It wasn’t until the summer solstice of her twenty-fifth year that Fu Tingli unexpectedly learned she shared the same birthday as Kong Liyuan.
~~~
It was now June 21, 2022. She had long since returned from the Northern Border and was teaching beginner hand-sculpting classes at a chain art training school.
Her students were faces full of the pure innocence of children raised in Shanghai, still soft and untainted by the world.
Since she was only teaching introductory lessons, the time she spent wielding a sculpting knife was usually devoted to demonstrating basic techniques to her students. By the end of class after class, she hadn’t even completed a single full sculpture.
All those plans for her sculpture workshop, the sculpting artistry in Daytime Blizzard, and everything about Kanas…
They had faded into days that blurred together like film transitions, feeling more like events from a previous life.
Her days passed like sand slipping through an hourglass.
And the day she returned from the Northern Border was the last grain of sand from the upper half.
Once it passed through that narrow midpoint…
~~~
All the sand had gathered on the other side, clearly divided from the first.
The crew had accelerated production after the New Year, working day and night.
By April, Kanas had entered the season of melting ice and snow. The thick, soft, fluffy snow from the Northern Border that had once cradled two young people lying in it, letting the wind whip around them freely, had all melted and flowed into the boundless border waterways.
Then, carried by those waters, it evaporated into vapor, drifting into the air, forever out of reach.
All the “blizzard” scenes had been filmed.
Her trip to the Northern Border had officially ended. From late January to early April, Fu Tingli had stayed there for more than two full months.
Those two-plus months had flown by faster than she could have imagined. Starting after the New Year, they had accelerated through the ceaseless night-and-day filming into a kaleidoscope of fragmented moments.
~~~
Kong Liyuan, who had rushed back on the third day of the New Year; Kong Liyuan, pacing through the thick snow; Kong Liyuan, acting opposite the new cast members who joined for those scenes; Kong Liyuan, smiling as she fielded interviews from media who had come all the way to the Northern Border; Kong Liyuan, treating the entire crew to boiled milk tea; Kong Liyuan, whom she had stumbled upon late at night, sitting in the fierce Northern Border winds with her face exposed, leaning against the car; Kong Liyuan, fading more and more amid calls of “Ayang,” so Fu Tingli silently repeated her full name in her mind, over and over…
How could every single one of these fragments feature Kong Liyuan? Fu Tingli wanted to know that too.
Why, when she returned to Shanghai and tried to recall everything that had happened in the Northern Border, did the only memories that surfaced revolve around Kong Liyuan?
Kong Liyuan, pacing slowly through the endless ice and snow outside her window as she refined the details of the Flying Bird Sculpture in her room.
On New Year’s Eve, Kong Liyuan, who found her lying in the snow at Hewatu, leading a white horse by the reins.
That same night, the one she spotted from her high vantage point while riding a white horse wildly through the border winds—Kong Liyuan standing amid the snowy mountains and plains, lighting a faint cigarette at the center of the roundabout.
In the very first second of the Renyin Tiger Year, Kong Liyuan said “safe travels,” gently pressing the back of her head amid the swirling red lights, just as always, looking at her with eyes she couldn’t read and saying,
“Happy New Year.”
On the final night before the whole crew returned to Shanghai, when her heartbeat felt too fast and chaotic, so she bundled up and went out—and stumbled upon that Kong Liyuan.
It must have been April 3.
Fu Tingli vaguely remembered checking the time on her phone before carefully lifting the covers and getting out of bed.
She stepped onto the extremely thin layer of snow on the road, wandering aimlessly until she reached the lakeside where key scenes had been shot.
The snow had mostly melted, exposing the lake’s stones in their dull gray tones, rough underfoot.
It was already the off-season in Kanas, and such a desolate, cold night at that.
She thought no one else would be so idle. Her footsteps were a bit loud as she approached, the stones crunching and crackling.
But before she got close, she spotted someone standing on a pile of uneven but high-stacked rocks by the slowly flowing lake, just beyond the tall, dark treeline, silently gazing at her.
Moonlight mingled with the shimmering reflections on the lake. The woman wore a down jacket, her pale face exposed, and in the moment she seemed to recognize Fu Tingli, her gaze sharpened.
A wisp of white mist slowly drifted from her red lips.
Why was Kong Liyuan here at this hour?
Fu Tingli was a little surprised but still walked over slowly, taking the initiative to ask,
“Teacher Kong wouldn’t be hiding out here for a smoke, would she?”
Kong Liyuan’s perch was somewhat elevated, allowing her to look down as Fu Tingli approached. Amid the swirling white mist, she smiled at her.
“Out stargazing.”
As if. Fu Tingli thought to herself, How can you stargaze with your head down like that?
But she didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she played along, tilting her head slightly to peer at the mass of dark clouds piled in the night sky, and said,
“The stars here are really beautiful.”
Kanas was indeed a great place for stargazing; the night sky there seemed infused with a more vibrant soul.
Unfortunately, things rarely aligned so perfectly. They were leaving the Northern Border tomorrow, and tonight’s sky was clouded over, as if the weather didn’t want them to see it.
Later, back in Shanghai, whenever she reflected on it, she realized there were too many regrets from that place.
Not only had she missed the sunrise and sunset at Hewatu and the cable car ride, but after more than two months in Kanas, she hadn’t even seen a single night sky free of light pollution.
Yet she also felt the time hadn’t been wasted. At the very least, it had left her with plenty of moments for quiet amusement.
Like this one.
Kong Liyuan seemed amused by her, her eyelashes trembling ever so slightly in the moonlight as she laughed.
Then she tilted her head back too, matching Fu Tingli’s angle to gaze at the somber clouds, and said softly,
“Yeah, such pretty stars.”
She paused for a moment before asking, “What are your plans after we get back to Shanghai?”
The sculpting-related portions had all been shot. Back in Shanghai, there would just be some detail pickups.
Which meant Fu Tingli wouldn’t need to report to set every day anymore.
“I’ll go home and tidy up first,” Fu Tingli thought for a moment before saying. “Then look for a job.”
“No more sculpting?” Kong Liyuan asked.
“Of course I will,” Fu Tingli said honestly. “But I need to earn a living first, then figure out how to support my sculpting.”
Even this current gig had little to do with the sculpting art she had studied most of her life, and it was hardly a path back to that world.
But deep down, she vowed: this absolutely could not be her last job connected to sculpting.
Joking lightly, she extended her gloved hand. “What? Is Teacher Kong planning to invest in my studio?”
She tossed the words out casually, often joking like that with others.
But in truth, after saying it, when she saw Kong Liyuan’s deep, expressive eyes fixed on her from afar, she was suddenly terrified that those lips might reply, Sure, I’ll fund it.
If Kong Liyuan actually said that, Fu Tingli would rather the entire Shanghai homecoming be just a dream.
To put it sentimentally, she didn’t want any direct financial ties between herself and Kong Liyuan.
It would feel like losing a true soulmate halfway along the road.
But fortunately, Kong Liyuan didn’t.
In the drifting smoke and moonlight, she simply watched Fu Tingli, then gently patted the back of her head—a light touch, like subtle encouragement.
In that usual offhand tone, she said, “I know you’re an artist with backbone. You wouldn’t take charity.”
The phrasing was oddly archaic, almost mocking. Fu Tingli was about to retort.
Then she saw Kong Liyuan’s hand brush past her ear, lightly scraping her slightly wrinkled nose tip, and burst out laughing.
Once the laughter subsided, she added softly, “I believe you’ll do just fine without me.”
Fu Tingli understood then that it wasn’t sarcasm—it was sincere. She just couldn’t agree with the “without me” part.
But Kong Liyuan smiled as usual afterward, as if those three words were just a joke.
Fu Tingli pursed her lips and insisted, “Without Teacher Kong, I might not even be standing here right now.”
Kong Liyuan merely chuckled softly and gazed out at the serene lake.
This woman never seemed to think much of herself, nor did she seem to love herself much.
Fu Tingli didn’t agree with that view at all.
She wanted to retort. But Kong Liyuan seemed to anticipate her thoughts. She gently pressed a hand to the back of Fu Tingli’s head.
“Alright. When you’ve figured it out someday, come find me for that thirty million.”
It was like a half-hearted joke, turning their earnest connection into something ethereal and fleeting.
This parting felt no different from the last—another utterly ordinary evening. It lacked the dramatic fireworks of their goodbye in California.
They simply stood there together, Fu Tingli shorter than the tall Kong Liyuan, their faces illuminated by the lake’s glow, bright enough to light them both clearly. They passed the night in calm silence.
In a way, Fu Tingli wished their farewell in the Northern Border had carried some theatrical conflict.
Perhaps a sudden plunge into the water, a blizzard, or a pack of wolves encircling them—ripping into their flesh, letting their blood mingle from the wounds once more…
Something to etch this dreamlike encounter into her memory for longer.
But that night, they had simply gazed at the stars for hours.
Fu Tingli found herself thinking this kind of quiet goodbye wasn’t so bad either. If there hadn’t been that car accident in California back in 2017, they probably would have exchanged a few calm words and faded from each other’s lives in the river of time, just like this.
She tried to convince herself of that, pushing aside the nagging whisper in her heart: Would we really?
When she finally returned, she carried the Northern Border’s winds back to Shanghai with her. Li Weili met her at the airport. In the city’s humid, warm breeze, Li Weili pulled her into a hug.
