo.
After mulling it over, she downloaded Weibo, registered with a jumble of random numbers and letters for an ID.
Kong Liyuan’s Weibo was easy to find. No search needed—the top trending topic was:
KongLiyuanNewYearCheckIn#
With her blank profile, she tapped in. Fans were hyping it up, with popular posts being fan-shot videos zooming in on Kong Liyuan’s refined, beautiful face.
The footage was chaotic—some fans crying, some thrilled. But Kong Liyuan was gentle, and stunning.
Fu Tingli had seen it live. She checked Kong Liyuan’s Weibo and found the check-in post already up.
A photo of the fans’ backs and the billboard. No Kong Liyuan in it.
Was it because she hadn’t sent the photos in time? Or… had Kong Liyuan never planned to post a selfie?
Fu Tingli still couldn’t figure it out. The drink induced drowsiness; she drifted off without remembering to send her photos to anyone.
Her head lolled to the side, and she fell asleep.
Just before consciousness sank, she vaguely glimpsed the empty can in the trash, thinking hazily:
Everything lined up today. This holiday really turned out pretty good.
Will this year really go smoothly?
She slipped into sleep, unaware: An aluminum can dated January 1st finally got its stamp, quietly slipping free from the accelerated production line.
It devoured two photos all to itself, monopolized three minutes of fireworks, and secretly hoarded a Weibo account that followed only one person. Burning desperately through the winter, it kindled a wildfire that swept across the plains.
Visible only to her and her.
