Chapter 6: Silver Streets

“Potatoes?” Anan looked at Cheng Yun. “You want to eat potatoes?” He tilted his head slightly, as if searching his mind for the best roasted potatoes in the Miao village.

Cheng Yun had only meant it as a joke, but she hadn’t expected him to take it seriously. She said, “Don’t think about it. Let’s just walk and see.”

The two walked through the village. This Miao village was already the most famous tourist attraction in the area—heavily developed, yet carefully maintained. The stone-paved roads gleamed faintly under the winter sun, and shops lined both sides. Most sold silverware, with massive silver headdresses hanging at the entrances, catching the light like frozen waterfalls. Others offered handicrafts and food, their colors vivid against the muted tones of the mountains.

Cheng Yun looked around and asked Anan, “Who is the Miao King?”

“Huh?” Anan was focused on walking and hadn’t noticed. He turned to look at her. “What?”

Cheng Yun slowed down and pointed to both sides. “Look, ‘Miao King Silver Ornaments,’ ‘Miao King Crispy Candy,’ ‘Miao King Snack Shop’…”

“Oh.” Anan lowered his head again. “I don’t know. There shouldn’t be such a person.”

“Then they all call them that.”

“It sounds nice.”

“Oh.” Cheng Yun half-joked, “I thought this Miao King was your village chief. He’s so powerful.”

They turned a corner and came across a snack street. Few tourists lingered, so the street felt deserted. On both sides, Miao villagers tended stalls: glutinous rice cakes, sticky rice, fried noodles, roasted black pork. The selection wasn’t large, but the food looked small and exquisite, appetizing against the backdrop of mountains and rivers.

Cheng Yun was hungry. “Let’s eat this.”

Anan agreed. “Okay.”

She chose a sticky rice stall run by a middle-aged Miao woman. Steam rose from a large pot, and bowls of pickled vegetables sat nearby. Cheng Yun ordered a serving and asked the price. “Five yuan,” the woman said. Cheng Yun turned to Anan.

He was still looking down, hands in his coat, lost in thought. Cheng Yun nudged him with her foot. “Hey.”

Anan snapped out of it. “What’s wrong?”

“Pay.”

Anan blinked. “What?”

Cheng Yun unwrapped disposable chopsticks, took a bite, and said, “Five yuan.”

Anan’s mouth opened slightly in confusion as Cheng Yun ate, watching him.

Whether he genuinely felt he should treat her or was touched by her natural attitude, he hesitated, then pulled money from his pocket.

After paying, Anan said, “You eat first, I’m going to get back to work.”

Cheng Yun, holding the bowl, replied, “Go ahead.”

He nodded, walked a few steps, then turned back. “I’ll give you my phone number; call me if you need a ride.”

“Okay,” Cheng Yun said, handing him her phone. “Type it in yourself.”

After Anan left, Cheng Yun sat in a tent selling grilled black pork skewers, eating while scrolling through her contacts.

“Z,” Zhou Dongnan, was the last name in her phone. Plain, simple. She stared at it idly, thinking perhaps it was Anan himself that made even these characters seem lifeless.

After finishing her sticky rice, Director Zhang called.

“Sister Cheng!” His voice rushed. “We’re here! Where are you? Have you checked into the hotel? Have you eaten?”

Cheng Yun moved the phone away slightly. “I’ve eaten, but I haven’t gone to the hotel yet.” Hearing his heavy breathing, she said, “Xiao Zhang, slow down, no rush.”

“Where are you? I’ll come find you now.”

Cheng Yun looked around. “I don’t know, there’s a food street here.”

“Oh, okay, I see, I’ll be right there!”

True to his word, less than half a minute later, Director Zhang appeared at the end of the alley. Cheng Yun stood, and he ran to her side.

“Cheng, Sister Cheng!”

“I told you not to rush. Why are you still running like this?”

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing.” He glanced at the empty box on the table. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“So, would you like to walk around first, or should I take you to your accommodation to rest?”

“Let’s go to the accommodation.”

…

The guesthouse was high on the slope, two-story wooden houses built against the mountain. Cheng Yun’s high-heeled boots made the climb tiring. Director Zhang said, “It’s a bit troublesome, but the view is beautiful. The rooms have a panoramic view of the village.”

“It’s alright, just lead the way.”

Inside, the guesthouse was empty. Director Zhang handed her a key. The room had two beds, old but clean.

“Sister Cheng, the guesthouses here all have double rooms, but they’re spacious. Convenient for you to stay alone.”

“Where will you stay?”

“Downstairs. Our travel agency arranged it.”

Cheng Yun walked around the room. At the bathroom door, her legs gave way. A rug covered rotten wood, a hole beneath. She kicked the rug aside, stepped over, and washed her face.

Later, she opened the balcony door. Director Zhang was right—the view was panoramic. Wooden houses dotted the hillside, built later but carefully, retaining ethnic character.

She leaned on the railing, lit a cigarette, and gazed at the clouds. Peaceful, quiet. Watching them lulled her into drowsiness. She lay down, blankets cool then warm, and slept through the night.

When she woke, it was already dark. Five o’clock. Two missed calls, one text—all from Director Zhang.

She called back.

“…I overslept. Where are you?”

“I’m at your inn. Are you rested?”

“Yes. I’ll be out in a bit.”

She stepped out, coat in hand, mouth dry from the overheated air conditioner. Director Zhang greeted her in the lobby.

“Sister Cheng.”

She hummed. He hesitated, then asked softly, “Were you too tired from traveling all day?”

She smiled faintly. “Um, is there any water?”

A clerk handed her a bottle. She drank, calmed, and decided not to use the air conditioning again.

“The sun is about to set,” she said as they walked down the hillside.

“Um, Sister Cheng, are you hungry?”

“No.”

She remembered. “I heard there’s a performance tonight?”

“Yes, an art troupe from the village. In the performance center.”

“You can watch it anywhere?”

“Yes, with a ticket.”

Ticket. The word reminded her of someone. She dialed his number. No answer.

“Heh.” She wasn’t surprised.

Director Zhang suggested, “Why don’t we go see the performance first? It’s about to start.”

“How long is it?”

“Less than an hour.”

“Okay.”

Tourists gathered outside the performance center. When the gates opened, tickets were stamped. The center was open-air, with a wide space and a raised platform crowned by bull horns.

Cheng Yun sat in the middle, scrolling her phone.

A few minutes later, bells rang. A Miao girl in traditional costume walked out. Cheng Yun yawned—the performance had begun.

At that moment, her phone vibrated.

She looked down. Li Yunchong was calling.