The movie had barely started when her phone began vibrating incessantly. Cheng Lele glanced at it—it was Tong Zhe calling. She hung up. After a while, Qin Rui sent a WeChat message: “You moved out?! You ran away?!”

A few minutes later, her credit card payment reminder notification dinged.

She couldn’t focus on the movie anymore.

Besides, she’d only come to check out the theater environment anyway. Now that her mood had plummeted to rock bottom, she might as well leave and save them some electricity.

Cheng Lele walked out. When she reached the lobby, she looked around but the young man was nowhere to be seen. The empty lobby looked like a haunted scene.

Cheng Lele went to the customer service center to retrieve her suitcase and headed toward the hotel.

When she tried to pay for her room, her phone was gone.

Cheng Lele thought back and figured she must have left her phone in the theater. Modern people couldn’t function without their phones. After storing her luggage at the front desk, Cheng Lele hurried back to the cinema. She wasn’t worried about someone picking up her phone—given the theater’s foot traffic, that possibility was practically zero. She was worried the cinema would close early. She didn’t have any cash on her, and if she couldn’t pay, tonight would be trouble.

The old house hadn’t been occupied for seven years—who knew if it was even habitable.

Fortunately, it hadn’t closed. The young man was still standing by the counter.

“Miss, how did you come in from there?”

Great, this guy had no idea the theater was empty.

Cheng Lele said, “Could you go upstairs and turn on the lights? I dropped my phone in the theater and can’t find it in the dark.”

The young man was feeling lazy. “I just came down from there. How about I give you a tool instead?” He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a small flashlight.

Cheng Lele really wanted to say, just tell me the projection room password—I’ve been up there a few times anyway.

On second thought, forget it. That would require too much explanation. She took the flashlight and walked inside.

Once inside, she couldn’t remember which row she’d been sitting in. Without a ticket stub, there was no way to check.

The movie was still playing, the screen flickering bright and dim.

Cheng Lele turned on the flashlight and searched row by row in the general area.

After searching two rows without finding it, she realized this was too troublesome. She decided to go out and borrow the young man’s phone to call herself. That way, when her phone screen lit up, it would be much easier to find.

But when she went out, the young man had vanished again…

With nothing to say about this situation, Cheng Lele could only turn the flashlight back on and search inch by inch more carefully.

Since she hadn’t found it during that first sweep, the phone had probably fallen under the seats. She crawled forward on her knees, feeling her way along. Under the seats was a thick layer of dust mixed with years of fine debris that looked especially disgusting under the flashlight beam. The carpet beneath her knees reeked of sour mustiness. She forced herself through this discomfort for several minutes until she finally spotted a corner of her phone with its metallic sheen.

She reached out with two fingers to pinch it, found it dirty, and kept it pinched as she prepared to stand up. Just then, something nearby moved. Her flashlight swung over and revealed a clump of dark, matted hair. She screamed “Ah!” and her phone dropped again with a clatter. Fortunately, it didn’t roll back under the seat.

At that moment, the movie’s color grading suddenly brightened, and Cheng Lele saw a person struggling to sit up right before her eyes.

Cheng Lele swallowed. So there was actually another audience member lying here…

Her shock barely subsided, she’d just shone her flashlight on someone and screamed, really disturbing their movie-watching—no, their sleep. She turned off the flashlight and bowed slightly. “I’m so sorry, I was just picking up my phone and didn’t see anyone here.”

She used the faint light from the screen to look for where her phone had fallen, when suddenly the person in front stood up.

Thinking she’d disturbed the other person’s rest and they now wanted to leave since they couldn’t sleep, she shifted aside to let them pass. But the person didn’t leave.

Cheng Lele felt strange and beckoned backward with her hand, asking, “Do you want to go out or…?”

After a long silence, that person finally spoke slowly: “You came back.” The voice was hoarse as if scraped by sandpaper.

Cheng Lele’s hand froze in midair.

No light needed, no need to see the face. Even after seven years, just hearing the other person speak was enough to recognize them. Because seven years ago, they’d shared year after year together.

Cheng Lele didn’t move. Chen An didn’t move either. Stretching between them was the long river of time. Above the long river, the rising mist was called longing.

Cheng Lele had thought she wouldn’t encounter Chen An in Taixi. But the first moment she returned, Chen An was right before her eyes, as if the tide of time had pushed him onto her solitary island.

What should she say? She didn’t know.

Chen An’s breathing was shallow. He’d just woken up, his mind not yet fully clear. This might be a dream—after all, she occasionally came to his dreams, though in the past year, she hadn’t appeared at all. Perhaps having been a complete ingrate, she’d forgotten him entirely.

Now she’d come again. Though only a silhouette outlined by light, it was so real.

He felt somewhat dazed.

The elusive, unpredictable young man appeared again. He swaggered in and shouted, “Miss, did you find it?”

That shout instantly shattered that small, tranquil, beautiful scene, and both people returned to their senses.

The phone screen on the ground also lit up. Both were drawn to the light and looked down simultaneously.

The name “Zhong Ming” flashed on the screen.

It was real. She had come back.

Chen An fully woke up. He turned sideways and strode out past Cheng Lele. When he passed the young man, the young man recognized him. “Mr. Chen, you came to sleep here again?”

Mr. Chen. The Mr. Chen he’d mentioned who often came to sleep in the theater. Mr. Chen, the owner of Xingchen Cinema.

Cheng Lele froze, picked up the vibrating phone and hung up, then found the phone number that Mark had sent her that she’d saved with one click. It looked very familiar. While dialing, she followed him out.

Chen An’s phone rang. He looked—an unfamiliar Beijing number.

“Hello.” He answered.

Cheng Lele looked at Chen An’s retreating figure and said as if possessed, “Hello, my name is Cindy.”

Chen An turned around. The two faced each other like this, both looking somewhat confused.

Comparatively speaking, Cheng Lele’s level of confusion was much higher. Chen An, who in her mental theater had rung the Nasdaq bell countless times, driven countless supercars, bankrupted countless Wang families, and could buy an apartment in the provincial capital at eighteen—was actually that unlucky person who’d taken over this failing business?!

Although for an ordinary person like Cheng Lele, even owning a cinema on its last legs was an unattainable dream. But Chen An wasn’t an ordinary person—he was her older brother! That omnipotent older brother with a bright future!

Cheng Lele was thrown into chaos, forgetting that she’d just been organizing polite small talk. She was severely shocked by this reality and almost ran over, grabbing Chen An’s arm and asking, “Older brother, what happened to you?”

Chen An was startled by Cheng Lele’s sudden concern and intimacy. The two had had no contact for seven years, and upon meeting, they’d become boss and employee, yet Cheng Lele had approached without any awkwardness. How could she do that? Was it because she’d completely let go, so she could handle it lightly and speak freely? Didn’t that make him, who’d been left behind in the past unable to move forward, seem very pitiful?

Chen An gritted his teeth, took a step back, and said, “Call me Mr. Chen.”

Cheng Lele was focused on getting an answer and didn’t stumble at all, readily asking, “Mr. Chen, how did you become the owner of Xingchen Cinema?”

Chen An’s internal injuries from hearing “Mr. Chen” were severe, but since it was his own requirement, he could only stiffen his neck and say, “Can’t I?”

Chen An’s icy response finally reminded Cheng Lele of the reality that they’d nearly broken off relations. She pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, I was too abrupt.”

The cinema’s warm yellow spotlights shone on Chen An, allowing Cheng Lele to see him extraordinarily clearly even with a cursory glance. Her older brother seemed a bit taller than his eighteen-year-old self, but his face was much thinner. Because he’d been sleeping, his shirt had many wrinkles, the collar slightly open, and looking up she could see the bluish stubble he hadn’t had time to deal with.

There really was a sense of being down and out. For a moment, Cheng Lele thought of Jiang Lang, thought of Zhong Yong, thought of “clever in childhood doesn’t necessarily mean excellent when grown,” but these people and phrases were hard to associate with Chen An no matter what.

“Anything else?” Chen An seemed very impatient. He hung his arms down, his gaze glancing elsewhere.

“No.” Cheng Lele replied uneasily.

However, before Cheng Lele could speak further, he’d already turned and walked out.

Cheng Lele slumped into a nearby waiting chair, her face buried between her arms. Her strength drained, her whole body seemed to ache, though she couldn’t say exactly where the ache was.