By now, Jiang Ruoqiao no longer believed these were simply ordinary dreams.
She had come to feel that what she was dreaming had already happened — that these events had already taken place in the world of the original story.
She woke up, and instead of rushing out the door, she took out a sheet of paper and a pen and tried to connect all the dreams she’d had into one complete timeline.
Yes. A timeline.
Grandmother falling ill and then passing away had come after her account was reported and suspended.
In this most recent dream, Lin Kexing had said something very clearly over the phone: “He’s still following her, he’s still watching her video logs.” That line was important. Without question, the person causing Lin Kexing this degree of pain could only be Jiang Yan — and the person Jiang Yan was following must be her. Lin Kexing’s next words — “She looked down on him for not having money and threw him away” — confirmed that. So then: could this dream’s timeline be set at a point before her account was reported and suspended?
It seemed like it.
Which raised the next question: who was Lin Kexing on the phone with?
And was this person connected to whoever had targeted her account?
Jiang Ruoqiao had previously written down the main plot points and characters from the original story — she’d been afraid of forgetting.
*A Love to Keep* was, at its core, a sweet little tale of a secret crush finally coming to fruition — the plot wasn’t complex, and so the cast of characters wasn’t large. Even the antagonists were the type to get exposed and written off quickly.
Instinct told Jiang Ruoqiao that the person who had truly orchestrated the harm done to the female supporting character was whoever Lin Kexing had been speaking to on that phone call.
Who could it be?
Jiang Yan’s mother? Jiang Ruoqiao immediately put a cross beside this name. In fact, she was the very first to be eliminated.
Jiang Yan’s mother had used an information gap to engineer the female supporting character’s separation from the male lead, and to make the male lead misunderstand the female supporting character.
Because of this, Jiang Yan’s mother would be deeply anxious about any further complications arising from the female supporting character. She had absolutely no reason to destroy the supporting character’s reputation — wasn’t she worried that if she pushed her too far, the supporting character might confront the male lead in a rage and accidentally let slip the details of what had happened?
More importantly, Jiang Yan’s mother didn’t have that kind of capability.
To get a blogger with a substantial following suspended, Jiang Yan’s mother would inevitably have to involve other people — people like Madam Lin, or even Jiang Yan himself. Whoever found out, it would be a significant crack in the saintly maternal image she worked so hard to maintain. After all, what kind of truly pure-hearted, virtuous mother would use such methods to go after her son’s ex-girlfriend? The inconsistency was too glaring. The probability of it blowing up in her face was practically one hundred percent.
Could it be Madam Lin? Jiang Ruoqiao shook her head, hesitating slightly as she put a cross beside this name too.
She had only met Madam Lin once, but something in her gut told her that Madam Lin wasn’t the type to do something like this. Besides, at that point in the timeline, Lin Kexing and Jiang Yan weren’t yet together, and Madam Lin wouldn’t have known about her daughter’s feelings — so the person on the other end of Lin Kexing’s phone couldn’t have been Madam Lin.
So was this a character who had appeared in the original story, or one who hadn’t?
Jiang Ruoqiao suddenly thought of someone.
Someone who had both the means and the motive.
That was the male supporting character: Chen Yuan.
In the novel, Chen Yuan and Lin Kexing had been childhood playmates. Later, Chen Yuan was taken overseas to settle by elders in his family, and it wasn’t until many years later that Lin Kexing and Chen Yuan crossed paths again. By then, Chen Yuan had grown into a cultured and accomplished young man, and their childhood connection meant that when he saw Lin Kexing again he devoted himself to caring for her. In the novel, he was the archetypal supporting male character — wholly devoted to the female lead, who unfortunately loved someone else. He quietly remained in the position of a friend and continued being good to her.
The only time the male lead ever showed jealousy was because of Chen Yuan.
Because Chen Yuan had given Lin Kexing a crystal lamp — one he called an Aladdin’s Lamp.
The author hadn’t devoted much space to this character. Chen Yuan was the very common variety of male supporting character — it could even be said that in the original story he was something of a plot device, as though the author had been halfway through writing and suddenly realized: a novel with a male lead and female lead and a female supporting character… surely also needs a male supporting character.
Jiang Ruoqiao thought it over. Chen Yuan certainly had the means — after all, being a childhood playmate of the Lin family’s daughter meant his family background was anything but ordinary.
Chen Yuan also had motive. Or rather, a reason.
The Aladdin’s Lamp.
Why specifically an Aladdin’s Lamp?
An Aladdin’s Lamp grants wishes.
Jiang Ruoqiao drew a thick red line under Chen Yuan’s name.
As it happened, on the very same night Jiang Ruoqiao dreamed that dream.
Madam Lin, wanting to shift Lin Kexing’s attention, had been taking her out frequently to various social occasions. Lin Kexing had previously resisted these events and gatherings with great stubbornness — she found them tedious, and felt that everyone at those gatherings was deeply insincere. Madam Lin hadn’t forced the issue before, seeing as her daughter was still young, but she had decided she was done indulging her.
Madam Lin’s intention was for Lin Kexing to observe how those other ladies and young women conducted themselves at such functions — how they carried themselves with effortless grace, how they built connections through casual conversation without ever seeming to try.
Unfortunately, Lin Kexing had no interest in any of it.
She was looking for an escape — and the moment Madam Lin’s attention wandered, she slipped quietly out and made her way to the host family’s garden, intending to clear her head. She hadn’t expected to find a kindred spirit there, someone else who had grown weary of the socializing inside and had also snuck out.
The two exchanged a smile. Lin Kexing noticed that the other person’s eyes and features seemed vaguely familiar, and said hesitantly, “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
The person laughed helplessly. “You have no memory at all, do you? You’ve forgotten me?”
He cleared his throat. “Aladdin’s Lamp.”
Something stirred in Lin Kexing’s memory. First came a moment of blankness, and then, finally, she pulled it up from somewhere long buried — and her face broke into a look of pure delight: “It’s you!”
Though calling them close friends would be a stretch.
After all, when they’d first met, Chen Yuan had been eight years old and Lin Kexing only six — they’d both been children.
When Chen Yuan was eight, his mother had passed away from illness, after a long and drawn-out decline. Barely a month after his mother’s death, his father had already brought his mistress home. This mistress had also been Chen Yuan’s father’s first love; the two had parted ways years earlier due to circumstances. Chen Yuan’s father had later met his original wife — Chen Yuan’s mother — and they had endured hardship together until they finally built their own business. It was during those difficult years that Chen Yuan’s mother had worn herself down, and during childbirth she had very nearly crossed the threshold of death herself, leaving her health permanently fragile.
As Chen Yuan’s father’s business flourished, he happened to run into his old first love again, and from there things had spiraled beyond control.
His wife had been dead only a month, and he couldn’t wait.
Chen Yuan had a younger half-brother — the child of his father’s mistress — but this younger brother had been born with a congenital illness. At some point, his father had even entertained the idea of using Chen Yuan’s heart to save his younger son. Chen Yuan was only eight years old, and he had been filled with dread and terror. It was then that the six-year-old Lin Kexing had whispered to him quietly: “I’m your Aladdin’s Lamp — don’t worry, everything will be okay. Your heart won’t be taken away.”
And just a few days later, that younger brother died when emergency treatment failed.
Chen Yuan’s father’s first love spent her days in tears. Not wanting his beloved to be haunted by grief, his father sent Chen Yuan away overseas.
Now, meeting again, something like a genuine smile finally found its way onto Lin Kexing’s face.
After exchanging pleasantries, Chen Yuan asked with concern: “You seem like you’re not happy about something. What’s going on?”
For Lin Kexing, Chen Yuan was no more than an old playmate. She had no desire to bring up Jiang Yan with him — that was the deepest secret of her heart, something she only wanted to share with people she truly trusted. So she simply shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
—
Before Grandmother’s surgery, all her indicators had checked out fine.
Professor Huang scheduled the operation. Nowadays, no matter the scale of a surgery, a risk consent form had to be signed beforehand. Jiang Ruoqiao’s hand was trembling as she signed it. Fortunately Grandfather was there, and Lu Yicheng was there, and Lu Siyan too.
Though Lu Siyan was only five, he had the sensitivity of a child who understood more than most. He hadn’t been brought along during Grandmother’s hospitalization, but the previous day he’d overheard his father on the phone talking about surgery, and insisted on coming no matter what was said, declaring that he was there to cheer on his beloved Great-Grandmother.
Her pen tip hesitated.
Looking at all the items listed on the risk consent form, Jiang Ruoqiao simply could not bring herself to finish signing.
Her eyes still held the glint of unshed tears. She had never imagined, not once, that there would come a day when she would be the one signing a form like this.
Lu Yicheng stood watching from beside her, and in that instant he was transported back to that afternoon, to the moment he too had signed his own name on a risk consent form. After he’d finished, he hadn’t been able to hold himself together — he’d fled to a fire escape stairwell and cried without a sound for a very long time.
He watched Jiang Ruoqiao with quiet worry.
And because of this, her every reaction — even the faintest tremor of her lashes — was caught by his gaze.
He watched as Jiang Ruoqiao closed her eyes, watched as the knuckles of the hand holding the pen went faintly white — and then, in just a few seconds, so brief that a person might blink and miss it entirely, she opened her eyes again. Her expression steadied into one of quiet composure. Quickly, with firm resolve, she signed the three characters of her name: Jiang Ruoqiao.
Before the anesthesia was administered, Jiang Ruoqiao came to Grandmother’s side.
Grandmother smiled, and waved a hand, beckoning Jiang Ruoqiao to lean closer.
Then Grandmother said in a low voice: “Qiao Qiao, I have a savings book. It’s in your bookshelf, at the very bottom of a cookie tin. Not much money — your grandfather doesn’t know it exists. The password is your birthday.”
Jiang Ruoqiao finally let her tears fall.
They soaked into the corner of the blanket.
Grandmother was finally wheeled away. Jiang Ruoqiao turned to face the wall, not wanting anyone to see her cry. She pressed her forehead against the wall and said nothing.
The surgery took several hours.
Lu Yicheng sat nearby holding Lu Siyan, occasionally glancing over at Jiang Ruoqiao.
—
Fortunately, in the end, the surgery was a complete success.
The professor said that as long as she came in for regular follow-up checkups from now on and kept her spirits up, things would be fine.
Jiang Ruoqiao felt like laughing and crying at the same time. The truth was, throughout the entire surgery, one thought had run through her mind on a loop: as long as Grandfather and Grandmother were safe and healthy, she would endure whatever the original story had in store for her. It didn’t matter.
As long as their ending had been changed.
Overwhelmed with emotion, Jiang Ruoqiao hugged Grandfather and then crouched down to wrap her arms around Lu Siyan too. Lu Siyan held her tightly and murmured into her ear: “Little Qiao, don’t be scared. Little Qiao, don’t cry. I’m right here!”
His father had said that Mom was the strongest person in the whole world.
Watching his young mother, he sometimes wondered — she didn’t actually seem all that strong.
Mom cried too, after all.
But then…
He thought about it and thought about it more, and decided — maybe it was better if Mom wasn’t so strong. If Mom wanted to cry, she should just cry.
After Jiang Ruoqiao released Lu Siyan, she looked up and caught Lu Yicheng’s eye. Her eyelids were faintly pink; the tears had left her eyes unusually clear and bright, and her nose was a little red too.
She actually wanted to hug him.
But in the end she didn’t.
She broke into a tearful smile.
Lu Yicheng looked back at her and smiled too.
The two of them stood there like that, each looking at the other, until finally Jiang Ruoqiao said: “Lu Yicheng — thank you.”
After that, Jiang Ruoqiao was called away to the doctor’s office.
Out in the corridor, Lu Siyan tugged at Lu Yicheng’s sleeve — Lu Yicheng who was still gazing in the direction Jiang Ruoqiao had left.
Lu Yicheng finally came back to himself. He looked down at Lu Siyan. “What is it?”
Lu Siyan said: “Do you want to hug my mom?”
“?” Lu Yicheng’s eyes shifted away. “No, I don’t. Stop making things up.”
This child was wonderful in every way, except for that mouth of his, which had a particular talent for saying things that put people on the spot.
Lu Siyan drew out his words with great theatricality: “Liars’ noses grow long.”
Lu Yicheng instinctively reached up to touch his own nose. That one reflex sent the child into peals of hysterical laughter. “Bwahahaha!”
Young dads could really be so clueless sometimes! No wonder Mom called Dad a silly goose.
Lu Yicheng was deeply uncomfortable.
Lu Siyan gestured for him to crouch down. “Dad, come down here for a second.”
Lu Yicheng had no choice but to crouch down. He was already bracing himself, resigned to his fate, about to say something — but before the words left his mouth, Lu Siyan suddenly flung his arms around him. Lu Yicheng froze. What was this about?
“Mom hugged me just now. Now I’m hugging you. That kind of counts as a hug, right?”
Lu Yicheng: “…………”
—