Nong Siqing not only treated everyone to New Year’s Eve dinner but also gave the crew two extra days off, with work resuming only on the third day of the lunar new year.
She left early that day too, leaving the bill to her assistant. The driver at the next table heard the movement, set down his bowl and chopsticks, and rose from the long bench. He headed to the counter first to retrieve the two jars of homemade earthen liquor they’d paid for—brewed by the boss himself, sealed with red clay in rustic terracotta pots, the chipped edges along the rims almost like deliberate artistry.
“Director, they’re still boiling dumplings. Aren’t you having any?” Gong Wenyin was as dense as they came; she didn’t pick up that Nong Siqing was off to meet someone. Even after the assistant director kicked her twice under the table, she remained oblivious, slurping up a mouthful of sweet potato noodles from the pot.
Nong Siqing knew the rest of the crew was wondering too, even if they hadn’t voiced it.
She’d never intended to hide anything from the start of preparations, but spelling it out for no reason would just seem odd. At her age, chatting with the younger ones like Zhong Jia or Gong Wenyin felt like lecturing. With Jiang Fuwen, even though their ages were close, his deep respect meant she had to keep up appearances. The only one remotely suitable was Xie Yingnian, but that woman had seemed to see through life and death years ago—nothing held her interest anymore.
Things had improved lately, though. The dark clouds that had gathered around Xie Yingnian had been effortlessly scattered by someone. The female director’s gaze drifted across the tables to Zhong Jia, who was sleeping peacefully against Xie Yingnian on the sofa. Once again, she thought of Qiao Yingqiu.
At first, she’d only thought they looked alike. Now, she couldn’t help feeling it was fate—or a karmic tie. It was the same obsessive devotion as her mother… only Xie Yingnian hardly seemed like good husband material either.
“An old friend lives nearby. I’m going to pay her a New Year’s visit.”
With that simple farewell, Nong Siqing left. The door swung open and shut, letting in a blast of bracing cold air.
They’d been eating for over half an hour, and those with weaker stamina had already left the table. An old twenty-something-inch TV played awkward skits. The boss had tossed some chestnuts onto the fire tongs; the charcoal roasted their skins until they burst open. The little yellow dog in the back room, limping on one leg, lay by the stove gnawing a bone.
It was all warm and cozy. The drinkers’ rowdy shouts had quieted. Drowsiness crept in, and Xie Yingnian’s eyelids grew too heavy to lift. In her haze, she heard someone nearby shooting the breeze:
“Who’s Director Nong off to see? I always feel like she’s spent a ton of time in Chongxiang. Her accent’s got a bit of it too.”
“I asked Little Liu the driver. He said it’s the old lady in the village who does the nuo opera.”
“Nuo opera? What’s that?”
“Uh, like jumping gods? I’m not sure. Maybe Director Nong believes in that stuff. Didn’t she mention in an interview once that she’d been enlightened by a high monk?”
The prayer beads on Xie Yingnian’s wrist clinked softly against each other. The person pillowed uncomfortably on her leg shifted a little. Xie Yingnian looked down. “Awake?”
No answer. Zhong Jia’s breathing remained steady and even.
Wonderful Cloud Temple.
Nong Siqing had a fan who was also an editor at a publishing house. She’d been a reporter early on and had interviewed the female director—who’d had a profound influence on Chinese cinema—dozens of times over the years. Some stayed on films; others delved into personal matters. With Nong Siqing’s permission, the editor compiled them into a book, complete with rare film manuscripts. It became a bestseller that year.
Due to some sensitive content, a reprint was impossible. Secondhand copies fetched sky-high prices, and Zhong Jia had gone to great lengths—and spent a pretty penny—to get her hands on a PDF version.
One piece covered Nong Siqing’s early years in just a few lines. Zhong Jia had highlighted the mention of Wonderful Cloud Temple in her reading app, but the info was disappointingly sparse.
All it said was that Wonderful Cloud Temple was in Jincheng—not one of those bustling famous ones. There was a monk there named Mengcan.
This female director wasn’t some child prodigy who’d shot to fame young. She’d bloomed late; her early films neither won acclaim nor sold tickets. She’d even considered switching careers back then, but Mengcan’s enlightenment convinced her to stick with filmmaking. Her next movie was a big hit.
Nong Siqing never outright called Mengcan an enlightened master in the interview, and the editor was meticulous enough not to embellish. Still, coming from such a legendary director, the story elevated Mengcan to near-mythic status.
On the morning of New Year’s Day, Zhong Jia wasn’t hungover at all. She’d gotten a bit tipsy the night before and really had face-planted, but the fireworks banging outside woke her soon after. In her groggy state, she’d caught something about nuo opera and high monks, and for no reason at all, her mind jumped to the prayer beads Xie Yingnian always wore.
When Xie Yingnian asked if she was awake, Zhong Jia kept her eyes shut and hesitated. Lying might get her in real trouble if caught, so better to admit it—or just stay curled in her arms. Either way, as long as it was with her, she’d be happy.
A pure chestnut aroma wafted to her nose—not like the overly sugary ones sold on the street.
Someone offered Xie Yingnian one. Zhong Jia heard her reply in a lowered voice, “No thanks. Oh, and Liu-ge, could you close the window? She’s asleep; she might catch a chill.”
Someone had been smoking by the window earlier, and Xie Yingnian’s right hand was serving as pillow for the drunken girl.
It was so warm. Zhong Jia cracked one eye open just a slit. The “Happy New Year” English string lights on the wall blinked on and off, her heartbeat racing even faster, as if eager to leap ahead to midnight and ring in the new year with fresh experiences.
Zhong Jia had no family to visit for New Year’s. Once awake, she’d fixated on Wonderful Cloud Temple. She knew it was unreasonable—first, the link between the temple and the prayer beads might be her overreaching; second, speculating on someone’s privacy like that was rude. But would Xie Yingnian open up if she asked directly?
The woman hid herself too deeply—good or bad, she shared nothing. These past few years, she’d been ascetic as those netizen jokes about lay Buddhists, the kind utterly detached from worldly desires. There was this faint, worrisome self-destructive streak about her that tugged at the heart yet left one helpless.
I want to get close to her. Understand her.
Wonderful Cloud Temple really was obscure. Half the search results tied back to Nong Siqing’s biography. Zhong Jia slotted it into her holiday plans.
Her messy split from her old job had hit her paycheck, and after paying back Mr. Xie, she’d scrimped a bit from her emergency savings—never too early to plan ahead—to buy a new phone. Webpages and WeChat ran smoothly even with both open. The Make-Do Band folks were on video call, hashing out the digital album recording schedule.
Chen Kuang was up this early only because she and Ju Zai had gone back to their hometown—a small county with a bit of cash to spare, but still full of old-school New Year’s customs.
With both girls about to graduate, their parents—who’d been neighbors across the hall and were now in-laws—were already planning the wedding. Same-sex marriage had officially kicked in after the new year, and wedding companies had rolled out packages early. It wasn’t just shopping around three; the options were overwhelmingly flashy, an arms race of over-the-top names leaving people dazzled.
Chen Kuang had been woken by firecrackers but wasn’t annoyed—in fact, she looked spry, making Ju Zai’s massive dark circles next to her seem like she’d been wrung dry the night before. Strangers might peg Chen Kuang as the top.
Once they’d settled the plans, the group started chatting idly. Wa Si had gone home to her parents. She’d planned to save on travel by crashing at school and grabbing the holiday stipend, but the dorms were under renovation. Her spot was two hours behind the capital’s time zone; outside her window, it was still pitch dark.
“Whoa, this song slaps. Killer lineup for lyrics and music—even got producer Ding Zhi on board. No wonder they’re splashing ads everywhere.” Chen Kuang and Ju Zai shared a video feed. Ju Zai sat at the computer desk taking an online class—probably finance—showing just her pale profile, a blatant hickey on her neck.
A paper fu character was pasted backward on the window, cannon cracker scraps on the sill. A bowl of tangyuan sat by Ju Zai’s hand, with just a plain white porcelain spoon. The two were sharing it.
Wa Si’s natural curls were a bird’s nest; she’d combed them a few times to no avail and just left it.
She’d listened to the song too. Music apps had it blasting on splash screens with this huge promo, but the artist was some no-name girl—Shi Cainran, didn’t ring a bell.
“This voice… where’ve I heard it?” Wa Si frowned, puzzling it out, then tapped into the artist’s page. Spotting the rep track, she went, “Huh, that viral net idol from before?”
Chen Kuang: “Vegetable Dumpling, yeah. Ju Zai said she sings great.”
Her future wife wore gold-rimmed glasses, stylus pen in hand for notes. At school, she was the stern, no-nonsense ice queen type, yet Chen Kuang had sweet-talked her into matching piggy pajamas.
“You can brew jealousy from nothing. When did I say that?” Ju Zai smiled faintly. She resembled springtime willow by a misty lakeside—features all artistic grace. A walking medicine cabinet, too, so no one bought Chen Kuang’s claims she was a beast in bed. Instead, folks shot back that Chen Kuang was the toughest field to plow.
Zhong Jia closed her browser and clicked the group link. She didn’t care about genre or borders when it came to music; her ear for songs was sharp. After the intro, the first line hit, and she pegged Shi Cainran’s voice right away—the same Vegetable Dumpling the makeup sister on set loved.
Shi Cainran, Vegetable Dumpling. A pun.
“Zhong Tiantian, that look on your face is sus. You know her?” Singers tended to feel a kinship—or rivalry. Chen Kuang thought this peer had chops; she tapped the wiki. Same school? Made her a senior? For real? Never heard of her.
Zhong Jia: “Don’t know her. Saw her name in the proposal last time. That show I mentioned invited her too—important guest, even. Guess we’ll be rivals come time.”
“I won’t chat with you all for now. I have something to do and need to head out.”
She waved goodbye to the people on the screen, ended the video call, slipped into the outfit she had prepared early that morning, touched up her makeup on her fair and rosy face, tucked the pipa into her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and headed out the door.
The New Year’s Eve dinner she had originally planned with others had been rescheduled for today. Zhong Jia had found a short-term rental; she booked it for a day, eager to cook for Xie Yingnian.
Right on schedule, a car pulled up outside the hotel. The girl bounced down the steps, first stowing the pipa in the back seat before sliding into the passenger seat. As the door clicked shut, the familiar song poured from the car’s speakers in the enclosed space, causing her seatbelt-strapping motion to falter.
The stereo was linked to the phone, propped up on its stand. Zhong Jia caught a glimpse of the play count. The track had only gone public less than half a day ago, yet Xie Yingnian—who seemed indifferent to everything—had already listened to it several times.
Her hand clenched the seatbelt tightly, forgetting to buckle it. Her voice came out a little muffled. “Do you really like this singer that much?”
