The fishing village retired early. Upon first stepping outside, it was so dark that nothing could be seen. She stumbled, nearly colliding with Luo Ren.

Luo Ren grasped her hand and said, “Be careful.”

He led her outside, passing the fishermen’s low, small houses. Her nose caught the years of dampness in the wooden cabins. In a dark corner, there was a tethered dog that seemed to sense the intruders’ presence. In the darkness, it stood up, its fur bristling, as if preparing for a fierce battle.

Luo Ren pulled her behind him, half-crouched, and made a threatening sound from his throat. The dog’s aggressive posture suddenly deflated. It scurried back to its corner, tucking its head down like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

Mu Dai implored Luo Ren, “Teach me.”

He said, “What’s there to learn in this? What an aspiration.”

After saying this, he walked forward. Mu Dai sighed melancholically, refusing to move.

Luo Ren came back and said, “All right, if you can stand still for five minutes without even blinking, I’ll teach you.”

Mu Dai looked at him challengingly and said, “Then keep time.”

Could this possibly be difficult for her? Had he forgotten she had practiced martial arts for eight years? Being punished by her master to stand motionless had happened at least eight, if not ten, times. That was much harder—she had to balance a small incense burner on her head with a lit incense stick inside. She stood so steadily that sometimes the ash from the completely burned incense would remain intact without falling.

As for not blinking, was that difficult? From another perspective, keeping your eyes open without closing them is hard, but what about closing your eyes without opening them?

That’s also a form of “not blinking.”

With a subtle smile of secret delight, she slowly closed her eyes.

With her eyes unable to see, her other senses became extraordinarily keen. The night was gentle and serene, the air moist with water vapor. One or two strands of hair tickled against her face. There was a slight brackish saltiness in the wind—the scent of the sea.

Before there were people here, before this village took shape, the sea was already here.

The wooden cabins were not completely quiet. Sometimes, one could hear the subtle cracking of wood, the faint sounds of someone turning over in bed, and couples’ night conversations, sporadic and indistinct.

And Luo Ren was indeed keeping time, having turned on a stopwatch with its sound on. Tick, tick, tick, relentlessly marching forward. She didn’t like such a rapid sound, feeling as if life was a breathless rush with no time to look around.

She preferred slowness.

Like when a farmer lifts the wooden lid of a steamer, and the white steam slowly curls around the room, set against the backdrop of snow outside the window, and icicles hanging from the eaves.

Like the bell hanging from a mule’s neck, jingling as it passes the door, and long after it has passed, the bell’s sound still lingers, slowly circling at the doorway.

Like embroidering a pouch for a lover, the bamboo hoop tightening the fabric, the silver needle trailing the silk thread, slowly meandering, conveying deep, dense, enduring affection that seems endless.

Luo Ren said, “Mu Dai, I’m leaving now. I’m abandoning you here alone. I’m leaving.”

His voice grew more and more distant.

She remained steady, still motionless.

He continued, “Mu Dai, that dog is coming toward you. It’s looking at you, opening its mouth, about to bite you.”

She still didn’t move. The soft glow of darkness enveloped her face, passing over her eyelashes, nose bridge, and the corners of her lips, creating dense shadows—a delicate portrait that even the finest brush strokes couldn’t capture.

Unexpectedly, Luo Ren suddenly embraced her.

She could feel him—the familiar scent, the strength of his arms. The sound of the stopwatch grew closer: tick, tick, tick, tick.

He slowly lowered his head toward her, warm breath brushing over her eyebrows, cheeks, and finally her lips.

Mu Dai thought: She could move now. She could suddenly open her eyes, giggle, and say, “I’m not playing anymore.” She could cry out in surprise, then pretend to be upset, accusing Luo Ren of “not following the rules.”

But she didn’t move, didn’t want to move. Tiny voices in her heart were chirping, seeming to say: You want this too, you are willing.

Luo Ren kissed her lips.

Just as she liked it—gentle and slow, gradually deepening with an undeniable force.

The ticking of the stopwatch suddenly stopped. She didn’t know if it had actually stopped or if she had suddenly become deaf to everything.

If people truly have souls, then right now her soul must have dispersed into countless threads, drifting toward infinite heights, cushioned by almost inaudible music, bewildered and without footing.

When Luo Ren released her, everything around was so quiet. Even the sea was extraordinarily still, the sound of waves as faint and prolonged as a lover’s sigh.

Luo Ren asked her, “Do you still want to go to the beach?”

No, she wanted to stay here, in this cramped space, surrounded by the low wooden houses, the damp air, and the dog in the corner that was either asleep or had been watching them the entire time.

Let’s stay a little longer, she thought. She would remember this place for the rest of her life.

Luo Ren smiled, gently embracing her. Her cheeks burned as she nestled against his chest, listening to his steady, powerful heartbeat.

Luo Ren said, “My girl.”

I’ve waited for you for so long, my girl, in the mountains, swamps, and mosquito-infested forests. Countless times I’ve dreamed of you—barefoot, crossing the cold riverbanks, through the dark, dense forests, your eyes as gentle as if they had absorbed the moonlight.

I’ve waited for you for so long.

Returning to the hotel, it was completely silent. Yan Hongsha and the others were already asleep. Mu Dai held her breath, quietly got into bed alongside their soft breathing, and pulled up the covers.

The pillow was soft and comfortable. She suddenly remembered the pillow song Luo Ren had mentioned.

—Pillow, oh pillow, don’t say anything, don’t tell anyone about the relationship between me and that lovely person…

Yes, she secretly buried her face in the pillow, murmuring to herself, as if instructing the pillow: “Don’t tell, don’t tell anyone.”

The pillow wasn’t trustworthy either. Resting under her head, who knew if it might peek into her secrets? She finally understood that anxious yet sweet feeling of lovers: don’t tell, don’t tell anyone.

With these thoughts, she tossed and turned countless times before finally falling asleep.

Tonight, she would have a good dream, wouldn’t she?

She did have a dream, but it had nothing to do with Luo Ren.

She dreamed of a simple room. A little girl, about three or four years old, secretly pushed open the bedroom door. Clothes were scattered messily on the floor—a woman’s bra and underwear, a man’s briefs and belt, a red high-heeled shoe with a worn heel.

The man’s snoring was loud. Only by listening very carefully could one detect the woman’s breath interwoven within.

The little girl turned, moving hesitantly and lonely toward the small living room. Her hair was tied in pigtails, the elastic bands wrapped around multiple times, frayed, revealing the grayish-brown fibers inside.

She saw the little girl stand on tiptoe, struggling to retrieve a cookie tin from the top of a five-drawer chest. She pried open the lid and peeked inside.

The cookie tin was empty, except for some crumbs accumulated in each corner. The little girl laboriously reached in, gathering crumbs on her fingertips and putting them in her mouth. After eating, she would use her fingers to collect more.

Until the cookie tin was completely clean.

Then, she carefully put the lid back on and, standing on tiptoe, returned it to its original place.

Mu Dai suddenly realized.

This little girl was herself.

A completely forgotten fragment from her childhood suddenly unfolded clearly in this dream.

She saw herself moving back and forth in the small living room, smoothing out the cloth covering the sofa, dusting it clean, and then using a broom as tall as herself to sweep the floor. While sweeping, she accidentally swept something under the coffee table. She bent down, sticking out her bottom, her little face flushing red as she strained to reach under it.

The sun gradually moved from noon to dusk. Finally, there was movement from the bedroom. The man came out carrying his pants, yawning. He went to the kitchen first, took a mouthful of water from the tap to rinse his mouth—splash, splash—then spat into the moss-covered sink.

The water pressure in the house wasn’t good; when the faucet was turned on, it made a humming sound.

When the man came out, he suddenly saw her and said, “Ha, little squirt.”

After speaking, he got dressed, took money from his pocket—ten yuan notes, one by one—and tossed them on the table. Then he came over and gave her a five-jiao note, saying, “Buy yourself some candy.”

She looked at the money, her palm sweating. The man tucked the money into the pocket of her bib—a small semi-circular pocket.

Long after the man had left, the woman finally got up, yawning. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, sat at the dressing table, and applied thick, poor-quality foundation. Her face became unrecognizable, concealing the dark circles under her eyes and smoothing out the fine crisscrossing wrinkles.

Then, suddenly noticing the money on the side, she picked it up and counted it, a smile appearing on her face.

She took advantage of this moment of happiness to quickly approach and say, “Mama.”

The woman grunted acknowledgment, unscrewed a tube of mascara. The mascara tip was dried out. She cursed something unintelligible, poured a little water from a teacup into it, screwed it back on, and shook it vigorously. When she opened it again, the tip was wet and finally functional.

The woman, satisfied, narrowed her eyes at the mirror and carefully applied mascara to her lashes. The lashes grew longer, but the ends clumped together, looking heavy.

She said, “Mama, I’m hungry.”

The woman responded indifferently, “Didn’t I buy you cookies?”

“They’re all gone.”

The woman’s face immediately darkened, like midday clouds suddenly saturated with ink, black to the core.

She said, “Didn’t I tell you to eat sparingly? All gone again. You eat so much, how can I afford to raise you?”

She lowered her head, wiping away tears. The woman abruptly stood up, took down the cookie tin, opened the lid to look inside, and then slammed it to the ground. She jabbed a finger at the little girl’s forehead.

“Eat every day, eat! I’ve never seen you do anything useful! Even a dog can watch the house. I feed you, clothe you every day—for what reason, huh, for what reason?!”

As she spoke, she repeatedly poked the little girl’s forehead, making her head tilt from side to side. But the girl didn’t dare move, tears streaming down her face.

The woman said, “Don’t cry!”

She grabbed the bottom of her small bib to wipe her tears, sobbing and catching her breath. The woman ignored her, and she said nothing more, silently returning to the corner of the sofa.

She had been eating the cookies sparingly. To make them last, she would soak them in water each time. A thin cookie, when soaked, would expand to twice its size, though it lost all its cookie flavor.

She crouched in the corner, watching the woman in the mirror—drawing eyebrows, applying lipstick, arranging her hair, elegantly slinging her bag, and then leaving just like that. Before leaving, she told her, “Stay at home properly, don’t wander off.”

The door slammed shut.

Her stomach growled. Why was she so hungry?

She lifted her small bib, grabbed the waistband of her little pants, and twisted it outward with all her might. The waistband became increasingly thin, constricting her small belly. When it was tight enough, she didn’t feel as hungry.

Darkness fell. She climbed onto the sofa, covered herself with a small blanket, and fell asleep like that.

She woke again, roused by noise. Opening her eyes, she saw the tungsten wire lamp hanging from the ceiling, blackened at the bottom, the lamp cord swaying and swaying, making her dizzy.

Her mother was there, wearing a nightgown, her hair disheveled. The bedroom door was ajar, with smoke drifting out, interspersed with impatient coughing.

There was also an unfamiliar fat auntie, holding a little boy’s hand. The boy had red eyes and a swollen forehead with gauze taped to it.

The fat auntie kept talking, indignantly: “I made meat pancakes and gave one to Little Tong. Then I heard him wailing. Snatching food is one thing, but why hit him? Look at this swelling on his head. We’re going to the hospital to check. If he has a concussion, this isn’t over!”

Her mother also smiled, her words increasingly sharp: “Anyone can eat anything, but not everyone can say anything. Your son is head taller than my daughter. How could she snatch food from him? Besides…”

Her mother turned to look at her: “Nainai, did you go out tonight? Did you snatch someone’s food?”

She timidly shook her head and said, “No.”

As if to prove it, she quickly took out the five jiao from her small pocket and held it up high: “I have money. I can buy food. I wouldn’t snatch from others.”

Her mother’s face showed triumphant joy, but before she could speak, the fat auntie suddenly stepped forward, fiercely gripping her hand, and started shouting.

“Look at her hands, so greasy, so oily!” She bent down and sniffed her palm. “Isn’t that meat smell? Smell it yourself, smell it yourself. Like a cat that’s stolen fish, didn’t even wash her paws clean!”

Her mother’s face instantly turned ugly. Suddenly, she slapped her across the face, screaming: “I’ve raised a thief! A little liar!”

She was hit so hard that she was dazed. Later, the fat auntie restrained her mother, anxiously saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay. She’s just a child, it’s natural to crave food…”

The man also came out from the bedroom, speaking in a high-pitched voice: “Oh my, oh my, it’s a small matter, she’s just a child…”

She didn’t know when the fat auntie and the others left. Her mother’s shrill, sobbing voice continued to echo in her ears. The bedroom door closed, and she could still hear her mother saying, “Send her away, send her away…”

The man said, “Oh, forget it, forget it. Come, come, don’t spoil the mood…”

All the voices finally subsided, gradually replaced by the moans of male and female pleasure.

In the darkness, she found her way to the sink, stood on a small stool, and turned on the faucet.

She only opened it to a thin stream—if it were any larger, her mother would say, “Is water free?!”

She found a bar of smelly soap on the water platform, used it to wash her hands, scrubbing again and again. After a few scrubs, she raised her arm to wipe away a tear.

Then she continued washing her hands, washing and washing, saying in a tiny voice, “I didn’t snatch any food.”

With a rustle, the curtain moved.

Sunlight fell on her face, tickling her.

Mu Dai opened her eyes. Yan Hongsha immediately leaned close to her, her expression joyful.

“Get up, Mu Dai. We’re going back today.”