Passing through the classical garden-style hotel lobby on the first floor, entering the exclusive elevator of the central main building, a few seconds later the elevator dinged and arrived at the 52nd floor. Zhao Pingjin stepped out of the elevator and walked toward his home. The thought that lights would be on at home, with a snail girl inside the house, made his footsteps somewhat lighter.

He opened the door and walked into the living room.

Huang Xi Tang had washed her hair. With her hair loose and her feet bare, she was standing by the washing machine in the bathroom. The television in the living room was on, playing the music channel of Central Television.

It was already November, and the night temperature was a bit cool.

Zhao Pingjin stood in the living room: “Come in and put your shoes on.”

Xi Tang poked her head out from the bathroom: “I forgot to bring slippers.”

Zhao Pingjin bent down to find shoes for her from the shoe cabinet: “Couldn’t you find them yourself?”

Xi Tang came in to put on shoes: “Wasn’t it fun? Why are you back so early?”

Zhao Pingjin replied irritably: “This is my home. Are you hoping I won’t come back?”

Xi Tang stuck out her tongue and retreated into the bathroom.

Zhao Pingjin’s mood finally returned to cheerful. He took off his coat and sat on the sofa.

Xi Tang returned after hanging clothes on the balcony and closed the curtains. She saw Zhao Pingjin sitting on the sofa, wearing a gray pin-striped shirt, his body relaxed against the sofa back, his right hand resting on the armrest, his long, jade-like fingers slightly curved, tapping a rhythm. On the television screen, a concert was playing. A female soprano’s round, powerful voice was singing: “Rolling smoke and fire sing of heroes, surrounding green mountains listen attentively, listen attentively—”

At that moment, his face was peaceful, with a hint of relaxed pleasure.

Xi Tang secretly looked at that face—fair-skinned, lean, and handsome, with a straight nose. Stealing a glance at him from the side, the line of his jaw was as hard as cold iron, yet when relaxed, his entire face had a jade-like luster that softened his expression somewhat. His whole being carried a kind of proud, noble arrogance that no amount of good upbringing and cultivation could conceal.

Sadness welled up in Xi Tang’s heart. She didn’t know why, but in this life, it could only be like this. No matter how many sleepless nights she had endured through darkness and blood-soaked skies, she ultimately couldn’t resist that face she never tired of looking at.

Zhao Pingjin turned his head to look for her.

Xi Tang quickly averted her gaze and walked over nonchalantly, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. Over the years, as she had grown older, she had gradually become softer and more tolerant. Xi Tang had only slowly come to understand him later, slowly beginning to feel that it was rare for a person to have such a pure heart. Zhao Pingjin was a descendant of the Red Revolution. Even though he later attended the best universities abroad and lived in the best cities overseas, he always felt that his motherland was the best. His favorite food was always Chinese cuisine, and his favorite city was always Beijing. She knew these songs, and Zhao Pingjin knew these songs too. But what differed between them was that Xi Tang had received the nation’s indoctrination and cultivation through television and classrooms, while Zhao Pingjin had been immersed in compound culture and ancestral teachings since childhood. Xi Tang had learned to understand and respect him. That was his childhood memory, and more importantly, the proud imprint of his family.

Xi Tang didn’t used to think this way. When she was young, she liked Hong Kong and Taiwanese pop music. In middle school, her deskmate lent her a cassette of “Come Back.” Because of that green-covered cassette, she became a fan of Jeff Chang. Later, in college, she liked Western pop music. Zhao Pingjin himself occasionally listened to rock music, gave her concert tickets, and even accompanied her once or twice. But in the end, he would only comment on her taste with a curl of his lip, calling it “decadent music.” Due to an inexplicable inferiority complex and pride, Xi Tang had a natural rebellious spirit toward his class. She always loved reading. In college, she considered herself quite knowledgeable about Republican history, readily commenting on the merits and faults of the two parties, believing that Zhao Pingjin, with his vested interests, couldn’t discern historical truth. The most memorable time was when they happily went to see a blockbuster movie featuring a major star every second. Afterward, the two argued endlessly about the plot and history outside the theater in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, Zhao Pingjin was too eloquent, with clear logic, extensive references, and convincing arguments. That day, he seemed possessed and insisted on debating with Xi Tang. Xi Tang was so angry her nose almost twisted, accusing him of being shameless and deliberately distorting historical truth. Later, as they argued, she couldn’t out-argue him, so she angrily ran half a block away. Having upset her, Zhao Pingjin had no choice but to chase after her. The two quarreled until they dropped the egg-filled pancakes they had bought by the roadside.

Now, many years later, she had long stopped discussing politics and no longer commented on any historical events. On a cool autumn night in Beijing, watching the man she had deeply loved, now past thirty, tapping to the rhythm of revolutionary songs on the sofa, her heart contained only a desolate calmness.

Zhao Pingjin glanced at her: “You haven’t lived in Beijing for many years. Be careful of the climate.”

Xi Tang nodded: “Yes, it’s quite dry.”

After a full day of work, Zhao Pingjin was visibly tired, his voice also lowered: “The air quality is poor. Go out less in the mornings and evenings.”

She saw him leaning back on the sofa, raising his hand to lightly press his brow.

Xi Tang stood up: “Did you drink before coming back? Let me heat some milk for you.”

Zhao Pingjin came out after taking a shower. A cup of hot milk was placed on the coffee table. He drank half of it and walked toward the study.

Xi Tang was tidying clothes in the room. Seeing him pass by, she said: “Go to bed early.”

With someone’s urging, life became more regular.

Zhao Pingjin turned around, finished the milk, and went to his room to sleep.

Zhao Pingjin slept extremely well. In the morning when he woke up, the sunshine was bright, filtering through misty threads. A figure was making a phone call on the balcony.

Huang Xi Tang stood in the morning mist, wearing a loose long-sleeved white dress, both hands resting on the balcony. The wind blew her hair and clothes. Her voice was low, scattered by the wind: “Mommy, I have nothing to say.”

This apartment had one of the most expensive balconies in the entire city of Beijing, overlooking the entire Chang’an South Street. Zhao Pingjin had never gone out there once.

Huang Xi Tang’s voice came floating, rising and falling: “My heart is full of bitterness and sorrow. It’s already good that I can hold back from speaking out. How old am I now? Do you still want me to go up and pretend to be an innocent little girl?”

Ni Kailun was catching an early flight for a business trip, sleep-deprived and irritable: “Who wants to hear about your half-life of bitterness? Be warm when interacting with fans. The company has positioned your image as sweet and friendly.”

Xi Tang mocked: “Ah, how unoriginal. From Mashan Front to August First Village in Hengdian, everyone is this type.”

Ni Kailun’s anger seemed to transmit through the phone: “Don’t you dare mock me. It’s no longer up to your whims. This is a major matter. Under normal circumstances, you can decide for yourself, but when it involves company interests, write it down for me to review before posting. Be positive, be upbeat, be interesting. Share some feelings about filming and such.”

Xi Tang laughed softly: “Fans shouldn’t be too naive. People who love each other desperately in dramas might not even speak a word to each other in reality after filming.”

Ni Kailun took a deep breath, not bothering to argue with her: “Don’t mess around.”

Xi Tang almost laughed out loud: “Sigh, the most authentic feeling, and I’m not allowed to write it?”

Ni Kailun suddenly remembered something else: “Zheng Youtong has replied to you several times, but you never respond to him. His fans are even complaining.”

Xi Tang was silent for a moment: “We’re old classmates. I don’t care about these superficial words.”

Ni Kailun instructed: “Then you should reply with some words that can stay on the surface.”

Xi Tang rolled her eyes: “Then I’ll let publicity respond for me. Who would know?”

Having endured all morning, Ni Kailun finally shouted fiercely: “You’re pushing it too far!”

Having successfully provoked Ni Kailun, Xi Tang couldn’t help laughing heartily: “Oh, I just noticed, when did your Mandarin get so good?”

She switched hands to hold the phone and turned around, catching sight of a figure standing behind the window.

Zhao Pingjin stood in the living room, three feet away from the window. His hair was messy, and he wore a black velvet shirt. He had always been so thin. Standing outside the floor-to-ceiling window, watching her like a silent shadow, his gaze contained thousands of ravines and mountains she couldn’t understand.

Her expression froze slightly, her smile fading: “Alright, hanging up. Old Man Zhao is up.”

Ni Kailun continued to shout: “Have you remembered what I said?”

Xi Tang said softly: “Bye, dear.”

Zhao Pingjin watched as the smiling face of early morning slowly turned peaceful before him. He ran his hand through his hair, his deep, cold voice carrying a heavy nasal sound: “Come in. Old Man Zhao is hungry. Cook breakfast.”

Xi Tang lifted the rice cooker lid and served porridge to Zhao Pingjin. For breakfast, Xi Tang ate whole wheat bread with low-fat milk and a bit of vegetable salad.

Zhao Pingjin drank his porridge methodically: “Who were you talking to so early in the morning?”

Xi Tang answered while peeling an egg: “Ni Kailun, scolding me for not updating my Weibo.”

Zhao Pingjin looked up at her: “You have a Weibo?”

Xi Tang, having finished her meal, pushed a tender white egg in front of Zhao Pingjin: “Work necessity.”

Zhao Pingjin didn’t like boiled eggs and frowned at the sight.

Xi Tang looked at him and said: “Eat it. Don’t drink too much porridge. Be careful of stomach pain.”

Zhao Pingjin had no choice but to pick up the egg.

Xi Tang went to the kitchen and took out a thermos: “Drink a cup of vegetable and fruit juice in twenty minutes, warm.”

Zhao Pingjin smiled: “Well, you’re becoming more and more virtuous.”

Xi Tang smiled even more politely than him: “I wouldn’t dare be negligent. You spend three hundred thousand a month.”

Zhao Pingjin’s smile disappeared instantly: “It is quite expensive.”

Xi Tang didn’t respond further and walked out of the kitchen.

After breakfast, Zhao Pingjin came out and asked: “Do you want to go out?”

Xi Tang said: “Where to?”

Zhao Pingjin thought for a moment and said: “It’s the weekend. Let’s go for a walk?”

Xi Tang asked: “Do you want to go out?”

Zhao Pingjin answered honestly: “I usually work overtime on weekends. If not working, I sleep.”

Probably because his regular work was too tiring.

Xi Tang, acting in her first leading role, had particularly heavy scenes. Every night when she returned to the hotel, she would shower, lie in bed, and fall asleep while looking at the script. On a rare day off, she steeled herself: “Then I’ll memorize the script first.”

Zhao Pingjin didn’t insist: “As you wish.”

At nine o’clock, Zhao Pingjin’s phone rang on time. From his conversation, it was his maternal grandmother, asking if he had eaten breakfast, why he hadn’t come home for dinner yesterday—his mother was out of town—and why he wasn’t at his grandparents’ place, worried that he was too busy with work and not taking care of his health…

Xi Tang was in the living room, hearing him sit in the dining area, answering his maternal grandmother patiently, one sentence at a time.

He was a child who had grown up surrounded by the abundant love of his elders. Even though he was already over thirty, he was still the most precious child of the Zhao and Zhou families. From childhood to adulthood, he had been spoiled to the point of being ruined, with everything in life going his way. When Xi Tang first met him, Zhao Pingjin was young, even more arrogant and willful, with an overbearing demeanor.

Xi Tang knew that his family background and upbringing were an insurmountable chasm she could never cross.

Zhao Pingjin came out and saw her sitting on the floor, staring blankly at the script.

“What’s wrong?”

Xi Tang looked up with a slight smile, a bit weak. She lowered her head and concentrated on memorizing the script.

Zhao Pingjin sat on the sofa for a while, picked up her phone that was placed on the coffee table, and pressed here and there, taking several photos.

Xi Tang was focused on sitting cross-legged on the floor, memorizing the script, completely unaware.

Zhao Pingjin heard her mumbling and couldn’t help correcting her: “That old Beijing dialect is pronounced: ‘Ying lian er hao.'”

“Ying lian hao er.”

“Ying lian er hao.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

Zhao Pingjin laughed heartily.

Xi Tang glared at him, rolled her eyes, and continued memorizing.

Zhao Pingjin sat on the sofa. On the coffee table lay Xi Tang’s portable makeup bag. Zhao Pingjin opened it, finding a large assortment of items inside. Zhao Pingjin laid them out one by one to look at: eyebrow powder, blush, eye shadow, mascara, moisturizing spray… Zhao Pingjin looked with great interest. Xi Tang ignored him—a man so interested in women’s things, something wrong with his mind.

An hour later, Xi Tang got up to tidy her things and looked. She was dumbfounded.

Zhao Pingjin had taken all her cosmetic bottles and jars, not sparing even an eyeliner, and had drawn a pig on each one with a marker.

A small-eyed, round-nostriled, chubby—pig.

This bored, childish person!