Chapter 13: Through the Night

                             

Jiaqi thought over and over, finally typing a message to Ruan Zhengdong:

"Take good care of yourself."

Four simple words. She spelled them out slowly in her mind, hesitant over the tone, the nasal sound at the end of "care" making her feel self-conscious. Southerners had that subtle embarrassment. She lingered over sending it when her phone lit up unexpectedly. The number was unfamiliar; she assumed it was a customer. But it was Meng Heping.

"Do you have time? Can you come out and meet?"

Her knees went weak. She hadn’t slept well; her body felt soft, almost feverish. Yet she agreed.

She left work late. The endless small tasks in her hands seemed never-ending. Zhou Jing'an asked before leaving:

"Why are you lingering? Aren’t you getting off work?"

Jiaqi paused, stunned. Perhaps she subconsciously wanted to delay, to escape—even though there was nothing to fear. They should have been strangers long ago.

Outside, Meng Heping’s car waited. Seeing it calmed her; perhaps there was nothing else.

He drove her to a newly opened Chaozhou restaurant. The open-stove roasted snails were fresh, the green plum sauce tangy, and the mandarin duck paste crab exquisite. A table full of dishes, yet it was just the two of them.

He had changed. He used to relish a simple plate of vegetables, but over the years, everything about him had shifted.

Jiaqi had no appetite. The luxurious tableware, the elephant-bone chopsticks carved with delicate patterns and tied with thin silver chains, felt cold and distant. She held the chopsticks, the silver chain rustling like a sudden autumn drizzle—thin, sharp, and cold.

"Jiaqi," he said thoughtfully, finally setting down his napkin, "why don’t you eat vegetables?"

She forced a small smile. "I’m losing weight." She set down her chopsticks and looked at him steadily. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He hesitated, then said slowly, "I am engaged to Ruan Jiangxi."

The words slipped in like ice water, leaving a blank in her mind. She paused, thought twice, and finally understood.

"Congratulations," she said softly, picking up a spoonful of the green, steaming dish. The moment it entered her mouth, the soup burned hotter than expected—throat and hair tingling, tears almost burning her eyes. She reached for the ice water, feeling the cold spread through her stomach, a faint ache blossoming.

"Dongzi’s situation is bad," he continued quietly. "So Jiangxi wants to marry soon."

Her phone buzzed in her handbag. Apologizing to Meng Heping, she picked it up. It was Ruan Zhengdong.

"Did Ruan Zhengdong answer?" she murmured to herself.

She stepped into the empty corridor, phone pressed to her ear. At first, he hesitated, calling "Jiaqi?" Then, in his familiar, idle way, he began to chat, talking about trivial matters. She hummed in response, walking past private rooms, frosted glass shining faintly with muffled laughter and singing. Occasionally, a waiter passed by with fragrant dishes.

Suddenly, hunger rose within her, though she only listened to his idle chatter. The corridor walls were silver-gray, patterned with tiny flowers. Under the dim light, each silver petal seemed to pop. She traced them with her fingers, recognizing roses, clustered and blooming.

Finally, she interrupted: "What do you want to eat at night?"

Ruan Zhengdong was momentarily stunned.

"I’ll bring you late-night snacks from the hospital. What do you want?" she asked.

"Are you at home?" he replied.

"Yes. I can make wontons."

After a pause: "I want shepherd’s purse stuffing."

She laughed. "This season? We’ll use cabbage instead."

"Good time?"

"Huh?"

"Are you crying?"

"No." She realized tears had already slipped down her hand. Cold, clear, unstoppable. She wiped them away, but more followed. She squatted in the corridor, silent.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

"I’m fine," she breathed. "I’ll pass it later."

He ended the call, touched up his makeup, and returned to the private room where Meng Heping smoked. The dim lights made the smoke swirl around him, hiding his face. She approached cautiously, almost afraid to disturb him.

The cigarette box reminded her of a camellia pattern from years ago, one that gradually disappeared from the market. Memories of things lost to time surfaced, fleeting yet sharp.

He apologized. She smiled. "It’s okay."

The years between them—politeness, respect, hardship—could never return.

Finally, he drove her back. She asked to stop at a supermarket, bought celery, minced meat, and dough, and returned home to make wontons. She carefully prepared them, arranged them in ingot shapes, boiled water, added seasoning, seaweed, and finally a sprinkle of coriander. The wontons went into a thermos, and she set out again.

At the hospital, the corridor was quiet. She knocked at the ward door—no response. At the nurse’s station, whispers confirmed he had stepped out. Midnight air chilled her as she returned outside, realizing she had left the thermos on the bench. Luckily, a kind taxi driver allowed her to rush back.

Back in the corridor, she glimpsed him through a narrow gap. He sat deeply on the sofa, a long cigarette ash still in his mouth. Her thermos rested on the table, two painted ducklings warm under the soft lamp light.

He carefully traced the ducklings’ outline, lost in memory, smiling softly. Jiaqi pressed her head to the door, tears flowing uncontrollably.

"Who is it?"

"It’s me," she whispered. The door opened, bathed in warm orange light. He remained sideways, hesitant.

"Why come back?" he asked.

"I couldn’t wait for you," she said softly.

He smiled faintly. "Maybe one day it will be gone."

Her heart ached. She coughed. "Let’s eat wontons."

The wontons were overcooked, soup thickened, coriander blackened. She sighed. "I’ll make it for you tomorrow." She turned to leave.

He suddenly caught her, strong and urgent. The thermos flew, bones clattering, soup spilling. He kissed her fiercely, desperate, a mix of tears, bitter and sweet.

Finally releasing her, he whispered, "Please forgive me. I don’t want to let you go again."

She hesitated, then kissed him softly. The warmth of lips, the scent of tobacco, the soft entanglement of bodies—each second burned, knowing it could vanish.

The nurse arrived, awkward and flustered. Jiaqi laughed silently, then aloud, embarrassed.

"You’re still laughing!" he teased.

"Bring me the wontons to eat, I’m hungry," he said.

"All spilled, it’s your fault," she replied.

"My fault," he admitted with a smile—and kissed her again.

"Why are you endless?" she protested.

"I’m hungry. Let’s go get a late-night snack."

Despite the hour, they slipped quietly past the nurse station, tiptoeing like thieves, laughing softly. At a small late-night skewer shop, the scent of sizzling meat and stinky tofu filled the air. Jiaqi ate with relish, coaxing him to try the flavors.

"After this, don’t want to kiss me again," he said.

"Who wants to kiss you?" she teased.

"I do," he replied with a mischievous smile.

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