Chapter 9: Sharing an Umbrella in the Rain

She rose early that morning. Chongxiang’s winter was both cold and damp—a simple yawn drew a puff of white breath from her mouth, like soggy mist. Jujiu glanced out the window. Rain again.

The fine drizzle stretched on endlessly, tossed this way and that by the wind. Mimicking the local dialect, she called it “fuzzy rain.”

Xie Yingnian asked, “We there yet?”

Jujiu’s eyelids twitched slightly. The next moment, she opened her eyes and sat up. The beige checkered blanket slid down to her knees.

The studio hadn’t taken on work for over two years. With the resumption, there had been major staff changes, but thankfully, the core manager and assistant were the same as before. Boss Xie was quite humane; she hadn’t used contracts to pressure employees struggling to make ends meet. Before heading to Breezy Temple, she had even called a meeting, telling everyone they were free to stay or go.

Xie Yingnian wore a black haori jacket embroidered with white cranes soaring among clouds. The gold threads on the collar gleamed faintly. Even draped over a hanger in a plastic bag, it exuded elegance. This one was just a Breezy Temple merchandise item, available in their online shop—the temple master had given it to her.

Breezy Temple sat on Xin Ting Mountain in the suburbs of the capital. The temple had stood for centuries. The current master, dubbed Sanhua Daoleng, kept a famous calico cat. Forums on the supernatural always claimed he was incredibly spiritual, though no one could explain exactly how.

Compared to calling her carefree, most people at the studio thought Xie Yingnian had lost her mind. A multi-award-winning actress at twenty-six or twenty-seven, throwing it all away to become a nun after seeing through the vanities of the world?

Zhou Chun had made a trip to Xin Ting Mountain and returned empty-handed. She promptly turned her attention to other artists at the studio, as if she’d completely given up on Xie Yingnian.

When Jujiu asked what was going on, Zhou Chun snorted coldly. “She’s even picked her Daoist name.”

“Eh? What’s it called?”

“Jiese Zi.”

Jujiu was stumped for a long moment. “Does she even need to abstain…? She’s always been asexual. Weren’t all her exes because of that?”

She didn’t dare mention it, but the model after Qiao Yingqiu had been Xie Yingnian’s first real girlfriend. She’d only bought Bliss once after that, and it had long since expired.

“I’m kidding,” Zhou Chun said. She harbored deep prejudice against Sanhua Daoleng. “That cult leader said her worldly attachments haven’t been severed.”

“Then why stay there?”

“To get treated, duh.” Zhou Chun was fuming, snorting through her nose like she was about to blow steam. “Doesn’t the internet say Breezy Temple’s great at curing madness?”

Madness? Jujiu thought. Xie Yingnian was perfectly normal. It was her sister who was truly unhinged. Come to think of it, that one hadn’t had an episode in ages.

The windshield wipers swished back and forth. Chongxiang’s sky seemed to have sprung a leak—this rain would probably last all day. There weren’t many people on the roads yet, but shops along the streets were opening one by one. They passed an old street thick with the smell of daily life, the rattle of rolling shutters rising and falling.

Jujiu said, “Hey, there’s actually an Xingfa Supermarket there?”

The set’s version of Xingfa Supermarket was just a slightly larger corner store. The driver slowed down. Xie Yingnian peered out the car window. This Xingfa Supermarket actually looked somewhat like a proper one, though the storefront still screamed small-time family business, all straight lines and no frills.

“Director Nong’s such a perfectionist. She even has to scout the real thing?” Jujiu tsked.

Xie Yingnian withdrew her gaze, but the doubt in her heart only grew stronger.

She saw Nong Siqing as her patron, someone she’d repay with lifelong gratitude. If the director needed a role filled, all she had to do was ask, and Xie Yingnian would come running. This time was no different.

Over the phone, Nong Siqing had said she’d originally lined up a perfect candidate. You Yingxi was a tad young, but she’d nailed the vibe in the audition. Unfortunately, the project kept getting delayed. The actress was known in the industry as a fragile beauty, and in the depths of a harsh winter, she looked half-dead already. Her wife wouldn’t let her join the crew no matter what.

The couple was a model for the industry—a director and an actress who respected each other’s careers and rarely interfered. Unless things were dire, Jiang Wanzhi probably wouldn’t have wanted to offend such a venerable director.

“Little Xie, I can’t waste any more time. This film has to release next year.” Nong Siqing had sighed.

In the background, someone with slurred speech shouted something. Nong Siqing covered the phone. Silence followed for a long while before her voice returned. She rushed through a goodbye, as if some emergency needed handling right away.

That was when Xie Yingnian had bid farewell to Sanhua Daoleng, left Xin Ting Mountain, and returned to the entertainment world.

The driver suddenly asked, “Teacher Xie, didn’t you say yesterday you’d go with Tiantian? How come it’s just you?”

Xie Yingnian replied, “She left earlier.”

She’d gotten a WeChat message that morning. Zhong Jia had probably been hurt by the reactions from the two adults and the kid yesterday. She’d stealthily changed her WeChat name from Meichuan Kuzi to Nimeichuan Kuzi.

You could say this little sister had a rebellious streak, but it only showed in these tiny details. Her messages were perfectly polite. With the misunderstanding cleared up, she dropped the “auntie” bit and stuck to “Teacher Xie.” She hadn’t said why she’d gone ahead, but Xie Yingnian could guess: nerves.

Xie Yingnian glanced at the bag of autumn pears on the seat beside her—local ones, cheap and sweet. She’d bought a few kilos on the way from the hotel. Two days ago, Zhou Chun had sent her Zhong Jia’s expenses from last month, including a hefty transfer. It worried her sick. The girl was all skin and bones, barely eating, scrimping and saving to pay back the money.

The problem was, Boss Xie hadn’t even asked her to.

Back then, Qiao Yingqiu had been driven mad by a scumbag man. Wanting her son back was pride; not wanting her daughter was also pride. Innocent as Zhong Jia was, she was still Zhong Kefei’s child. Qiao Yingqiu couldn’t treat her normally.

From an outsider’s perspective, Xie Yingnian couldn’t say much. After all these years, with Zhong Jia grown up, she sometimes wondered at Qiao Yingqiu’s grave: How could you bear it?

Such a good kid, who loved music so much, yet one ear deafened by an irresponsible mother.

Zhong Jia never complained or held grudges. Calling her by name was disrespectful at worst, but Qiao Yingqiu had brought it on herself. In front of Qian Peiqing, though, Zhong Jia was the picture of obedience.

That overly obedient girl in Xie Yingnian’s eyes was currently standing in the rain.

A crowd huddled under the eaves. Shi Heng had handled his family matters and arrived. He couldn’t fathom it. “What’s wrong with this kid? What if she catches a cold?”

Nong Siqing was used to actors’ quirks—singers were especially eccentric. She chuckled. “The rain’s not heavy. She says she’s chasing a feeling. Let her be.”

At the entrance to Thousand Threads Hair Salon, Zhong Jia squatted on the ground, small and frail, looking utterly pitiful. Strangers might think the director had kicked her out.

Single-digit temperatures wrapped in winter rain made it even colder. Zhong Jia still wore her own clothes. She gazed at the mountains behind the low buildings, peak after peak. Had people from that era all yearned to escape like Kong Can? Why had Kong Can fallen for Ruan Ting?

Lost in random thoughts, Zhong Jia’s hair grew wet from the rain. Her short, glossy down jacket repelled water, but she still felt cold. She wanted to hug her arms to fend off the chill.

A Cha started toward her with an umbrella but stopped when she saw a woman approaching through the swirling drizzle. The woman walked with such graceful poise it was a pleasure to watch.

In her peripheral vision, a pair of black Chelsea boots stopped beside her. Zhong Jia’s breathing slowed involuntarily. She caught the familiar scent of wild jasmine. The rain overhead seemed blocked out, even the gloomy sky lightened, as if carving out a private world for just the two of them.

Xie Yingnian held a black umbrella tilted toward Zhong Jia, letting raindrops fall on her own shoulder. She smiled. “Director Nong throwing a tantrum first thing? She won’t even let you wait inside?”

Zhong Jia’s arms paused mid-air before wrapping around the long legs clad in gray checkered trousers.

She couldn’t help rubbing her cheek lightly against them, then felt it was too forward. She scrambled for a plausible excuse for the unexpected move. “Ruan Ting.”

Somehow, in that impulsive moment, enlightenment struck: love had no reason. Liking someone was the most irrational emotion of all.

Xie Yingnian smiled and asked, “So obedient, rehearsing on your own?”

Zhong Jia felt dizzy, probably from squatting too long. Her actions had outpaced her thoughts. Now calm, she had no idea why she’d hugged and nuzzled like that, even wetting Xie Yingnian’s pants.

She pulled back, releasing her hold, and stared at the damp patch on the fabric. “Sorry.”

“The pants? No big deal. It’s raining—everything gets dirty easily today,” Xie Yingnian said.

The wind kept blowing, and even tilting the umbrella let rain slip in. She bent slightly, lowering her arm to cover Zhong Jia as much as possible, exposing half her own back to the downpour.

The girl’s gaze dropped to the ground, missing the thoughtful gesture. Her uneven hair, soaked like wet dog fur, only softened her pitiful look for those few seconds of clinging warmth. She wouldn’t let herself seem too clingy.

More like a quiet, independent cat than a loyally affectionate dog. Facing a strange biped who didn’t speak her language, even if she liked them, she wouldn’t casually roll over and bare her soft belly.

“Director Nong’s the inspiration type—few hard rules, which actually makes it tough to play. But you’re a newbie, so she won’t be too harsh.” Xie Yingnian comforted her, pausing before asking, “Why stand out here in the rain?”

Zhong Jia said earnestly, without fear of seeming crazy, “I’m the inspiration type too. The room feels stuffy. Back at school, I’d go out in the rain or sun to finish homework when I was stuck. Maybe I’m a plant—gotta photosynthesize.”

A plant?

Xie Yingnian was genuinely amused. She actually laughed out loud. No matter her joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure, she rarely showed excessive emotion. Calling her aloof was polite; to someone as close as Zhou Chun, it was more accurate to say she looked like a corpse buried up to the neck in soil.

“Is it really that funny?” Zhong Jia asked. “Everyone has their own quirks. Isn’t that normal?”

Zhong Jia propped her hands on the tips of her shoes and tilted her head back to look up at Xie Yingnian. In her line of sight, besides the hand holding the umbrella, another hand now appeared.

In a matter of seconds, the visual was replaced by touch. Xie Yingnian’s soft palm pressed against the damp skin at the back of Zhong Jia’s neck, where rain had gathered. One hand was long, the neck slender. Her fingertips inadvertently brushed over the side of the neck, where the pulse throbbed.

Rain accumulated on the umbrella’s surface trickled down, dripping lightly by her ear with a soft patter. Zhong Jia realized that Xie Yingnian was gently rubbing the back of her neck. The pads of her fingers seemed to have faint calluses, making the sensation even more pronounced.

She stared at Xie Yingnian, unsure how to react.

“Are you sure you’re a plant?” Xie Yingnian paused in her words, glancing meaningfully at something behind her before chuckling softly. “Where’s your tail?”

Zhong Jia blinked. “I don’t have…”

Xie Yingnian’s smile deepened. Zhong Jia lowered her head under the intensity of that gaze, forgetting what she wanted to say. Her ear tips quickly grew hot.

~~~