On the drive back, Xu Yang kept stealing glances at Rong Qian through the rearview mirror. She sat in the back seat, holding a painting, completely absorbed in it.

Xu Yang had seen the painting before — it was one of his second grand-uncle’s collection. The young boy in it was so beautiful he hardly seemed real, as though conjured from the painter’s imagination alone. No one in the real world actually looked like that.

Xu Yang remembered that even touching those paintings was off-limits for him. So why had his second grand-uncle given away something this precious to her?

What on earth had she said to him?

What Xu Zhiwei had given Rong Qian wasn’t only the painting — he had also given her a finely crafted vintage iron box. According to Xu Zhiwei, Shen Yi had once lived with him for a period of time.

When Shen Yi left, some of his belongings hadn’t made it with him. Xu Zhiwei had kept them all this time.

He said that since she had come, these things should rightfully be in her keeping now.

The little iron box had no lock. When Rong Qian opened it, the first thing that met her eyes was a picture frame.

Inside the frame was a group photograph.

Rong Qian took out the frame and looked at it carefully. In the photo were five people, all somewhere around eighteen or nineteen years of age — youth in full bloom.

Standing in the front were a young woman and a young man. They held hands, each throwing up a peace sign with their free hand, clearly a couple. Both of them were beaming with radiant smiles.

Behind the couple stood two young men.

One was Black, grinning widely to reveal a set of bright white teeth, also throwing up a peace sign. The other was Chinese, like the couple in front — he had a tattoo on his arm and a cigarette hanging from his lips, looking every bit the charming delinquent, rakish and handsome.

Then there was the last young man — he had his back to the camera, leaving only a clean-lined silhouette. One hand was tucked into his pocket, the other, with clear reluctance, also held up a peace sign.

There was only a back view, yet Rong Qian recognized him instantly. It was Shen Yi.

The frame had aged with time, worn and old. Rong Qian turned it over and found a line of writing on the back: Saint Lo Street No. 17, Room 302.

Saint Lo Street No. 17, Room 302? What was that place?

Rong Qian could tell it was Shen Yi’s handwriting. His characters were beautifully formed — the kind that made Rong Qian feel a little ashamed of her own.

Looking at it this way, the young people in the photo must all have been his friends.

Rong Qian set the frame aside and began looking through the other items. There was a key, a fountain pen, and a book. She glanced at the title — it was in a language she couldn’t read.

That was everything.

Her gaze drifted back to the frame. She wasn’t sure why, but she suddenly had an intuition — if she took the frame apart, there was something else hidden inside.

Rong Qian was a woman of action. Without another word, she dismantled the frame — and sure enough, it was exactly as she had suspected. Within the frame, another world waited.

Hidden inside the frame was another photograph.

When Rong Qian turned it over, she found that the person in the photo was herself.

That evening, after her bath, Rong Qian towel-dried her hair and walked to the dressing table to sit down, picking up the photograph she had left on the tabletop.

In it, she stood on a balcony, arms folded across her chest, brow furrowed, expression serious.

The season appeared to be winter, because the version of herself in the photo wore a black British-style trench coat over a white knit sweater, a red scarf tied around her neck, and Martin boots on her feet.

She was leaning back against the balcony railing. The composition of the shot made her look like a model striking a cool pose for an editorial spread.

As she stared at the photo, Rong Qian murmured quietly to herself: “When this photo was taken, I had clearly already come back — and I was probably being secretly photographed again, because I’m not even looking at the camera.”

As she said it, she made herself a mental note: “This time when I go back, I absolutely cannot disappear without saying a word. When I’m wearing these clothes, I have to remember to tell him that I’m going away for a while — and that I’ll come back to find him afterward!”

Rong Qian felt good about that plan. The only problem was — she had now obtained a photograph capable of taking her through time. But how was she supposed to get there?

Rong Qian thought back over her two previous experiences of crossing through time. It seemed like it only happened when she was in danger…

The next day at the police station, Rong Qian handed the group photograph to Chen Jia and asked her to help identify the people in it and track them down.

Chen Jia took the photo and asked: “Where did you get this? It looks like it’s been sitting around for a long time.”

“It’s a long story. Just help me find out first — who are the young people in this photo, what are their names, and where are they living now? See if you can track them down.” Rong Qian went straight to assigning the task.

Chen Jia gave a quick “got it.” “I’ll have results for you by lunchtime.”

“Thank you!” Rong Qian expressed her gratitude. Just then, Zhang Hao came walking over. “Sister Rong, you haven’t run into anyone suspicious lately, have you?”

Rong Qian shook her head. “No. Ever since that one time, there hasn’t been any movement.”

“Good. But you still need to be careful. Next time you’re going somewhere for an operation, take me along.” Zhang Hao felt the reminder was necessary.

Rong Qian gave him a noncommittal reply and said she’d think about it next time.

Chen Jia worked quickly. She had promised results by lunch and didn’t delay by a single minute — though she did regretfully report that the rakish young man and the Black man in the group photo returned absolutely no information. It was as if they had never existed.

“Nothing at all?” Rong Qian was actually surprised.

If truly no information could be found, it was quite possible they were no longer in this world.

“That’s right. The only ones I could trace were the couple who appear to be in a relationship.” Chen Jia handed Rong Qian an organized file of the information she had compiled.

“These two are quite remarkable figures. Both are physicists who have made great contributions to the country. They live in Beijing and currently hold positions as professors at a prestigious university.”

As Rong Qian listened to the introduction, she opened the file. The first page contained biographical descriptions, with photographs attached from their middle-aged years.

But Rong Qian could still recognize her — the middle-aged woman with the gentle, warm smile in the photo was the young woman from the group shot. Her name was Chen Shiyi, born in 1954, graduated from Harvard University.

When Rong Qian read the name of her alma mater, her first thought was of Shen Yi — he had also attended Harvard.

Chen Shiyi’s husband was named Lu Xuan, born in 1953, also a Harvard graduate.

In the group photo, Lu Xuan wore glasses and had a scholarly air about him. Even in middle age, he still appeared kind and approachable.

Rong Qian guessed they had all been friends Shen Yi had made at university. Finding them would mean learning what had happened to Shen Yi during that period of his life.

Rong Qian decided she wanted to meet this couple. She applied for leave, planning to take the first flight to Beijing in the morning.

Back home, she went to her room to pack, intending to sleep early and travel light the next day — but once she lay down, she found she couldn’t sleep.

She reached for the little iron box and studied the key carefully. Her instincts told her the key would be useful, so she tucked it into the pocket of the trousers she planned to wear the next day.

Then she took out the book again — entirely in English, dense and difficult — and flipped through a few pages, only to discover a bookmark tucked inside.

The bookmark was a postcard. The image on it was the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Rong Qian turned it over to look at the front — and when she did, she froze.

The blank back side was covered, densely, top to bottom, with a single person’s name: Rong Qian.

The two characters of her name occupied every inch of that bookmark’s reverse side. The strokes were pressed deep — as though the person writing them had been reining in some emotion, forcing each stroke, each character, out with deliberate, forceful control.

Looking at all those words, Rong Qian felt the weight of a deep, silent resentment.

She let out a dry, bitter smile. “It seems… he was really very angry with me.”