New Year’s Eve was indeed a holiday, but Zhong Jia still couldn’t treat Xie Yingnian to dinner as she had hoped.
People in the film industry tended to be a bit superstitious. Many big ancient costume IPs rushed to start filming in the summer for that fiery, auspicious kickoff, but Nong Siqing’s works bucked the trend. She never hesitated to express her love for autumn and winter, with her movies always beginning in those seasons and wrapping up in spring or summer. As a result, the content on the big screen carried a unique air of twilight melancholy.
A single day in the floating world, a lifetime like a mayfly—recording it from an outsider’s perspective was the violent beauty of slow-motion cinematography.
Acting in one of Nong Siqing’s films meant being prepared to miss going home for the New Year. Jiang Fuwen was a bit surprised that the director wanted to treat everyone to a New Year’s Eve dinner. “Doesn’t Director Nong usually dislike group meals?”
He had collaborated with Nong Siqing many times. Back when he was just starting out, he had played her suitor in the movie that made Qiao Yingqiu explode in popularity. For years, he had been stuck playing supporting roles, and now, with his status in the industry, he could at best snag a special appearance credit. There was no helping it—he simply didn’t have a leading man’s face, and he lacked that audience pull.
He was easygoing, though. Even after teaching at a vocational school for several years, he never developed that preachy, know-it-all vibe. When he taught Zhong Jia acting, he was lively and fun.
“Is that so?” Gong Wenyin asked.
She thought back. Since joining the crew, the only group meal had been a symbolic one on the first day of shooting, courtesy of the producer. But Director Nong often treated everyone to milk tea and desserts, so she didn’t seem stingy.
“It’s the New Year, after all. An elder like Director Nong probably doesn’t want to spend it all quiet and lonely, right?”
Jiang Fuwen smiled without replying, keeping his own speculations to himself.
“By the way, Teacher Jiang, don’t you think lately Tiantian and Teacher Xie…”
The refined, scholarly man shushed her. Not far off, two people were walking down the steps side by side. Their scene was the last one, and they had probably hurried out so everyone wouldn’t have to wait.
Xie Yingnian’s collar was flipped wrong on one side. She fixed one side herself, while Zhong Jia reached over to straighten the other, even teasing the heavyweight senior in the industry. Xie Yingnian didn’t dodge when the girl booped her nose—instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and shrank back, but she stood obediently in place, her smile bright to an excessive degree.
Forget a nose boop; it seemed like Xie Yingnian could do just about anything over the top to her, and she’d be fine with it.
They were nothing like the awkward unfamiliarity of the first day of filming.
“It’s not necessarily like that. They’re just playing a couple on screen,” Jiang Fuwen said, leaving plenty of room in his tone. It was based on his understanding of Xie Yingnian—and if Zhong Jia had inherited even a bit from Qiao Yingqiu, then it was also informed by his knowledge of her mother.
These days, everyone was lazy. If money could solve it, no one bothered with extra hassle. New Year’s Eve dinners in a small county town weren’t easy to book, but somehow Nong Siqing found a countryside homestay. It was out in the sticks—a ten-minute drive from the set, winding mountain roads that left everyone dizzy, and they nearly got lost.
An auntie returning from town with New Year’s goods was asked for directions by the lead driver. When she heard the name of the place, she chuckled. “You folks sure know where to eat. It’s an old spot—even the local young people barely know about it.”
The farmstead wasn’t overly fancy. The courtyard had a few vegetable patches, and a babbling brook ran behind the house. During dinner, you could see waterweed swaying in the wind and white moonlight rippling on the surface through the window.
An old-style TV sat on a weathered eight-immortal table. No set-top box or anything modern. Before entering the room, Zhong Jia had spotted a pot on the roof and asked what it was for.
Xie Yingnian explained, “For picking up the signal. Total antique.”
She recalled her childhood and smiled. “Back in the day, there were no TV programs on Tuesday nights. Bet you can’t imagine that.”
A crew hand passed by and chimed in, “Teacher Xie, that’s for sure. Tiantian, you’re quite a bit younger than her.”
Zhong Jia: “…Not that much.”
“I’ve acted in movies with your mom,” Xie Yingnian said casually, though the subtext was crystal clear.
“You’ve explained it already. Nothing happened. Even if you hadn’t, a stepmom would be fine—you’re the widow, I’m the orphan.” Zhong Jia stepped over the threshold without a care. “We could rely on each other. I could take care of you.”
She seemed born with a defiant spirit that no wind from any direction could shake. If her parents had treated her kindly and raised her gently in a greenhouse, sheltered from storms, maybe she could have toned down her sharp edges, not made them so glaringly obvious.
But fate was one thing, destiny another. She bowed to neither, and she had taken a path diametrically opposed to the one prescribed for her—living brilliantly alone, refusing to be bound by worldly gazes.
Xie Yingnian laughed. “That line sounds awfully familiar.”
“You said it—you’re the little widow.” As soon as Zhong Jia finished speaking, before her smile could fully bloom, someone lightly smacked her on the lower back.
With so many people around, her yelp cut off halfway and turned into a stifled “Ow” shape with her mouth. She frowned slightly, as if it really stung, but there was no grievance or reproach—just her rubbing the spot herself.
Ow what? Her mouth had formed a perfect little O, like a cat that had just been unexpectedly stepped on.
Xie Yingnian found herself thinking again how it was a shame humans didn’t have tails. Otherwise, Zhong Jia could have wrapped hers around her waist lately—she was so clingy. How had she never noticed this side of her before?
The senior stood there with arms crossed, colleagues filing in behind her to take their seats. They were tucked in an inconspicuous corner. “Learned that quick? Then it wouldn’t be over the top for this elder to give the junior a little discipline, right?”
Her hand fell softly but with mock menace. Zhong Jia caught it gently, her pale fingers hooking Xie Yingnian’s sleeve and giving it a shake. In a tiny voice, she said, “Can you discipline me after we get back?”
Xie Yingnian: “…”
So you really think you need disciplining?
Zhong Jia nudged her shoe tip against Xie Yingnian’s, rubbing her chin against the fuzzy scarf. She glanced around and coughed. “My skin’s super thin. Don’t discipline me here.”
“Don’t you have any temper?”
Xie Yingnian truly didn’t know what to do with her. She should be firmer, or she’d leave room for others’ imaginations, thinking there was a real chance something might develop between them.
But Zhong Jia’s utter compliance was the most disarming way anyone had ever treated her in her life—because from childhood on, it had always been Xie Yingnian yielding to others.
Liang Sufen had tried hard to erase any sense of her adopted daughter living under someone else’s roof. But being too deliberate could backfire, and she couldn’t silence the neighborhood gossip. They ate, wore, and used the same things, but Xie Yingnian was still different from Shi Cainran.
It was Xie Yingnian’s own issue—she felt like she had stolen half her little sister’s happiness, so she had to give it back subtly.
Even adopting a second cat required considering the original one’s feelings—let alone a person.
So when Shi Cainran later told her she hated her, over and over, Xie Yingnian could understand. Perhaps the signs had been there since childhood. Even blood sisters vied for status in front of their parents. Who didn’t crave a little favoritism? Shi Cainran could have had it all to herself, but instead had to share with someone else—and get even a bit less.
Once, fed up with holiday homework, Shi Cainran snapped at Xie Yingnian that she had no right to boss her around. Liang Sufen overheard and made her kneel without dinner.
It was contradictory—adults wanted kids to be sensible but not hold grudges. But kids were young; experiences stuck, good and bad alike, festering into emotional silt that scarred the mind forever.
Chang Xiaosui always griped at Xie Yingnian: Why are you so nice to that girl? Enough already. Back then, you worked yourself to skin and bones for her, and she never cared.
It wasn’t that much. Everything had its causes and effects—she was making amends.
She figured raising a little sister through college would be enough; time to let go. But life had other plans. Just as the obligatory bond between her and Shi Cainran deepened into something wearisome, Shi Cainran’s path turned bumpy: dropping out, withdrawing from school, holing up at home, refusing to go anywhere, directionless and treading water.
After raising a sister came caring for the ailing. Xie Yingnian had grown somewhat passively accommodating toward Shi Cainran, in the eyes of her friends. She was used to it. So when Zhong Jia—who could also be like a little sister—followed her every whim so obediently, it felt a bit off at first. But upon reflection, it was actually quite enjoyable.
Too compliant, it stirred that wicked urge in her genes to tease. Still, she knew she should hold back.
Zhong Jia had no idea that what she liked wasn’t the real her.
Temper? Zhong Jia thought seriously. “It’s okay. I’m very soft.”
Xie Yingnian fell silent for a few seconds, then couldn’t help lowering her gaze. Clearing her throat awkwardly, she said, “…Back up a bit.”
“Not… not that kind of soft. You’re way too improper.” Zhong Jia’s ears turned red from her words.
“You’re the one too close. Go eat first—don’t keep people waiting.”
“Oh, okay.”
The director had her assistant order two kinds of set meals. Their table had fish soup hotpot; the next one over was stir-fried chicken with green peppers. They could mingle dishes between tables. Nothing fancy or gourmet—the sides were downright homey—but maybe because the ingredients were fresh or the vibe was right, everyone really tasted the New Year flavor.
Ai Yilan’s mom had picked her up to go home for the holiday; some relatives lived near Chongxiang. Upstairs, the guys belted out a deep rendition of “Hard to Forget Tonight,” while someone else did impromptu crosstalk. Cheers, applause, foot-stomping shook the stilt house like it might collapse, and the string of colored lights on the wall swayed along.
The Spring Festival Gala countdown drowned in the noisy chatter. Chongxiang hadn’t banned fireworks, so the bangs drew a crowd gawking like country bumpkins. Some shut their eyes to make wishes, only to get teased that those weren’t shooting stars.
At their table of elders, toasting the director without toasting the others wouldn’t do. After a round of drinks, Zhong Jia’s gaze was getting a little glassy. One last cup remained, and she turned—to Xie Yingnian.
“Drink this.” She handed over a can of Wangzai.
Xie Yingnian called the server over for some drinks right when Zhong Jia was halfway through her toasts. She ignored the rowdy cheers from the young folks nearby and let out an “Oh!” as if something had really gone down between the two of them.
Zhong Jia’s ears rang with the endless loop of that drama crew guy’s words: “Tiantian’s quite a bit different from you.” The fish soup in her bowl was thick and creamy white—Xie Yingnian had ladled it for her, and she’d even picked out every last bone.
She was taking care of her again.
The charcoal fire in the rural earthen stove popped and crackled. Jiang Fuwen bent down to adjust the air vent, and the furious bubbles in the boiling fish soup shrank down.
But the girl clutching her wine cup felt the bubbles in her own heart swelling bigger, laced with an uncomfortable sour tang.
“No milk for me. I want booze,” Zhong Jia said. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
With that, she raised her glass and tossed back the local brew that the boss had warned wasn’t exactly light stuff. She figured she was still clear-headed, but she’d gotten the sequence all wrong—not to mention her grip on the cup was shaky. Her hand tilted, clinking sharply against the bowl of the auntie who’d come over to snag some food.
A crisp clink, and moments later came a dull thud. Xie Yingnian stared at the girl slumping headfirst into the crook of her arm. She really had to fight back a laugh. What kind of tolerance was that, still trying to play tough?
It was probably best if she just passed out like this. Anything but a repeat of a few years back, when coaxing this one to sleep had been a nightmare—nursery rhymes, bedtime stories, until Xie Yingnian ran clean out of material. She’d ended up grabbing Zhou Chun’s Child-Rearing Manual at random and reading from it until she was yawning nonstop.
Who knew what heartbreak the girl had run into? A high schooler of sixteen or seventeen, dead drunk, she’d bombarded Zhou Chun with voice messages. Not a single one made sense when played back—just ums and ahs and ohhs, whimpering and mumbling, a torrent of words that were impossible to make out anyway.
Zhou Chun had been annoyed out of her mind and chucked the phone at Xie Yingnian. “Deal with your daughter. Underage binge-drinking!”
“Hey—” Xie Yingnian hit the voice call button right away. Drunk like this, the girl was lucky if she didn’t black out come morning. Xie Yingnian couldn’t even tell it was her voice.
There was a pause of a few seconds on the other end, then came a heartbreakingly pitiful “Mama,” the tail end trembling, hanging in a questioning lilt—like she’d finally reached the one person she’d been waiting for but couldn’t quite believe it. An image flashed in Xie Yingnian’s mind: some helpless little cub mewling for its mother, eyes brimming with tears.
Zhong Jia’s eyes—sigh, they really were something special. So heartbreakingly beautiful.
She let out a sigh. “Fine. Guess I’m really playing mom now.”
Zhou Chun, mask slathered over her face, couldn’t resist twisting the knife. “Who told you to read her the Child-Rearing Manual?”
Xie Yingnian shot back, “…You don’t have any proper books around here anyway. I flipped through that one about tying people up—doesn’t seem useful, though it might work for crabs. Hold on, you hot mama, your kid hasn’t even finished kindergarten and you’re already buying 5-3 workbooks?”
