Chapter 40 Part 1

Lying in the snow turned out to be such a comfortable, freeing experience.

Fu Tingli even felt like rolling around in it.

But she was too lazy to move. Instead, she stretched out her arms, spreading herself completely flat as if the whole of her had sunk into the thick, vast embrace of the earth.

Alongside Kong Liyuan.

In that moment, the wind across the snowy expanse felt immense, strong enough to scatter their breaths to every corner of the globe. So Fu Tingli thought that perhaps, on the other side of the world, that very instant marked the longest day in those distant lands.

“Fu Tingli.”

Kong Liyuan’s voice sounded hollow and scattered in the vastness, making Fu Tingli suddenly realize something profound: being called by name in such an enormous, boundless snowfield was an experience that felt strangely distant yet intimately close.

“Hmm? What’s up?” Fu Tingli didn’t find the snow beneath her cold at all. She stared at the blinding white expanse and suddenly wanted to scoop it all up and take it home.

“Staring at the snow too long will give you snow blindness,” Kong Liyuan warned, her words carried over by the wind.

“Ah—” Fu Tingli replied indifferently, “If it happens, it happens. Let me lie here a bit longer first.”

Her words were swallowed by the chaotic howl of the wind. She wasn’t sure if Kong Liyuan had heard them. But right after that, the slight ache in her eyes—brought on by last night’s drinking—flared into a sharp sting.

Without any warning, her vision blurred. It was as if the mighty earth itself was punishing her insignificance.

She blinked uncomfortably, tears welling up uncontrollably to soothe the irritation.

But the next second, amid the roaring wind, she heard Kong Liyuan chuckle softly.

As if the pain in her eyes was something hilariously amusing. Fu Tingli wiped at the overflowing tears and squinted slightly, her vision growing even hazier.

Then came a faint rustling sound. She turned her gaze just a fraction, and a warm palm covered her eyes, its gentle heat settling lightly on her eyelids. Dazed, she blinked, feeling her fragile lashes brush against that soft, smooth skin.

She heard a very faint sigh scattering into the wind, coming from Kong Liyuan right beside her.

“Then you definitely shouldn’t get it. You can’t even handle this little bit of pain.”

It was a response to their earlier talk of snow blindness. Then she asked,

“Do your eyes still hurt?”

“A little better now.” Fu Tingli could detect a faint osmanthus scent from the other’s palm. “But how did you know my eyes would hurt?”

“You told me yourself last night. You said drinking too much makes your eyes ache easily.”

“Last night… I was drunk. Don’t take anything I said or did seriously.” Fu Tingli volunteered the clarification.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“We’ll see.” Kong Liyuan didn’t commit to an answer, her words already blurred by the pounding wind.

Fu Tingli could feel her own uncontrollable, salty tears seeping bit by bit into Kong Liyuan’s skin, like some kind of blood-and-bone exchange.

“Did I tell you yesterday that I wanted to ride the cable car?”

“We can’t. The lines aren’t running.” Kong Liyuan sighed.

“That’s fine. I didn’t really want to anyway.” Fu Tingli explained,

“I just heard Apa mention it yesterday—taking the cable car to watch the sunrise and sunset to pass the time.”

“Watch the sunrise and sunset?” Kong Liyuan asked again.

“It wasn’t my idea. It was just Apa’s suggestion.” Fu Tingli spoke slowly. “I guess I heard her say it this morning, and it subconsciously stuck with me.”

“But we’ve probably missed the time for it now anyway.”

“Did you ask Apa?”

“…Yeah, I asked her if there were any activities around here to kill time. It’s pretty boring otherwise.”

Kong Liyuan hummed in acknowledgment, paused for a moment, then said, “Next time, then.”

Fu Tingli smiled into the warmth of Kong Liyuan’s palm. A few seconds passed before she replied lazily,

“Sure, next time.”

As the words left her, she blinked involuntarily. The roaring wind paused for an instant, and in that second, a clear, ethereal birdcall pierced the air—strikingly out of place in the silent, empty world.

“Little Bird again?” she asked.

Kong Liyuan was still holding her eyes covered, responding with careful detail. “Yeah, flocks of them, a huge number. They’re probably migrants stopping to rest on their journey.”

She had started using “Little Bird” too. From those few words, Fu Tingli could almost picture the scene.

So she curved her eyes in a smile and laughed out loud.

Kong Liyuan seemed to notice. “What are you laughing at?”

“I just suddenly thought—those Little Birds flying overhead, seeing us two lying here like this… they’d probably think it’s pretty weird.”

That was exactly what Fu Tingli imagined: from a bird’s-eye view, the two of them sprawled in the snow might just look like any two people.

Gone were the stark contrasts of before. Kong Liyuan wore her old jacket, its fur-edged hood covering her eyes. Fu Tingli sported the felt hat Kong Liyuan had given her, its ear muffs snug over her ears. They lay side by side, a drab, indistinct clump, their faces not even exposed—impossible to tell one from the other.

In this vast snowfield, there was no Kong Liyuan or Fu Tingli anymore. Just two strange, ordinary humans.

She had said it casually, but after the words hung in the air, she realized Kong Liyuan hadn’t responded, as if lost in thought.

“Kong Liyuan, what are you thinking about?” She blinked, her lashes scraping lightly against Kong Liyuan’s palm.

Kong Liyuan’s palm trembled faintly, then she seemed to snap back, chuckling softly.

“I’m wondering what Ayang saw in that final blizzard, what she thought, what she did—and what kind of mood would lead someone to that kind of ending.”

So that’s what was on her mind.

Fu Tingli had read the script for the Northern Border storyline before.

In the film’s finale, after all the conflicts had played out, Ayang planned to drive off in her battered old truck. But then came a freak blizzard rare for her homeland, burying the vehicle. She watched the snow swirl madly outside the window.

Trapped in desperation.

Yet stories thrived on last-minute salvation, and the script handled it with clever finesse.

At the end of her rope, Ayang refused to die stuck in the truck. Instead, she shouldered all her dreams and her very first sculpting knife, charging boldly into the storm.

She was a dream-chaser, pursuing a life of unbridled momentum. Forever a dreamer. So as she lay in the snow, amid a montage of life-flashing-before-her-eyes hallucinations amid the vast, flickering white, she summoned her strength to raise that first sculpting knife.

The scene cut to the film’s closing shot: a close-up of Ayang’s final work. The original script featured the white horse, emphasizing how she glimpsed it again in the blizzard—a bizarre, surreal motif for the movie’s core. But it wasn’t set in stone what the last piece would be; last time Fu Tingli saw, Wen Yingxiu was still wavering, probably open to changes, even consulting their studio for input.

Deeper readings suggested another layer: Ayang raising the knife in the blizzard was her plunging it into herself, without regret.

The white horse merely a grotesque symbol.

No wonder Kong Liyuan had lain out in the snow so early—to immerse herself in Ayang’s mindset during that blizzard.

It made sense for such an obscure, surreal arthouse film, where the brilliance lay in the protagonist’s inner emotional shifts.

For an actress, it was a massive challenge. But thinking about it, every role Kong Liyuan had taken was difficult in its own way.

The fierce, fearless villainess Li Yi; the young mother Zhang Yu, slowly crushed by her circumstances into a murderer; the dual-personality policewoman Yang Lu… Which one didn’t bristle with inner turmoil and complex human conflicts?

In an entertainment industry blooming with idols and traffic stars, Kong Liyuan had a face perfect for commercial blockbusters and romantic dramas—guaranteed fame and followers. Yet she chose the thorniest path for an actress. Undoubtedly lonely and rugged, but she had carved it out successfully, reaching her current heights.

Behind each step to the peak probably hid countless unseen moments like this. Perhaps Kong Liyuan had lain in snow like this more than once—or maybe not snow, but something more terrifying, like a sea of fire.

Fu Tingli mused, a little distracted.

She suddenly wanted to ask why Kong Liyuan acted in films—such a grueling, uphill, lonely pursuit. Why insist on it?

But the next second, she decided it wasn’t necessary.

If she was dead set on it, Fu Tingli only hoped she could help.

So she smiled, her lashes brushing Kong Liyuan’s wind-blocking palm once more, and said relaxedly,

“Then why don’t you just ask Ayang?”

“Ask Ayang?” Kong Liyuan’s voice sounded a bit surprised. “How?”

“How to ask—” Fu Tingli repeated these words, as if murmuring to herself.

Then she laughed again. Right after, in a wind that nearly tore through the air, she shouted loudly,

“Ayang!”

The snowy expanse was vast and empty; she didn’t know if anyone was around. With her eyes covered, her resolute “Ayang” seemed to make the entire snowfield tremble, startling the little birds into frantically flapping their wings—who knew if they flew away.

After shouting, she listened to the vivid sound of wings flapping around them, laughing especially exuberantly in Kong Liyuan’s palm,

“How about that? Want me to help you ask?”

Kong Liyuan laughed too; her laughter was a bit muffled outside the trembling palm, like a mass of rain-laden clouds brushing against her ear. Once she finished laughing, she asked softly,

“So what do you want me to ask for you?”

“Isn’t that simple!” Fu Tingli took a deep breath, fully prepared, then shouted again in a high-pitched voice,

“Ayang! Do you want to live or die!”

“What you saw last—was it the white horse—or something else!”

“Are you happy now! Feeling free! In pain! Do you want to get out of this snow!”

“Ayang! Are you afraid!”

Shouting while lying down felt a bit short of breath; after these few lines, her chest felt stuffy.

But for some reason, this sensation of shouting out made the familiar pain in her lungs surge back, yet it strangely made her feel even more exhilarated.

So she coughed freely a few times, wanting to continue shouting. But at that moment, Kong Liyuan spoke first,

“Ayang—”

Her shout was similar, but not as piercingly loud, blending into the birdsong and the howling wind, sounding gentle yet carefree.

The wind grew stronger, rustling Fu Tingli’s ear muffs with a pattering sound, swallowing Kong Liyuan’s shout and spitting it back out. In the end, only a few blurry, close-yet-distant, hoarse words floated around her ear.

Words like “life and death,” “run,” “white horse,” all tumbling into the vast snowfield, shattering into snowflakes, sinking into the empty land where they lay.

Or perhaps, carried off by the birds flying past them, scattered to every corner of the world.

Fu Tingli listened to these words, feeling utterly thrilled and mad, like two lunatics calling out to each other from afar—yet they were so close, their hearts beating in the same snowfield.

She picked up after Kong Liyuan’s words, letting their two voices echo across the snowfield.