Chapter 29: “Ayang” Part 2

The morning light shone straight down on them, the road stretching endlessly ahead. Fu Tingli gazed into Kong Liyuan’s deep eyes and shook her head.

“That’s not for you to decide alone.”

No matter what, she only believed in the truth she’d seen with her own eyes. She trusted no one else’s words.

They stood there until filming resumed. The road brightened, the water’s gleam faded. A hazy, ethereal dawn light slowly enveloped the two women and the white horse.

~~~

When Xia Yue walked over, the scene struck her like a surreal frame from a movie.

The faint morning glow turned clear and soft, wrapping around the two young women standing side by side.

One was a fallen prodigy in dire straits, the other a female star at the center of public scrutiny, under the gaze of countless cameras and crowds.

A white horse stood between them, yet it felt like a thousand armies separated them.

She watched the two figures standing so still, for a long, long time, until a sense of unreality washed over her.

Her eyes even stung a little, as if the pair might ride off together on that white horse any second.

She rubbed them, but they remained there, standing. Still, the stinging persisted, turning bittersweet.

She realized it wasn’t her eyes—it was her heart aching unconsciously, stirred by the spicy yet warm scent of those two cups of ginger tea.

It warmed her from the inside until it felt tender and full, making her irrationally think:

They were such good people, yet they looked lonelier than anyone, each wrapped in their own solitude.

~~~

Her appointment with Du Li was that evening.

After getting off her shift at the convenience store, Fu Tingli headed to that familiar Art Street.

Since she was there anyway, she decided to say hi to Wen Yingxiu and hand in her work summary for the past stretch.

When Wen Yingxiu came out, Fu Tingli had wrapped her coat around her legs and was crouching awkwardly, laboriously peeling a sausage to feed one of the stray kittens lurking on Art Street.

Winter had arrived, and Shanghai’s weather had grown even colder. The cats looked frailer than last time.

Fu Tingli was like a clay Buddha crossing the river herself—unable to take all these little lives home, so she could only offer one sausage after another.

Once it finished eating, the kitten softly tugged at her finger with its paw. Fu Tingli couldn’t resist playing with it for a bit.

“I’ll come see you again next time.”

After her legs went numb from squatting, she finally said it, reluctantly standing up—only to find Wen Yingxiu standing right behind her, watching thoughtfully.

She startled but quickly composed herself, her eyes curving as she called out, “Teacher Wen.”

She knew Wen Yingxiu was probably wondering if she was trying some shady ploy to impress an elder.

“Here’s the summary,” Fu Tingli said, handing over the work materials without explanation and turning to leave.

Wen Yingxiu hummed, taking the stack of papers and flipping through them page by page with a frown.

“Alright, you can go.”

Fu Tingli agreed, gave the kitten’s head one last reluctant pat, and started walking away. She heard quick footsteps climbing the stairs behind her.

A few more steps.

Then footsteps descending again. It was Wen Yingxiu, calling out, “Wait.”

Fu Tingli looked puzzled. “Is there something wrong, Teacher Wen?”

Wen Yingxiu crumpled the materials in her hand and tapped them against her palm. She asked, “Earlier, everyone in the group was discussing that key image at the end of the movie. Some of my students think Ayang’s final exhibited piece is themed around the white horse she encountered, but others disagree.”

“As someone who’s been closest to the set and the lead actress, what do you think?”

From the screenwriter’s perspective, it made perfect sense for Ayang to return to her peak at the end, concluding with a sculpture that bore her distinctive personal style. It was the most fitting approach.

“The white horse could work,” Fu Tingli said after a moment’s thought.

“Could work?” Wen Yingxiu echoed.

“If you use the white horse image, the script holds together completely,” Fu Tingli explained. “But if it were up to me, I’d start from Ayang herself—from her sense of self and her inner world—and think about what kind of image she truly yearns to embody.

The white horse isn’t a bad choice. But it already occupies such a pivotal plot point. Adding another layer at the end might make the white horse image steal the spotlight.”

“If you were Ayang, what sculpture do you think you’d create to express yourself?”

Under the dim yellow light and shadows at the doorway, Wen Yingxiu stood there like an interrogation that pierced from the inside out.

“Me?”

Fu Tingli was a little surprised. She hadn’t expected Wen Yingxiu to ask for her opinion.

But since she’d been asked, she didn’t hesitate. After a brief pause to think, she answered crisply, “Then I’d be a little bird.”

“A little bird?” Wen Yingxiu raised an eyebrow. “Why a little bird? Not a kitten or a puppy?”

Fu Tingli knew she was teasing her youthful naivety. She simply crouched down and gently stroked the kitten sitting at her feet. After a quiet moment, she said, “Didn’t Ayang first rise to fame with her representative work, ‘A Flying Bird’?”

“And then make a bird the final image in her most crucial piece at the end?” Wen Yingxiu challenged from above her head.

“Yeah.” Fu Tingli’s voice was soft. “But it would be a bird at dawn.”

“Why?”

“Because the morning dew is heavy then. Its wings would get soaked, making flight that much harder.”

“Won’t that contradict the theme?” Wen Yingxiu’s gaze seemed to deepen as she looked at her.

Fu Tingli thought it over, then decided to stand up. She met Wen Yingxiu’s eyes squarely and openly.

“But the little bird still has to fly at that moment.

Not only that—it has to pierce through this world, break past the obstacles, and tear open the dawn…”

She smiled brightly. “Flying as high as possible—that’s the best.”

~~~

Fu Tingli’s outing to the exhibition with Du Li went smoothly, without any hiccups.

Society’s understanding of Down Syndrome children had improved these days. While they still drew some unclear stares on the street, most were merely indifferent or friendly.

Afterward, Fu Tingli escorted Du Li to the bus stop. She’d double-checked that Du Li was fine taking the bus back with her.

Being a guardian meant seeing it through to the end—getting her home safe and sound. But taxis were too expensive, so public transit was the more affordable choice.

In the past, she’d always driven or taken cabs wherever she went. But since returning to Shanghai, she’d only taken one cab ride—and that was in the dead of night, clutching that access card as she dashed to Kong Liyuan’s garage.

Had she really been in that much of a hurry? Did she have to return the card at four in the morning? Fu Tingli wondered in hindsight.

The road outside Art Street was jammed and bustling, neon signs blazing overhead. After living in the old alley for so long, this lively spot suddenly felt overwhelming to Fu Tingli—a dazzling array that made her eyes ache from the light pollution.

Du Li held the popsicle Fu Tingli had bought her, licking it now and then. She was still buzzing with excitement, her words slow and halting, but she dissected the exhibition with surprising insight amid the crowd.

Fu Tingli had one in her mouth too. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would crave a popsicle in the dead of winter.

But at checkout, she’d grabbed an extra one anyway, figuring something cold might actually feel refreshing.

Now she was freezing her teeth off, mumbling responses to Du Li while occasionally wiping away the melting ice dripping onto the girl’s fingers.

“You look…”

Suddenly, Du Li dropped the exhibition talk and stared at her. After a long pause, she delivered her firm conclusion. “Not as happy as a few days ago.”

A bus sped past without stopping at their station. Fu Tingli’s hair whipped wildly in the wind. A bit dazed, she asked, “Am I?”

“You are.” Du Li was unusually certain, then asked, “Why aren’t you happy?”

Fu Tingli parted her lips.

Just then, a massive green bus pulled up to the stop. The doors hissed open with a pop, and a wave of warm air billowed out, clearing her head a little.

It wasn’t their bus.

But on its side was a familiar face. A young woman in a knit sweater and jeans lounged casually at a table, smiling with warm allure as she held a bottle of soda.

It was Kong Liyuan’s endorsement ad.

“We haven’t seen each other in so long.”

The words jolted Fu Tingli, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d actually said them aloud. She realized with a start that she hadn’t visited the set in a while.

And it had been ages since she’d seen Kong Liyuan.

As the thought crossed her mind, she panicked, thinking she’d voiced it. Then she glanced over in unease and realized it was Du Li who’d spoken.

“But you’re not happy, and I don’t know how to make you happy.” Du Li seemed truly troubled by it.

“It’s nothing.” Fu Tingli exhaled in relief and ruffled her hair. “Just work fatigue. I’ll be fine.”

Du Li’s expression suggested skepticism, as if she wanted to say more. But snippets of nearby conversation drifted into their ears:

“Oh my god, did Wen Shijia’s thing really get confirmed?”

“No way, I was shipping her with that younger guy from her ancient costume drama. How’d it turn out she was gay?”

“I’ve always thought she was. But why no response after all this time?”

“Yeah, but whether she responds or not, it’s pretty much solid proof by now. Those photos got analyzed from every angle—intimate moves and all. Her girlfriend’s face is blurry, though. Someone listed possible industry insiders, but none match. Feels more like a regular person.”

“So maybe Wen Shijia was just hyping it?”

“Not necessarily. Her next film’s a lesbian romance, right? If it’s hype, she could play coy and deny it vaguely—set up for a big reveal with the movie. But if it’s real…”

“With the current climate here, if it’s confirmed… what happens? Career implosion? I was looking forward to that movie…”

“Who knows? Might end up like those past scandals—poof, gone from the public eye. No precedent for an A-lister coming out like this. Real lesbians are rare anyway…”

This was the hot topic buzzing on the searches these past few days: top film actress Wen Shijia caught on camera in a parking spot—embracing another woman, necks intertwined, and possibly getting intimate in a car.

The story had been exploding everywhere. Open Weibo or short videos, and it was all anyone talked about.

Marketing accounts led the gossip charge, with timelines neatly compiled online.

Who knew even a bus stop couldn’t escape it? Fu Tingli crunched her popsicle, her teeth chattering from the cold.

“She’s a good person,” Du Li piped up suddenly, snapping Fu Tingli from her thoughts.

Fu Tingli looked up and saw another bus emblazoned with Kong Liyuan’s ad pulling in.

“Yeah, she is.”

But she always called herself a bad person.

Fu Tingli leaned against the bus stop sign. Once the bus departed, doors sealed and warm air gone, the icy metal chilled her spine, spreading to her limbs.

She couldn’t stomach the rest of her popsicle anymore. She tossed it aside, exhaled a slow plume of white breath, and pulled out her crumpled tissue to wipe her hands. Only then did she think to ask Du Li, “Who’re you calling a good person?”

Du Li chomped her popsicle with strong teeth, mumbling around it, “The person who donates to our Little Umbrella Bus.”

“Someone that generous?” Fu Tingli balled up the tissue.

At that moment, her pocketed phone buzzed. She tossed the tissue and fumbled out her phone.

“I can’t say,” Du Li replied.

Fu Tingli unlocked it to find the production art group chat flooded with notifications—and 99+ more.

“Why can’t you say?”

The melted popsicle water on her hands hadn’t wiped off fully; they felt sticky, making scrolling tricky.

“Um… Anyway, my little sister won’t let me say it. She said if I tell anyone else, it’ll bring huge trouble to that person. But she’s a good person. I can’t, I just can’t cause her any harm.”

Fu Tingli slowly scrolled through the long string of messages filled with exclamations and rapid-fire spam until she reached the bottom.

“But this good person seems to really like—really like Buzz Lightyear.”

A car drove past, its dim yellow headlights spilling into Fu Tingli’s eyes and making her blink.

Buzz Lightyear?”

Fu Tingli spotted the at-mention in the group chat: 【@Fu Tingli, pack your things, baby.】

Someone excitedly fired off a few questions below it, pushing the messages back up the screen.

Finally, she stopped at a message from the group admin:

【Stop it, no more questions!!! Anyway, here’s the deal: Next week, the whole crew heads to the Northern Border for filming. We’ll wrap this plot arc after the New Year, and we’ll probably let everyone come back home for the holidays in between.】

“Yeah, I gave her a Buzz Lightyear keychain a while back, and just a few days ago, I saw she’s still using it.”

“So, when did you meet her?”

The shifting lights caused a brief glare on her phone screen. Fu Tingli squinted to read the messages.

“It was… about four years ago.”

Four years?

A passing car tousled Fu Tingli’s hair. Someone leaned out the window and sprayed a burst of fluttering white confetti into the air, shouting, “Happy New Year!” It drew a few curses from nearby.

The pale confetti danced around her under the hazy streetlights, scattering everywhere.

In a daze, Fu Tingli reached out to catch some of it, her mind replaying the memory over and over:

Four years ago, amid the swirling white confetti, they’d chatted about how beautiful the snow was in the Northern Border. Zhu Muzi had said it was just casual talk…

That they wouldn’t be going to the Northern Border together.

“What a coincidence. Four whole years.”

Fu Tingli murmured.

The next instant, she glanced down, and a new message popped up on her open phone screen, as if it meant to freeze time in place:

【The actors will arrive before filming starts, but Teacher Kong is coming with us.】