The performance had begun, yet it couldn’t prevent people from leaving.

Because the scenery was crude—the curtain painted with green hills, blue waters, and pavilions so fake they couldn’t be faker—modern stage plays prided themselves on keeping up with the times, incorporating various new technologies. This level of carelessness was inexcusable.

Jiang Lian felt the performance lacked sincerity and disrespected the audience. And when an audience isn’t respected, naturally they treat the stage with disdain.

He too contemplated leaving, but looking back, he realized he was the only person left in the small theater.

This gave him an undeserved responsibility: the final straw that breaks the camel’s back, the last snowflake that triggers an avalanche, the final pull that unties the knot—if he left, the performance would truly collapse. Besides, how embarrassing would that be for the actors?

Fine, he had nothing else to do tonight anyway. He would sacrifice some time to be kind.

So he sat back down. Now that he had resigned himself to watching the performance, he could calm his mind. As he continued listening, he gradually began to appreciate the nuances.

Any dramatic form that has managed to maintain a lineage and audience must possess its unique charm. Just because you’re too restless to appreciate it and leave doesn’t mean others can’t savor its flavor.

Just as Jiang Lian was becoming engrossed, he sensed someone sitting down gently beside him and asking: “Do you like Cantonese opera?”

It was a woman with a smooth, deep voice. Strangely, though she was speaking, it felt like a long, lingering sigh.

Jiang Lian smiled and said, “Not particularly. I don’t understand Cantonese, I’m just watching for the experience.”

As he spoke, he turned his head and couldn’t help but be startled by what he saw.

She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—not pretty, but beautiful. It was impossible to tell her age, perhaps thirty, perhaps forty—her sense of age came not from her appearance but from her eyes and bearing. She did not rely on makeup or clothing to conceal her age. Everything about her was natural—naturalness flowed around her, as did beauty, from the hair falling at her shoulders to the subtle creases in her sleeves at the elbows.

Jiang Lian was truly stunned by her.

He withdrew his gaze, a thought suddenly appearing in his mind: This evening, this performance, wasn’t so bad after all.

Beautiful things, whether paintings, scenery, or people, uplift one’s spirits and make time feel well spent.

The woman said, “That makes it even more commendable. Sometimes, just listening is enough; you don’t necessarily need to understand.”

Then she asked him: “How does it feel to sit here watching the opera?”

Jiang Lian pondered for a moment: “First of all, someone must be investing money to support this, otherwise it absolutely couldn’t continue.”

On stage, bright lights illuminated the performers’ rouge-painted faces and dark-lined eyes. Below the stage, in the dim light, a faint smile touched the corner of the woman’s mouth.

This was Qu Qiao of Mountain Ghost Six, also known as “Sixth Sister,” whom Lu Sanming had mentioned—the one who was called the eldest but who neglected all matters.

Cantonese opera was popular in Cantonese-speaking areas and had many followers in Guangdong and Hong Kong, but the situation in Guangxi was more complex: western Guangxi was predominantly Zhuang, while eastern Guangxi was dominated by Han culture.

Eastern Guangxi was further divided into north and south. Guilin belonged to northern Guangxi, influenced by Hunan-Xiang culture and speaking Mandarin. The southern parts, like Nanning and Wuzhou, predominantly spoke Cantonese.

Therefore, Cantonese opera wasn’t very popular in Guilin, and this small theater was shabby and old, barely selling any tickets daily. The only reason it could perform daily was purely because of her—Lu Sanming had done extensive work behind the scenes to please this Sixth Aunt: he bought up all the tickets and offered them as benefits to his hotel guests to encourage attendance. He also hired long-term “water army” performers who would cheer specifically for Miss Qu. Once they heard Miss Qu wouldn’t be performing, they naturally dispersed like birds and beasts set free.

Qu Qiao said: “That’s just the ‘first of all.’ What’s ‘secondly’?”

Jiang Lian smiled: “Secondly, I feel this performance isn’t meant for the audience at all.”

Qu Qiao paused for a moment. She turned to look at Jiang Lian, who was focusing intently on the stage. The light and shadow gilded his face, making his features extraordinarily distinct yet soft, largely due to his mouth that seemed ready to turn upward at any moment.

Qu Qiao asked: “Then, who is it performed for?”

Jiang Lian said: “For themselves.”

He gestured toward the stage: “I don’t know who that person is, but look at this 80s and 90s style setup and arrangement—is it because they can’t afford to improve it? Certainly not. It’s deliberately kept this way. In that person’s heart, there must be an old dream they can’t escape. It’s long past, circumstances have changed, yet they refuse to let go, or rather, they won’t forgive themselves, repeatedly reenacting and reliving it. They don’t care if anyone watches, nor do they care about making money.”

Qu Qiao sat motionless, but everything on stage suddenly became blurry: shadows of various colors mixed with the rhythm of speech and percussion, someone was wielding a staff with impressive vigor, the staff’s shadow formed a circle, then became an undulating vortex, as if it would expel events from years past, or perhaps draw her into it.

She heard Jiang Lian ask: “Are you alright?”

She knew tears had already fallen from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t wipe them away, only smiled and said: “I’m fine.”

Then she pointed to the sides of the stage: “Look there, each side has a door.”

Jiang Lian said, “Yes, for the performers to enter and exit the stage.”

Qu Qiao shook her head: “Only outsiders would say that. It’s called the ‘Tiger Crossing Door.’ Years ago, when studying opera in Guangdong, my master was strict and repeatedly emphasized that once you step onto the stage, you must have a sense of reverence, you must respect the opera…”

When Jiang Lian heard her say “years ago, when studying opera,” he couldn’t help but exclaim: “Ah! You are…”

Qu Qiao didn’t answer, continuing with her story: “…and you must also respect the character you’re portraying. Once you enter through the Tiger Crossing Door, you are no longer yourself. Even if your parents, wife, or children just died, even if you’re going to be executed right after the performance, as long as you cross that threshold and step onto the stage, you must forget heaven and earth, forget others and yourself. Don’t bring yourself onto the stage, don’t bring your grievances onto the stage—your eyes and heart can only focus on this performance.”

She and the man she loved most had found each other through opera. On and off stage, they were deeply entangled. Later, when things changed, they confronted each other backstage. He slapped her face; she scratched his neck, her fingernails filled with his flesh and blood.

But once in costume, they still had to perform. She carried a knife on stage, thinking she might as well stab him to death in front of everyone, then cut her own throat—performing her tragic opera finale on this stage.

But when passing through the Tiger Crossing Door, her whole body trembled, as if struck by a revelation: once on this stage, one must forget heaven and earth, forget others and oneself.

That performance was the famous Cantonese opera “Princess Cheung Ping.”

How ironic—two people who moments before wanted to devour each other’s flesh and drink each other’s blood now performed on stage with tender affection. Years later, thinking back, she felt that man was trash, but had to admit he was indeed a dedicated, excellent performer.

They performed the scene where the two characters commit suicide by drinking arsenic.

She sang: “As eternal as heaven and earth, the passionate phoenix forever paired with the devoted male phoenix.”

As they performed the farewell ceremony under the conjoined tree before committing suicide, tears in his eyes, he sang with her: “Husband and wife die together, as joined as the tree.”

Sobbing sounds rose from the audience, gradually merging into one. She looked at the dried blood in her fingernail crevices, thought of the injuries concealed by makeup on her numb face, and found it absurd.

After that performance, she began to blur the boundaries between reality and the stage. She played with life, drifted on stage, neglected all matters, and almost exactly replicated that small theater here, hiring a group of Cantonese opera performers to help her relive this old dream day after day.

She was born in dreams, lived in opera. Both dreams and opera were illusory—dreams end upon waking, performances disperse when finished. Earth’s endurance and heaven’s length were real, but those were matters of heaven and earth. People, well, they just seek a moment’s pleasure.

Theoretically, Meng Qianzi should have been raised in rotation by seven mothers, but after just one cycle, Qu Qiao never took her turn again. Reportedly, Gao Jinghong had said: “Old Six is getting more and more improper. Don’t let her make our precious Zibao as shameless as she is.”

Fine, she wouldn’t take care of her, but she liked Qianzi. During festivals and holidays, she would still visit Shangui Study, until five or six years ago when, over some matter, she fell out with several sisters and had no more contact, consequently becoming distant from Guishan Estate in Guangxi as well. Guangxi, like an unfavored son, faded from Shangui Study’s view.

She introduced herself to Jiang Lian: “My surname is Qu, and my name is Qiao.”

Then she stood up: “If you’re not in a hurry, I’ll go put on some makeup and perform a section for you.”

Without waiting for Jiang Lian’s response, she turned and walked backstage. By the time she sat at the dressing table, she was still thinking about Jiang Lian’s words.

—That person must have an old dream they can’t escape;

—Circumstances have changed, yet they refuse to let go, or rather, they won’t forgive themselves.

…

She applied makeup in front of the mirror. As she continued, her hand holding the brush began to tremble. She had thought she had long let go and moved on.

But words from a stranger, an observer, strike most directly at the heart.

So for all these years, she had just been unable to forgive herself? That’s right—the heartbreak only lasted two or three months, yet she had spent twenty or thirty years commemorating it daily.

This stage from the past, these plays from the past, this theater that never had an audience, recreated day after day—what meaning did it truly have?

…

Jiang Lian sat through the performance of “The Tragic Romance of Princess Cheung Ping.”

This segment told the story of how, at the end of the Ming Dynasty, after the country fell, Princess Changping and her husband Zhou Shixian committed suicide on their wedding night.

Bridal chamber, red candles, phoenix crown, and auspicious robes—yet it was a tragic story. Jiang Lian understood very few of the sung lines, but watching the two people on stage part in death filled him with profound melancholy. When the curtain fell, he stood up and continued applauding, his solitary applause echoing throughout the theater.

The performers exited through the Tiger Crossing Door, and the theater lights brightened. Jiang Lian saw one or two performers who hadn’t yet removed their makeup hurriedly approaching him with a bouquet.

He thought they were going to present him with an award for being the last audience member standing.

Then he realized that wasn’t it. The lead martial performer handed him the flowers with an imploring look: “I’m sorry, Miss Qu rarely performs these days. Usually, when she performs, someone presents flowers, but now all the audience has left…”

Understood. Jiang Lian had never seen Cantonese opera but had watched dramas: those lead performers would return backstage and receive flowers and props, maintaining a certain decorum.

Jiang Lian carried the bouquet backstage. Qu Qiao had just removed her phoenix crown, her meticulously painted face set off by the bright red wedding dress, appearing extraordinarily radiant.

She accepted the flowers and asked Jiang Lian, “Are you free? Would you like to have a late-night meal together?”

Jiang Lian hesitated, but Qu Qiao’s next words made it impossible for him to refuse.

She said: “It’s my birthday today. I thought it would pass coldly and quietly, but unexpectedly, at the very end, I met someone I could talk to.”

Qu Qiao lived in a small Western-style building.

Years ago, Guangxi had produced a Guangxi clique warlord, Bai Chongxi. The Bai Mansion was now a protected site and not for sale. This Western building reportedly belonged to one of his high-ranking adjutants. After liberation, it changed hands several times before Qu Qiao bought it—she had always lived in a dream of opera, disliking the present. After buying it, she restored it to its original state, living in a Republican-era house, singing Ming and Qing Dynasty operas, nursing a heartbreak from over twenty years ago, traveling through different periods every day.

Now, no lights were on in the Western building, indicating the owner had not yet returned.

Not far from the road in front of the building, a large SUV was parked. In the back seat, Meng Qianzi opened a gift box lid, examining the headpiece for Qu Qiao one last time.

Without exaggeration, when the lid opened, it gleamed with pearls and jewels, truly intricate and dazzling. The crown, when lifted, had strings of luminous white pearls hanging from the back.

With limited space in the car, she bent down to bring her head closer to the precious crown, sighing: “It’s so beautiful, I almost want to perform opera myself.”

Xin Ci, in the front passenger seat, turned to look at her: “Is it really that exaggerated?”

Meng Jinsong sat in the driver’s seat and glanced at Xin Ci: “You think we’d give Sixth Aunt imitations? Just the pearl chains behind the crown used over four thousand small pearls.”

Xin Ci swallowed hard, then, after a pause, asked: “Why not let Guishan Estate host? Now we have to rent a car and burden Old Meng as a driver.”

Meng Jinsong replied: “I don’t mind. You can complain all you want, but don’t drag me into it.”

Meng Qianzi said irritably, “If we involved Guishan Estate, it would be a big production, and we’d have to invite all sorts of local friends for dinner. Isn’t that troublesome? Besides, isn’t this supposed to be a surprise for Sixth Mom? If too many people know, how can it still be a surprise?”

Xin Ci blurted out: “What if Sixth Aunt, um, doesn’t come home tonight?”

Meng Qianzi glared at him: “Don’t talk nonsense.”

Xin Ci defended himself: “It’s not impossible, right? It’s her birthday… This Sixth Aunt is so popular, I hear there are many pursuing her, even those in their twenties…”

Meng Qianzi’s face turned cold: “Are you going too far with your comments?”

Xin Ci muttered: “It’s just facts, not slander.”

Meng Qianzi retorted: “Even those in their twenties—listen to your wording. Is it only acceptable for men to find someone young and beautiful, but not for women to find someone young and handsome? My Sixth Mom is so beautiful, well-maintained, and wealthy. Who isn’t she good enough for?”

Xin Ci said sulkily: “I didn’t say she wasn’t good enough, but does she need to change them so frequently…?”

Meng Qianzi kicked the back of his seat.

Meng Jinsong shared this opinion, but while Xin Ci could speak freely with his wild imagination, he couldn’t. He pondered: “Waiting is fine, and waiting for Sixth Aunt to return is also fine, but what if she returns with someone? Wouldn’t that be a bit awkward?”

Meng Qianzi said curiously, “If she brings someone back, do you think I’m stupid enough to go over and deliver a gift? Am I that socially inept?”

As they were speaking, a taxi stopped not far away.

A young man got out of the front passenger seat. He first opened the back door, and a woman holding a bouquet emerged. The man helped her with the flowers, closed the car door, and then accompanied her along the path.

In the light of the street lamp, Meng Qianzi could see clearly that the woman was indeed Sixth Mom Qu Qiao. As for the man…

Meng Qianzi stared intently, while Meng Jinsong and Xin Ci unconsciously leaned forward, peering through the windshield.

After a moment, Xin Ci gasped, being the first to cry out: “Holy shit, no way, am I seeing things…?”

As he spoke, he beckoned backward: “Qianzi, look, isn’t that Jiang… Jiang Lian? How is this guy so magical, coming from Western Hunan to Guangxi just like that…”

Meng Qianzi said nothing. She took the cover from the front seat and slowly twisted it into knots.

Meng Jinsong’s heart was pounding hard. After a pause, he turned to look at Meng Qianzi: “Qianzi, should we perhaps leave for today?”

Seeing no objection from Meng Qianzi, he prepared to start the car.

At that moment, they suddenly heard the car door open, and turning quickly, they saw that Meng Qianzi had already gotten out.

Not only had she gotten out, but she also called out affectionately: “Sixth Mom.”

After calling out, she turned toward the car and instructed: “Give me the gift.”

Xin Ci reacted, almost lunging into the back seat, frantically handing the gift box to Meng Qianzi. Watching Meng Qianzi walk toward the two people, he was so excited his voice trembled: “Holy shit, Old Meng, this is, I really, holy shit.”

Meng Jinsong sighed softly.

Meng Qianzi walked toward Qu Qiao against the light of the street lamp, smiled brightly, handed over the gift box, and said: “Sixth Mom, happy birthday.”

She knew Jiang Lian was looking at her, but she pretended not to know, pretended he didn’t exist, and just smiled at Qu Qiao.

Qu Qiao was stunned for several seconds, at first not daring to believe, but finally recognizing her. She was so excited her lips trembled slightly: “Qianzi, I haven’t seen you for several years.”

The last time they met, although she still had the same figure, her face still had some youthfulness. Now, she was a completely grown woman.

Meng Qianzi smiled and said, “Yes, indeed.”

Qu Qiao exhaled softly, then remembered Jiang Lian and hurriedly introduced him: “This is…”

Meng Qianzi interrupted her: “I’m not interested in meeting him.”

After speaking, she smiled again: “The gift is delivered, Sixth Mom. I’m leaving now.”

She turned and walked away, feeling relieved, though she didn’t know exactly what she was relieved about. She walked faster and faster, pulling open the car door and sitting inside when she reached it.

Meng Jinsong quickly started the car, driving past Qu Qiao and Jiang Lian.

With the headlights off, the people inside couldn’t be seen clearly. Qu Qiao only saw that her face and Jiang Lian’s, distorted by the dim light, flowed like water across the tea-brown car windows.

She finally reacted, turning to look at Jiang Lian: “Do you and our Qianzi know each other?”