At eight o’clock in the evening, Chen Ziyou was the only one left in the vast office space. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic tapping of her keyboard.
The security guard had already made his second patrol upstairs. Hearing his footsteps, she looked up. Embarrassed, he scratched his head:
“Miss Chen, still working overtime? Go home early—it’s not safe for girls to leave late alone.”
She smiled softly, thanked him, and he left, pleased as if he had received a gift.
In this unit—half organ, half enterprise—Chen Ziyou was considered “safe.” She was attractive, but in a quiet way, never ostentatious. Her business ability was solid, her work attentive. She neither competed nor shirked, and though not adept at self‑promotion, she was reliable.
She rarely joined gatherings, never spoke of herself, never signed up for competitions, and never chased promotions. She took frequent leave, so the title of “star employee” never fell to her. Mysterious, low‑key, shy, she had no close friends, but no enemies either.
The public phone rang suddenly. She let it ring three times before answering.
It was her immediate boss—young, early thirties, foreign‑educated, fond of English names. “Carol, still working so late? Who else is there?”
“I’m the only one now,” she replied.
“Mike and I are working overtime too. Can we invite you out for dinner later?”
She declined politely. Not only to avoid gossip, but because today was the first day of her period. The air conditioning had chilled her, and though she pressed a hot water bottle to her abdomen, the pain was severe. She forced herself to work, not out of dedication, but because she had leave tomorrow and didn’t want to delay the team’s progress.
Later, a knock came. Expecting the security guard, she called out, “I’ll leave soon.”
But it was Lin Mai, the boss’s assistant, carrying two white lunch boxes. “Sister Chen, the head said you hadn’t eaten, so he ordered extra. He also asked me to tell you to go home early—finish tomorrow if you can’t tonight.”
She stood quickly, thanked him, and accepted the food. Inside were dishes she liked. She wondered—someone remembered her preferences.
She thought of calling to thank her boss, but decided against it. Better to appear rude than meddlesome.
She ate a little, enough to ease her pain, then returned to work.
Her phone rang again. The ringtone was soft, but in the empty office it was abrupt. She recognized the number—Jiang Liu.
“Miss Chen, are you at home now?”
“I’m working overtime.”
“Mr. Jiang asked me to deliver something. I’m waiting downstairs.”
“I’ll be home in half an hour.”
She exhaled, turned the desk calendar’s page. Unlike her colleagues, she kept a thick daily calendar, tearing off each day to start anew. Yet her sharp memory clung to dates she wished to forget—national tragedies, personal wounds. Jiang Licheng, too, remembered numbers, and delighted in reminding her of those she longed to erase.
She finished her report, sent it, and rose. Her legs were numb, her abdomen worse. At thirty degrees, she felt cold.
She walked to the parking lot, stood by her car, and decided not to drive. Tomorrow she could fetch it. She left the compound, waiting for a taxi.
A car stopped—it was her young boss, Chi Nuo. “You didn’t drive today? I’ll give you a ride.”
She hesitated, then accepted. He drove her into her community, patient and considerate. She asked him to stop by a small supermarket, thanked him, and waved until his car disappeared.
Turning toward her building, headlights flashed. She shielded her eyes. A car door opened. Nervous, she saw Jiang Liu—and remembered Jiang Licheng’s promised “gift.”
She had forgotten. Jiang Liu was always a shadow, easy to ignore.
Jiang Licheng’s gifts were never kind. A rattlesnake bracelet, glittering green in moonlight, had once made her scream. A jeweled necklace hung around a Persian kitten—she was allergic to cats. His gifts were ingenious cruelties.
Tonight, Jiang Liu gestured to the car. She suspected something large in the back seat. A grotesque dog? A funerary statue? She hoped, absurdly, for a Hello Kitty plush to ease her pain.
She opened the door—only to find Jiang Licheng himself, seated, moonlight sculpting his face. He looked at her, lips pressed thin, expression unreadable. Slowly, mockery curved his mouth. “Surprise?”
“Accident,” she answered honestly.
Satisfied, he shifted aside. “Get in. Do you need me to open the door for you again?”
She obeyed silently. Jiang Liu took the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away.
Jiang Licheng was rarely abroad, despite rumors. He disliked flying, jet lag, climate shifts. Yet he appeared infrequently, which suited her.
The car was quiet, save for the ticking indicators. Another car followed—his escort. He ordered Jiang Liu out, then took the wheel himself.
She moved to the passenger seat, fastening her belt. She knew her place.
His driving was elegant in form, reckless in execution. She had once vomited after a long ride. Tonight, she lowered the window, dizzy.
“Motion sickness?” he asked.
“I’m not convenient today. Can I go home?” she said softly.
“It’s just a meal. What does inconvenience matter?” His tone was warm and cold at once.
“I’ve eaten.”
“Eat with me again.”
She explained meekly: “The boxed lunch at the unit.”
He studied her face, distracted, until she cried out, “Look at the road!” A truck roared past, narrowly missing.
Her palms sweated. He smirked. “So you are afraid of death?”
“I’m not afraid. I just hope to die better.”
“Dead is dead. Can you still care?”
“The appearance of death is too ugly. It frightens you in the mirror of the underworld.”
“You believe in ghosts and gods?”
“Don’t you?”
He snorted, silent.
He drove her to the old town, hidden among neon towers. The bungalows evoked unpleasant memories. Pain throbbed in her abdomen; she sat motionless.
Jiang Licheng watched her quietly, then stepped out, circled the car, and opened her door.
Chen Ziyou reached for the car door to steady herself, but Jiang Licheng caught her hand and helped her out with gentlemanly ease. She froze, unsettled by the unexpected courtesy.
The shop they entered was starkly simple—snow‑white walls bare of decoration, terrazzo floors scrubbed clean, log tables and chairs, coarse cloth curtains. It hardly seemed like a place he would frequent.
Jiang Licheng asked with interest, “Does this place remind you of childhood?”
Dryly, she replied, “No.”
“I forgot—you were born a young lady. You probably never lived simply.” His words were sarcastic, but not untrue. She had indeed lived a worry‑free life. While classmates longed for new clothes at New Year, she discarded countless garments worn only once. When others cherished their first Barbie doll, she fretted that her cabinet was overflowing.
A middle‑aged man, clearly the boss, greeted them politely—“Good evening Madam, good evening Mr. Jiang”—and left without asking for an order.
Jiang Licheng explained patiently, “Only a few dishes are served each day. You eat whatever comes.”
Chen Ziyou smiled faintly. “There are actually people more arrogant than you.”
“There’s no choice. Seats are booked a week in advance. The cabbage tofu here is the best. You’ve been vegetarian, haven’t you?”
The dishes were ordinary home cooking, simple yet skillful. No wonder Jiang Licheng, who rarely bent, came here. But Chen Ziyou had no appetite. Pain gnawed at her; she barely touched her chopsticks.
He ate slowly, methodically, occasionally remarking, “This tastes like what my mother made before she died.”
She set her chopsticks down, unmoved. The boss, noticing, asked gently, “Is the dish not to Madam’s taste?”
“She’s unwell,” Jiang Licheng answered.
“Does Madam need anything else?”
“Millet porridge, hot. If it’s not trouble,” she said politely.
“Not at all,” the boss replied warmly.
When he left, Jiang Licheng studied her. “Strange. You’re nothing special, yet he takes extra care. The women I’ve brought here before never received such treatment.”
She endured silently, wishing only to go home, shower, curl up with a hot water bottle and a comedy film. But Jiang Licheng lingered, unhurried.
“You really won’t eat? This boss is emigrating soon. You won’t have another chance.”
“There are many things I haven’t eaten,” she said coolly.
He ignored the provocation. “You look uncomfortable. Your face is ugly.”
She stayed silent.
“Smile, little girl. Isn’t today memorable?”
Her patience snapped. “Jiang Licheng, can you stop dragging me into your nostalgia? Don’t mention the past.”
He sighed. “The past is unbearable, isn’t it?”
“If it were you, would you always remember your innocent, stupid youth?” she demanded.
“Innocent and stupid?” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “I don’t recall such a past. But if I had one, I’d remember it often.” His smile widened.
She bit her lip, suppressing anger. He continued softly, “Chen Ziyou, though you were silly then, you were much cuter than now.”
Her porridge arrived, steaming, with a plate of pea yellow.
“Do you want brown sugar?” he asked.
“Rock sugar, if possible.”
“Send it right away,” he told the boss, attentive as ever.
She sipped slowly, warmth easing her pain. She reflected she should not be too stiff with him. Observing his face, she found him unusually generous tonight.
Then he said, “Today is my birthday.”
She blinked. “Do you want me to see your ID?”
He smiled. She believed him. “Happy birthday,” she said sincerely.
“That’s it?”
She swallowed her retort, spotted a matchbox, lit one, stuck it into the pea yellow, and pushed it toward him. “If you’d told me earlier, I could have bought a cake.”
He blew out the match without hesitation. She stared, surprised.
“Do you think I made a wish?” he asked innocently.
She was startled, expression blank. Fortunately, his phone rang.
He answered nearby, voice gentler than usual. “Mm. Got it. Good.” The caller was a woman. Chen Ziyou heard her say, “Cheng, I miss you very much.”
He replied softly, “Recuperate well. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Chen Ziyou was oddly satisfied. She hoped he truly had a confidante. If so, her freedom was near.
When he returned, her face was softer, even happy. He seemed relaxed too. The tense dinner ended in harmony.
But instead of returning home, she was taken to his villa.
The housekeeper led her upstairs, polite, as if familiar. She listed necessities—painkillers, hot water bottle, feminine products—without shame.
She bathed long and hot, wrapped herself in a towel, and settled in his vast, cold bedroom. The villa was exquisite yet empty, more museum than home.
She raised the air conditioner, curled with a hot water bottle, and watched old films. Gong Li’s youthful face flickered on screen, memories of her parents taking her to the cinema surfacing. It had been the only movie they watched together as a family. Ordinary then, but now, looking back, it felt achingly melancholic.
As a child, Chen Ziyou hadn’t understood much of the plot. She only remembered the moment Gong Li appeared—young, beautiful, dressed in white as light as snow, like a dream. In despair, she met the love of her life, fought desperately, and finally flew into the flames with a radiant smile.
The screen blazed red—red clothes, red fire. The TV remained muted. Chen Ziyou knew the famous episode Burning the Heart with Fire was playing, but she didn’t want to hear it.
I too have done something foolish, she thought, like a moth to flame. I thought I was desperate, abandoned, but was saved—because new despair replaced the old.
Life was endless, metabolic. Nothing was ever truly final. She could laugh at her former self now, with a detached, almost entertaining mentality.
The film grew dull as it shifted to modern scenes. The room remained dark, only the crowded screen flickering silently. Sleepiness overcame her.
In a haze, she dreamed of childhood. On her birthday, she wore gauzy skirts, relatives and friends gathered, gifts piled high. Her grandfather crowned her with gold and diamonds, smiling: “Our little princess has grown another year.” She kissed his cheek.
The scene shifted—another banquet, ethereal white. A man’s blurred face, clear voice: “Actually, today is my birthday.”
Embarrassed, she said, “What should I do? I didn’t prepare a gift.”
Though he reassured her, she felt ashamed. Then suddenly, the gift appeared—herself, bound in ribbons, unable to move.
“Do you like it?” the gift whispered.
The birthday star laughed softly, tugging the ribbon tighter, strangling her chest and neck. Breathless, she waited on the edge of suffocation. Then he said, “Yes, I like it.”
She woke violently, gasping. Her hands had pressed her chest in sleep, cutting off her breath. Sweat soaked her pajamas.
She knelt on the bed, calming her pulse. She thought to check the time, but her phone lay in her bag across the room. She glanced at the window, remembering the curtains were open. It was the fifteenth day of the lunar month; she could judge the hour by the moon.
Her heart jolted. A figure sat by the window, outlined by moonlight. Jiang Licheng. Her body reacted before her mind—her heartbeat thundered like a drum.
He showed no shame at appearing unannounced in the dead of night. Casually, he said, “On such a good full moon night, having nightmares is a killing thing.” His tone carried hidden schadenfreude.
Such a night was fit for werewolves and vampires. Chen Ziyou swallowed her retort, rose slowly. “I’m going to shower.”
“The bathroom is wet. Haven’t you washed already?” His words blocked her escape.
“I’ll wash again. I’m sweating,” she said calmly.
“Too much bathing causes skin disease,” he replied, feigning concern.
She slammed the bathroom door, shutting him out.
Memories pressed against her mind. The dream proved her self‑control was limited. But she had long accepted that youth meant foolish humiliations. Some people were lucky enough to forget. Others were not.
She remembered the day she went home with a young man—familiar yet a stranger. She knew it was foolish, but longed to rebel, to take revenge on those who hurt her, or on herself. She discarded all the lessons of self‑protection.
Years later, she refused to recall details. She couldn’t remember who tempted whom. But she knew she had been willing. Despite pain and shame, she had felt secret pleasure—not physical, but psychological.
That night, he taught her many things—chess and smoking. She later became addicted to cigarettes, but refused all forms of chess. He had said girls should smoke less, for health, but chess could sharpen intelligence. She chose deliberately to defy him.
She avoided porridge for years, until illness forced her to accept it again. Because that night, wearing his oversized shirt, washing bloodstained sheets, Jiang Licheng had cooked porridge.
It was the best she had ever tasted. She sat in the yard, bowl in hand, sheets fluttering in the breeze, hair brushing her face.
Shyly, she said, “I really washed the sheets. I thought that was just your excuse.”
He squatted before her, brushed her hair back, fingers trailing to her collarbone, lifting the necklace he had placed on her. She trembled. His voice was soft as wind: “I don’t lie. I like truth. I told myself, if I meet you again, I will never let you go.”
She wondered often—was she too foolish, or was he too clever? She had believed those words were love, and her heart rippled.
It was another full moon night. Shadows mottled the courtyard, his profile mysterious beneath silver light.
Uneasy, she rose. “It’s time for me to go home.”
“Okay.”
She changed clothes, hesitated at the door. “I’m going to college soon. Can I see you again before I leave?”
He smiled faintly under the moon. “Can you find me?”
She nodded innocently. She was too young to distinguish truth from flirtation—and she had met a master.
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