As National Day approached, Huang Lu enthusiastically invited, “Want to come with me? Big sister will show you a good time.”

Huan’er shook her head, “I’m going home.”

With Golden Week tickets hard to get, she had secured tickets early for both herself and Jing Qichi.

“You’re going back after just a few days?” Huang Lu was surprised, “Is it necessary to be so homesick?”

Huan’er smiled, “I’ll come back two days late, I’ve already asked the counselor. Help me with attendance for other classes.”

“No problem.” Huang Lu agreed, then smirked, “I bet Little Jing will be late returning too, you two…”

Huan’er covered her mouth to stop her, “Don’t make wild guesses.”

The necessity to return home and the certainty of a late return both stemmed from the same reason.

Unable to get sleeper tickets, Huan’er and Jing Qichi traveled light on their journey home. The hard-seat carriage was packed, nearly half filled with young faces their age. The opposite seats held three students from a neighboring school who, after chatting about their respective campus lives, suggested playing cards. With four plus one, everyone enthusiastically discussed and created a five-person playing method, improving the rules as they played, laughing and having fun. When the three got off at noon, Huan’er and Jing Qichi bid them farewell without exchanging contacts, just saying they might meet again by chance.

Children, inexperienced in the world, would cry and ceremoniously leave a page in their friendship book even for classmates who transferred after just half a year, hugging them tight and saying “I’ll never forget you.” Adults no longer do this – one activity, a period of working together, a drinking session, a journey shared – connections between strangers constantly form and end, like antibodies naturally produced after illness, becoming commonplace with experience.

As for the point of change, think about it – it’s just a blurry, extended outline.

A family of three replaced the previous passengers, with a baby sleeping soundly in swaddling clothes, and surrounding travelers considerately lowered their voices. Jing Qichi bought boxed meals from the dining car, and they quickly ate at the narrow table. Huan’er told him, “I want to eat Aunt Hao’s braised pork knuckle right now.”

Song’s mother was a cooking expert, with her masterpiece being that braised pork knuckle. It couldn’t be eaten hot – it had to cool down and be sliced thinly, seasoned with a little soy sauce, sesame oil, and vinegar, sprinkled with minced garlic, and accompanied by a bowl of secret-recipe chili oil for dipping. The skin was chewy with well-balanced fat and lean meat, opening with braised five-spice flavors and finishing with the mixed sauce – one bite made you wish pigs were made entirely of knuckles.

In the past, Song’s home was always the first choice for gatherings. Chen’s father had developed a good alcohol tolerance in the army, and whenever he returned, the fathers would find any excuse to gather for drinks. International affairs, trending news, the compound, and children – adults always had endless topics to discuss, sometimes arguing red-faced over different viewpoints, but always ending up being scolded by the mothers for “getting too worked up” before reconciling over drinks and praising “Sister’s cooking is amazing.” The braised pork knuckle was the fathers’ favorite drinking snack – it seemed any sharp edges at the table became smooth with it present, and now all these memories became increasingly vivid and touching.

Jing Qichi put the leftover meal box in a garbage bag, giving a faint smile, “My mom wrote down all of Aunt Hao’s recipes, but still can’t make it the same.”

“Haha, my mom too,” Huan’er laughed, “They both just lack the talent.”

They both laughed before falling into silence. After Mrs. Song’s accident, she rarely cooked – the stove was too high, and converting the old house’s coal gas system was a major project. Plus, since Song’s father and son worried about her mobility and health, they set up a low table in the dining room with an induction cooker where she could occasionally prepare simple meals. Song Cong said they did this to prevent her from feeling psychologically burdened – she could still work, she was still an indispensable family member, and she needed this clear and positive affirmation.

But, the people and days of the past could never return.

The afternoon sun made people drowsy, and Huan’er, full of food and drink, unconsciously closed her eyes in this unusually quiet atmosphere.

She clearly remembered resting her head against the window frame, but when she woke up it was nearly dark, and she was leaning on Jing Qichi’s shoulder, covered with his denim jacket.

Huan’er sat up straight and rubbed her eyes, “Not there yet?”

“Almost,” the young man raised his hand to massage his shoulder, “About an hour more.”

“What are you doing?”

He turned his horizontally-held phone toward her side, showing a football match playing.

How predictable.

Huan’er looked out the window and sneezed, having just woken up, “We should be near Sishui soon, right?”

“The train’s coming from the east,” Jing Qichi casually pulled the jacket that had fallen to his knee back over her, “Won’t pass through Sishui.”

After saying this, he suddenly mentioned Liao Xinyan, “The class monitor has found a boyfriend.”

Huan’er was shocked, “So fast!”

It had been barely a month since school started.

“Says he’s from the same department,” Jing Qichi closed the video, switched to his photo gallery, and handed over his phone, “She sent me these photos this afternoon.”

It was a selfie of Liao Xinyan with a boy wearing a blue team jersey, the boy’s arm around her, both smiling so wide their eyes nearly disappeared, with a football field in the background.

Jing Qichi commented at this point, “Nouveau riche, wearing Chelsea.”

Huan’er burst out laughing – who cares what team jersey he wears, and is this really what we should be focusing on right now?

She turned the picture toward him, “Is the monitor trying to make you regret?”

“Don’t know, didn’t ask. But…” Jing Qichi put away his phone, “You knew all along, right? About Liao Xinyan and me.”

Huan’er was startled and guiltily nodded.

“So you didn’t tell me, and even helped her quite a bit?”

Jing Qichi said this with an amused tone as if Chen Huan’er had done something incredibly foolish. The baby in the opposite passenger’s arms started crying, successfully drawing his attention, but he quickly turned back to continue staring at her. His gaze held no hostility, but clearly wouldn’t rest without an explanation.

From receiving the photo until now, he had indeed held back for several hours.

Chen Huan’er had to confess honestly, “The monitor told me as a secret, how could I tell others? Besides, I didn’t betray you – I just answered questions about your likes and what you do during holidays and such, I told the truth.”

“That’s not betrayal?”

“Wait,” Huan’er finally caught on, “You mean, when she told you about her boyfriend, she also explained her past emotional journey?”

Jing Qichi twisted his mouth, “Mm, pretty much.”

Xinyan was truly an extraordinary girl. After being rejected, she immediately found someone similar and then laid out everything big and small to express that the snow leaves no trace and the sea has seen it all.

Huan’er began to genuinely admire her. The most aggressive method was also the most transparent expression – not everyone dares to clearly express something.

For instance, she couldn’t.

She glanced at Jing Qichi, who had put his earphones back on and was focused on the football match again – he couldn’t either.

Since Song’s parents were traveling to Beijing during the holiday, they didn’t see Song Cong until the last day of Golden Week. The three met at Huan’er’s home, each sharing news from school. Song Cong mentioned that after military training, the Capital Aid group had gathered once, organized by Qi Qi. Du Man had switched to contact lenses and was almost unrecognizable, and Liao Xinyan had appeared with a tall young man.

“Heard he’s from Beijing Sport University,” Song Cong, unaware of the background, shared with his friends, “The monitor was funny, specifically messaging beforehand saying ‘the journey of a hundred miles is ninety at halfway,’ telling us not to make a fuss.”

Huan’er looked at Jing Qichi and chuckled, then told Song Cong, “The big event is done, Xinyan is taken.”

Song Cong was puzzled, “How are you more up-to-date than me from so far away?”

Huan’er was about to spill everything but seeing Jing Qichi’s glare, she didn’t dare be too brazen and held back her laughter, hinting, “I have an inside source, not bad, not bad.”

Song Cong’s confusion doubled, “Inside source?”

Huan’er’s eye signals were becoming desperate – everything was laid out in the open, how could someone so smart be so frustratingly dense about this?

The conversation was interrupted by a phone call – Song’s father said the plumber had arrived but couldn’t find the building entrance at the compound gate. Song Cong immediately stood up, “I’ll go get them, don’t worry.”

The unexpected accidents in life had changed every one to varying degrees, quickly or slowly – the usually carefree person gradually became the main force in household chores, and the already mature boy had been polished by time into a true man.

“Go on then,” Huan’er waved him away.

With Mrs. Song’s limited mobility, this was Song Cong’s responsibility.

“I have to leave tomorrow,” Song Cong said apologetically before leaving, “The college wants me to give a speech, but the counselor wouldn’t give me leave.”

They all remembered – tomorrow was the anniversary of Jing’s father’s death.

“It’s fine, you handle your business. I’m leaving too, going to have dinner with my mom,” Jing Qichi stood up as well, and at the door turned to Huan’er, “Send me your ticket booking number, I need to change my time.”

Huan’er waved her hand, “I bought them for the day after tomorrow originally. I’ve asked for leave, we’ll leave together the day after tomorrow afternoon.”

She closed the door after speaking, not noticing the surprise in Jing Qichi’s eyes or the complexity in Song Cong’s gaze.

The next evening when Chen’s mother returned from work, mother and daughter bought some fruit and went to the Jing family home together. The memorial ceremony was for family members so they couldn’t attend, and only after this tiring day could they express their condolences.

Mrs. Jing opened the door in all black, eyes red, and began crying again upon seeing her junior colleague. Tears rolled down her cheeks like strings of pearls, and the grief left by that accident persisted like these tears. Sometimes one thinks heaven is quite presumptuous – one believes it’s fair to give everyone things that hurt to think about, not knowing there are billions of different kinds of pain. Physical pain can be treated with morphine, and the pain of separation can be defended against new love, but what about losing the closest loved ones? Husband, father, son – how long would it take those who lost him to emerge from this pain?

Heaven, who posed the question, won’t answer – there is no answer in this world.

Huan’er heard from her mother that Mrs. Jing had returned to work less than a week after Mr. Jing’s passing, and hadn’t shed a tear at the hospital. Colleagues, leaders, and even the cleaning staff couldn’t help but offer words of comfort when they saw her, and those comforting words were like arrows piercing her heart, but she never cried. She too had a superpower – she could turn herself into someone outside the story, could isolate heart-wrenching pain in a small space untouched by any disturbance, could quickly stand up, recover, heal, and then use her strength to return life to its proper track.

This was a superpower granted by unimaginable strength.

Jing Qichi retreated to the balcony, and Huan’er followed, quietly closing the door.

Behind the glass was a grieving mother and her friend holding her tight – adults too needed their own time.

Jing Qichi spoke softly, I used to always blame my mom for being busy, but she’s given so much for me and this family, hasn’t she?

He didn’t need an answer.

“Giving” is an extremely abstract word. Unlike speed, distance, or area, it can’t be easily calculated with numbers and units. A bowl of noodles, a word, a look is giving; quietly covering a kicked-off blanket in the middle of the night is giving; filling every corner of the suitcase with favorite snacks before leaving home is giving; still getting up early to light the stove in the kitchen after a fierce argument the day before is giving – how can these be measured? No, how ignorant and cruel must someone be to try to measure these things?

If these weren’t ordinary parents, Huan’er thought, then we must have used up all our kindness in our previous life to exchange for them in this one.

Jing Qichi said, “I sometimes dream that the trees become very tall and big, like a toy city built with Lego, with red houses beneath them.”

Huan’er asked, “No people?”

“The people are all in the houses,” he gazed out the window, “You see, we don’t know about joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness.”

In the lit rooms of the opposite building, someone was studying hard, someone was cooking, and some just emitted warm yellow or bright white light.

Huan’er pulled his arm to make him look at her, “Actually, I miss him too. Not as often as you do, but Jing Qichi, I miss him too.”

The neighbor uncle we would always meet, my parents’ respected and beloved friend, the elder who shared many wonderful times with us – even after a year, I often regret that he left so fearlessly.

Jing Qichi, you’re not alone.

You and Aunt Lin, we’re by your side.

Jing Qichi stared at her steadily, and after a long while said in a trembling voice, “Thank you, Huan’er.”

He didn’t cry – he had long told himself he couldn’t shed any more tears.

A few stars appeared in the city night sky after a long absence, perhaps that was Mr. Jing and his colleagues also missing the people on earth.

The two leaned against the balcony window watching the night sky, each talking to the stars in their hearts.