Chapter 6: Thank You, Auntie

It wasn’t quite accurate to call Xie Yingnian aloof. She wasn’t standoffish or stone-faced. People showed her deference mostly because of her position, but she couldn’t care less about that. In truth, she was remarkably easygoing.

Xie Yingnian’s emotions seemed entirely devoted to her multifaceted roles. In everyday life, she was devoid of joy, sorrow, desire, or demand. Tabloids had splashed stories from ex-lovers claiming she lived like a widow, as if she’d lost all worldly appetites. And yet, if you just took the “cool” part of “aloof,” it made her sound like a dish on the menu—which she kind of was, delectably so. But that face of hers always gave off a chill, even when she smiled; the temperature barely cracked into double digits. Adding “cold” wasn’t false advertising.

Once she’d steadied her, Xie Yingnian withdrew her hand, leaving a patch of slightly lower body heat on Zhong Jia’s wrist that didn’t belong to her.

The woman in the wool coat over a shirt and pencil skirt gazed at Zhong Jia with a half-smile, waiting for her response to “Thank you, Auntie.”

Sure enough, she’d done it again. What an embarrassment.

Zhong Jia glanced at the innocent brick by her feet. She’d grown numb to how every encounter with Xie Yingnian turned her into a comedic fool. Back when they’d bumped into each other at that club, the whole night had been sleepless.

A mix of touched and mortified, she’d lain on her cheap rental bed, tossing and turning like a pancake on the griddle. By the time she was thoroughly fried, sixteen-year-old Zhong Jia finally stopped flipping. She lay on her side, covering her burning face with her right palm, regretting it to her core.

Her mind replayed one conversation on loop:

“Was I too hasty? Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“No, it felt great.”

That should’ve been it. Zhong Jia couldn’t fathom what had possessed her—whether her brain had short-circuited or hunger had clouded her judgment—for her to say to Xie Yingnian, who was only nine years older:

“Thank you, Auntie.”

The crew was still bustling around, preparing for the first scene. Zhong Jia looked at Xie Yingnian, mindful of the onlookers, and hesitated.

Xie Yingnian’s assistant was Jujiu—a girly name for a single woman well into her thirties. She lived for shipping fictional couples and was a pansexual shipper to boot. Seeing her artist dive back into acting after years away, standing face-to-face with this other woman—a half-head height difference, both in black and white outfits—Jujiu’s inner shipper was already stirring.

Jujiu held the hand of a little girl. In the movie, Xie Yingnian had a daughter named Yuan Yuan. Ai Yilan was only five but already a seasoned child actor, playing the younger version of female leads in countless dramas and films. Her eyes were huge and round, utterly adorable.

“Sister.” Ai Yilan toddled over to Xie Yingnian in small steps, sleepy-eyed as she tugged at her clothes.

Even the most experienced kid was still a kid. Getting up this early in the dead of winter without a tantrum was already impressive.

Xie Yingnian handed the script to Jujiu, then crouched down, cupping Ai Yilan’s bottom. The little one wrapped her arms around Xie Yingnian’s neck and flopped limply into her embrace, yawning lazily.

She had this natural magnetism that made people want to lean on her. An innocent child had granted her trust after just over an hour.

“My girl’s got a sweet mouth—calling me ‘sister’ even with our age gap.” Xie Yingnian tossed out the praise casually.

Zhong Jia: “…”

Steel yourself, she thought, and stepped forward to tug at Xie Yingnian’s clothes too. Jujiu, watching from the side, barely stifled a laugh. What, did she want to be picked up and rocked to sleep too?

Xie Yingnian’s gaze lingered on Zhong Jia’s pale, tender fingertips for a few seconds. She smiled. “Didn’t sleep well?”

After fading from the spotlight for over two years, the rumors around Xie Yingnian hadn’t died down. Romantic heartbreak was the least credible one. She’d once been spotted visiting a private sanatorium over Chinese New Year—no photos surfaced, and the speculation fizzled out.

The public leaned toward her being ill. Most people gained weight lounging at home during a break, but she’d gotten much thinner.

Zhong Jia hadn’t expected the misunderstanding. She yanked her hand back as if shocked, staring at the ground. “Uh… you probably couldn’t lift me, right?”

Xie Yingnian’s pupils reflected Zhong Jia’s slender frame. She let out a faint hum through her nose, almost inaudible, as if disagreeing.

“Well, not that. I mean, could we add each other on WeChat? Director Nong suggested we chat more.”

“Sure.” Xie Yingnian agreed readily, probably the same with every collaborator.

Her hands were beautiful and elegant, effortlessly handling the oversized phone with one. She tapped into the production group chat. “What’s your username?”

Zhong Jia: “Meichuan Kuzi.”

She regretted it instantly. Not only did both adults stare at her like she’d lost her mind, but even Ai Yilan turned around with wide-eyed curiosity, suddenly wide awake.

“…It’s my online handle. Mei from plum, chuan from river and mountain, ku from reservoir, zi from child.” Zhong Jia’s explanation trailed off as her head drooped lower, wishing the earth would swallow her.

Her messy bedhead failed to hide her ears at a time like this. In Xie Yingnian’s view appeared a rapidly reddening earlobe. She realized then just how porcelain-pale the other woman’s skin was—impossible to fake a blush like that.

Her upturned eyes curved slightly. She laughed silently.

They added each other as friends. A staffer bellowed over a megaphone for the set to clear, and Zhong Jia headed to the monitoring room.

Nong Siqing was in her forties or fifties, her skin a touch loose, wrinkles evident. Her family background didn’t seem as prominent as some peers’. Past interviews rarely delved into her personal life; the public just knew she was from the south.

She sat on set sipping tea from a complimentary mug.

The room had the AC on. Zhong Jia shrugged off her white jacket. Her fitted sweater revealed a figure that wasn’t voluptuous but far from boyish. Her makeup was fresh and natural today, a stud earring in her right ear, wispy bangs veiling her brows. Propped on her chin, she watched the screen—slim arms, slim legs, yet her aura wasn’t fragile.

“Action—”

Chongxiang perched on the southwestern frontier, cradled by encircling mountains—a remote little county cut off from easy travel.

Deep into the winter of early 2000, a mother and daughter moved into a rundown tenement by the southside farmers’ market. The woman in her thirties had a girl of six or seven.

Rickety three-wheelers jostled noisily outside the train station. Ruan Ting had splurged on a four-seater to fit all their luggage.

She paid the driver without haggling and even bought her nonstop-crying daughter a stick of candied hawthorn.

The square sat high, offering views farther out. Smokestacks from distant factories pierced the gaps between peaks, belching fumes that mingled with damp rain mist. The city wore a perpetual gray haze. Ruan Ting held Yuan Yuan’s hand. She glanced back at the chaotic, dilapidated station without a shred of nostalgia, then turned away with light, eager steps onto unfamiliar ground.

The road into town was pocked with potholes. The glass window didn’t seal tight; slanting wind carried fine drizzle, soon overpowered by the stench of cow and horse dung masking the faint earthy smell.

Ruan Ting, unused to these bumpers, felt her backside ache from the jolts. Yuan Yuan had cried herself out and dozed off in her lap, clutching the half-eaten candied hawthorn. A gap in the floorboard let cold wind in, slowly melting the sugar glaze until it dripped stickily onto her frostbitten hand.

A wave of nausea hit Ruan Ting, acid rising in her stomach. She wanted to retch.

Aiming the bamboo skewer out the window—thwack—the hawthorn plunged into a mud puddle.

She’d fled a humiliating marriage, desperate to shed every last memory. Yet sweetness tugged at the past.

Ten minutes later, the three-wheeler entered the county seat. Roads improved, but streets stayed narrow.

Ruan Ting gently stroked Yuan Yuan’s cheek. Her daughter’s hair needed a trim—she’d spotted a barber shop earlier.

“Chunhe Alley No. 32.” The driver braked, hawking a thick glob of phlegm out the window.

Yuan Yuan stirred awake, rubbing her eyes and mumbling. Ruan Ting got out to grab the luggage—awkward alone, so the driver helped. Chongxiang rained every other day, winter no exception. As the woman leaned into the vehicle with the tenement at her back, she got soaked quick. A dark patch bloomed on her camel wool coat.

The racket drew upstairs neighbors to peer out. Someone started down to help, only to get scolded by a woman stir-frying coal briquettes in the hallway: “Mind your own business. Spot a pretty lady and you run faster than a dog.”

Laughter rippled, then chatter: This woman looked like a refugee—what shady past? Where’s her man?

On the monitor, Xie Yingnian turned from back-to-camera, every frame filtered to perfection, stunningly beautiful. But she’d infused it with Ruan Ting’s grace and emotion, distinct from her own allure.

Umbrella in one hand, Ai Yilan’s in the other, she smiled at the approaching man. Her foxlike eyes lingered with post-laughter charm, captivating even off-screen viewers who forgot to blink. Her stilettos clicked on the steps, red heels and slim ankles mirrored in puddles. Xie Yingnian crossed a threshold like lotus blooms unfurling with each step.

Nong Siqing nodded, pleased. “Good. That’s a wrap for today.”

The image burned into Zhong Jia’s retinas—that smile as Ruan Ting. Open-eyed or closed, it lingered in her heart, slow to fade. She’d binged all of Xie Yingnian’s films and knew she was captivating onscreen, but she’d underestimated the live impact.

It wasn’t just visual; it was the atmosphere. As audience or co-star, anyone could easily get swept into the performance.

She had a natural gift for acting, like it was in her genes—or maybe not. Some folks had no showbiz in eight generations of ancestry, yet still made it big.

With the script spread open across her knees, Zhong Jia watched the playback. The vague image of Ruan Ting in her mind sharpened from the very first second the camera cut in. She began to feel anxious, doubting whether she could pull off the role of Kong Can.

Zhong Jia was a post-00s kid, born in the early 2000s. Her earliest real memories didn’t start until she was eight or nine.

Her acting teacher had always said that bringing a character to life required a ton of preparation: studying the historical context, dissecting her backstory, even imagining her quirks. These were just the basics. Zhong Jia had pored over the script countless times. She could recite every line from memory and nail all the required emotions and actions. But Kong Can still felt worlds away from her own life. Finding common ground with the character wasn’t easy.

Before wrapping for the day, Nong Siqing called the two leads over for a quick chat about tomorrow’s first kissing scene.

Who would kiss whom first? Who would take the initiative? What would their mindsets be? They’d need to experiment with positioning several times. Nong Siqing was a director who obsessed over every visual detail.

Xie Yingnian wore her own clothes. Without the heavy makeup, her face looked a bit pale. A sleeve of her smoky gray sweater poked out, revealing the small-leaf rosewood prayer beads underneath. Their wood grain had an antique elegance, with a blood-red agate inlaid artfully between the beads. They didn’t look like any mass-produced trinket from the store.

She seemed laid-back, her eyelids drooping slightly, but it was clear she’d been paying close attention whenever she chimed in with her thoughts.

Zhong Jia, meanwhile, jotted down notes with fierce focus. Nong Siqing didn’t ask if she’d had similar experiences, but she could guess the answer from the girl’s diligence. She just hoped tomorrow they’d deliver the effect she envisioned.

Most of the crew downstairs had already cleared out. Just as Xie Yingnian was about to climb into her car, someone called her back.

“Is there something you need?” she asked.

Zhong Jia hesitated. “I want to explain why I called you… that back then.”

She had a nagging feeling that Xie Yingnian held grudges. A single offhand comment about her age had stuck with her all these years, still trotted out to rib her even now.

Xie Yingnian’s sweater had a deep V-neck, leaving her smooth neck bare even in the depths of winter. Her collarbones were so exquisite they practically begged to be nipped, but her expression was as impassive as a monk’s. She wore those prayer beads constantly—who knew if she’d actually taken vows.

“Hmm, just say it right here.” Any trace of Ruan Ting had vanished from Xie Yingnian. She stood only a few steps from Zhong Jia, but an invisible wall loomed between them. Her tone wasn’t hostile, just strictly professional, like they were hashing out a contract. It made heartfelt conversation impossible.

Zhong Jia glanced around. “You sure about here?”

She looked at Jujiu, then at A Cha.

Xie Yingnian nodded.

The girl—her clean vibe amplified by the white coat—went quiet for several seconds. Then she drew a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I figured you and Qiao Yingqiu had that kind of relationship. She’s my mom on paper, so I called you Auntie.”