While Zhong Jia was back at school taking her exams, a few new actors had joined the crew. Some had such minor roles that they wrapped up right after she returned—a mere face in the crowd. This era drama came from a director with exacting standards, so there was little emphasis on elaborate styling. Everything served authenticity alone. Without the heavy TV filters that concealed every pore, a person’s true looks—model or mutt—were laid bare with ease.
It might sound like slim pickings at first, but plenty of people had auditioned during preparations. After all, the director was Nong Siqing, the industry’s gold standard, and it offered a real entry point into the film world.
Even the smallest supporting roles belonged to recognizable names. As one of the leads with screen time comparable to Xie Yingnian’s, Zhong Jia had entered the production under immense pressure. She dared not slack off. Yet she had never been one to fuss over big matters; her maturity beyond her years hid any anxiety and self-doubt remarkably well.
Her way of unwinding was her old standby: listening to music or writing songs. When the mood struck, she would hum a few lines.
It was Gong Wenyin’s first film. Trained in acting, she had weak skills in singing and dancing. Her agency had sent her to that survival audition on a whim, never expecting her to reach the finals. The blockbuster show benefited its trainees immensely—those who survived the grueling early rounds and made it into Beijing’s elite inner Third Ring circles. Besides the group CHIC, she was the one who had advanced the farthest so far.
With a breakout TV drama under her belt, and now the role of Miao Miao landed through auditions, the movies were opening up to her.
“Tiantian, it’s settled then. Help me sing the OST when the time comes.” Gong Wenyin’s lead-role xianxia drama was in post-production. She had a character song as the female protagonist, and the music producer wanted her to perform it. But she knew her limits. That soulful diva evaluation video from her positioning test had become prime remix fodder on video sites. Better not to give the sound engineers a headache.
Zhong Jia replied, “We could sing it together. Didn’t I help you nail the pitch that day?”
That summer after high school graduation, she had busked at a bar to make money. It was a quiet lounge, and to keep patrons lingering and spending, the owner kept the TV tuned to the nation’s favorite meme factory of a variety show.
Gong Wenyin had sung so off-key she couldn’t find her way back. Her positioning test had featured singing of all things. She insisted on trying, but the mentors laughed during her performance, and their feedback came out as honking goose calls. She had delivered endless laughs on the show—a darling of the variety gods.
Who would have thought they would end up acting together? They interacted often, too. After all, Kong Can’s best friend in Chongxiang was Sister Miao Miao.
“You’re sure I won’t drag you off-pitch?” A makeup artist was touching up Gong Wenyin’s face. Her voice had decent timbre, and her lines were passable. Five tones deaf might be the window the heavens closed when granting other gifts.
For all her protests about not wanting to sing, her tone brimmed with eagerness. Zhong Jia smiled. “No way.”
Qiao Yingqiu had once been famous for her innocent image, with a face straight out of a first love. Later came a messy marriage that wore her down and held her back. Her unique style faded as juniors overtook her, and she blended into the crowd.
Her daughter had inherited a touch of that quality. Zhong Jia’s smile had its own distinct flavor—no dimples, but her eyes crinkled obviously, a bright cheer from within that tempered her overly sweet features just right, never cloying.
Yet Gong Wenyin sensed that Zhong Jia had been influenced by Kong Can’s role. She was different from the start of filming. The pattering rain had soaked into her aura, hard to dry even in this sunless place. Her bones carried moisture; her soul bore a weight. She had grown heavy all over.
Miao Miao was little more than an extra with extra screen time—no central arc, no great rises or falls from start to finish. Gong Wenyin only truly immersed herself when channeling Miao Miao. Zhong Jia was different.
She knew it herself. Just the other morning, after makeup, she had stared blankly at the mirror. How could that girl with the same face look so unfamiliar? Her features serene, eyes slightly sunken—though from lack of sleep—yet wrapped in Kong Can’s atmosphere, it seemed like the erosion of spirit and will.
Not like her at all. More like a friend walking toward her from some distant southern town.
They were shooting on location today. Chongxiang County had developed quickly in recent years, adding plenty of amusement facilities. Now, only the local elders frequented the somewhat rundown Lake Heart Park for exercise.
The spot was remote. Xie Yingnian, transitioning to the scene, got mobbed by some young fans claiming they were just wandering by. She smiled without calling them out, signed their stuff, and when they asked for photos, pleaded work schedule—next time.
The fans fake-cried to stall her, but Xie Yingnian hurried off.
The crew-issued puffer jackets for the principals were long and thin, doing little to block the wind over costumes. A flurry of red skirt fluttered at her calves, striking a cold, glamorous note against the bleak winter chill.
Ahead lay the set, cordoned off with barriers; work badges required for entry. Behind her, fans filmed on phones. Farther off in the lens stood Zhong Jia under a tree, script in hand—withered branches, all black attire. Same jacket style aside, she had borrowed a hint of Xie Yingnian’s weary decay.
Framed together, the shot screamed chemistry. One hurried forward; Zhong Jia heard the commotion, glanced over, and smiled. It was as if they embodied trekking mountains and rivers for you.
Zhong Jia silently pocketed her phone. Just before the screen went dark, she had been scrolling news about Min Conglu’s wedding.
Xie Yingnian’s romantic history was odd, as if she could only fall for onscreen roles. From the half-real, half-fake with Qiao Yingqiu to the seemingly perfect match of Min Conglu, it was always born of the work.
So this production drew weird hopes from the gossip crowd. People loved a spectacle, and thanks to Qiao Yingqiu, Zhong Jia had been branded with “love too deep, life too short.”
History repeating was just replaying past facts; identical endings proved tragedy no fluke, but fate. A thousand restarts, same result. Yet circling the same person lent a tragic romance, even inspiring prayers to the heavens: give lovers denied their chance one shot.
Deep or shallow, Zhong Jia wasn’t sure. Real things could be weighed; the intangible defied measure.
But it existed, all right. Since sixteen, a faint mark etched on her heart. Against teenage hormones, no lust brewed, no other thoughts—just curiosity birthing longing. From then on, her life’s every step, deep or shallow, carried that lingering scent.
From south to north, outsider to insider, singer to actor.
Youth lingered, naivety faded. Shedding the role’s shell, she understood: my journey was for you.
Wind rose by the lake. In a few days, it would be New Year’s Eve. Lanterns hung along the lakeside path, rustic shapes glowing yellow and hazy, crisscrossing like stars. The festive air thickened.
Zhong Jia’s hands were bare, knuckles red from cold. She barely noticed until someone approached and clasped them. The temperature shock made her shiver, then she gripped back harder—both knowing it was a flimsy excuse for mutual warmth.
Near-freezing gusts rippled the lake; Xie Yingnian brought her own breeze.
Better than weighing: metaphors sufficed. Zhong Jia rubbed the faint calluses in Xie Yingnian’s palm, over and over, reluctant to let go. The whooshing wind filled her ears like cracking ice on a lake. Whose heart was blowing open? Ripples of tenderness spread, thunder of spring boomed—like passing through spring, summer, fall, winter in an instant.
“I heard He Lifu showed up earlier?” Xie Yingnian drew alongside Zhong Jia, her tone edged with displeasure. “What was he doing here?”
Zhong Jia tilted her head with a smile. “Are you worried about me?”
“Answer the question.” Xie Yingnian dodged it outright, as if deliberate.
Almost unconsciously, they stood close, puffer shoulders brushing in the wind—a habit born of filming, to others’ eyes.
An answer was an answer; silence was one too.
This vague intimacy satisfied Zhong Jia. Deeper amusement filled her eyes. Head slightly bowed, lashes quivering, her voice thin as rice paper prone to bleeding ink—soft, gentle, erasing recent unpleasantness.
“Yeah, he was here for a bit.”
Gong Wenyin wrapped her scene and headed for her car. The sports car—media-buzzed as a global limited edition—roared past the yawning star, drawing stares. Gong Wenyin glanced back, but the next instant, all eyes shifted to someone else.
The car parked haphazardly off the lines. The man-made lake was small and murky. A crew boat clearing trash passed under Three-Eyed Kong Bridge. On the bridge, Zhong Jia sensed a burning gaze. Script in hand, she turned slightly and spotted He Lifu by the car.
Her brother was handsome, but not like Zhong Kefei’s wild, virile vigor—like a stud at it seven times a night. Similar features yielded wholly different impressions.
Perhaps a life of pampered comfort from youth had softened him. No need to emulate their father, who rose from salon apprentice to listed company CEO. The genes’ grit faded with time. He Lifu sported shoulder-length hair, tall and lean, his long neck propping a face heavy with gloom.
He flashed Zhong Jia a strange smile upon alighting. His sister, famous from live-stream sob stories of hardship, ignored it. His upturned lips froze.
After more than ten minutes, He Lifu hadn’t done anything shocking. He leaned against the car door, puffing away on his cigarette, his gaze relentlessly following Zhong Jia as she threw herself into her performance. When Nong Siqing heard about it, she sent someone over to inquire—a polite way of telling him to leave. This was a film set, after all, filled with all sorts of confidential matters.
The production assistant brought along several burly young men, figuring the situation was tricky to handle. But He Lifu put on an air of refined elegance and left without protest.
It was as if he’d come all this way just to confirm Zhong Jia’s existence—that there really was a child from the same mother in this world, one whose life had taken a path utterly different from his own.
Xie Yingnian listened to the full story, her face calmly impassive as she fell silent. In her heart, she suspected it wasn’t nearly that simple.
