The narcissus bloomed before the Spring Festival, with an exceptionally long flowering period that lasted beyond the Lantern Festival.

On a Sunday at the end of the first lunar month, Fang Muyang went out to collect a package slip. Fei Ni’s eyes were tired from reading, so she opened the window to gaze into the distance for a while before going to play the piano.

Someone knocked on the door. Fei Ni’s fingers left the piano keys as she went to answer it.

Two young women stood there, one of whom Fei Ni recognized.

Fang Muyang’s comic book had received an unexpectedly positive response, exceeding Su Yu’s expectations. The comic was adapted from an article Su Yu had published in the newspaper. While her article had generated some buzz when published, it paled in comparison to this adaptation. The comic book added many details to her article’s foundation and corrected some factual errors. Her article had been about steelworkers, and although she had visited the steel mill for research, some parts had been assumptions.

Reader letters piled up in a corner of Su Yu’s desk at the publishing house, as she had been Fang Muyang’s collaborator on the book. These letters caught the attention of Su Yu’s colleague Ling Yi, who asked, “Are all these for Muyang?”

Hearing this familiar form of address, Su Yu guessed the two must be close.

Su Yu and Ling Yi were ordinary colleagues, neither friends nor enemies. Su Yu was far more courteous to women than to men. Men generally found Su Yu harsh, while women merely thought her arrogant and antisocial. Su Yu’s mother, a former ballet dancer, once said, “Pretty girls love to befriend people like you—generous, drama-free, not ugly but not particularly beautiful, someone who won’t steal their spotlight.” Su Yu dismissed her mother’s words. She had few female friends; her friends were mostly boys she’d grown up with. Since these boys never hid their misdeeds from her since childhood, she saw through typical male shortcomings and harbored no romantic notions about them.

Fang Muyang had stirred something shy in Su Yu’s nature, along with unprecedented imaginings about the opposite sex. But upon learning of his marriage, these fantasies had evaporated. She was too proud, afraid he might misinterpret her interest and was especially careful to maintain distance. After completing the comic book, they hadn’t contacted each other. When she recently brought the comic home, her mother loved it and wanted to invite the artist for dinner. Su Yu directly said she wasn’t close with Fang Muyang.

“Are you two close?” Su Yu asked.

“We grew up together, and later we were even at the same youth farm during the Down to the Countryside Movement.”

Su Yu thought this must be childhood sweethearts then.

Ling Yi flipped through the reader’s letters one by one, telling Su Yu, “Why don’t we deliver these letters to Muyang? They might give him the courage to give up his current job.”

Su Yu instinctively asked, “What does Fang Muyang do now?”

“He’s a waiter at a restaurant.”

“A waiter?”

“After finishing training, he was unemployed at home. My father recommended him for a job at the newspaper office. Although there wasn’t an official position immediately available, one would surely open up soon. But he insisted on becoming a waiter instead.”

Su Yu was puzzled. “Why?”

“Perhaps people with family responsibilities care more about wages. Working as a waiter at a foreign affairs hotel certainly pays better than an unofficial position at the newspaper office. If he needed money, I could have helped.”

“Just for wages? Fang Muyang doesn’t seem that short-sighted.” Su Yu didn’t believe he valued money to that extent.

“Married people often aren’t free to choose. Sometimes choosing a partner means choosing a certain kind of life. Even if you don’t want to go somewhere, sometimes you’re pushed there by your loved one.” Ling Yi felt sorry for Fang Muyang while feeling fortunate herself—thankfully she hadn’t rushed into marriage before her father’s status was restored, as divorce was always troublesome. But this gratitude contained much regret: when she finally didn’t have to worry about survival and had the ability and energy to repay Fang Muyang, he wouldn’t give her the chance.

“I think he’s the type who doesn’t let others make decisions for him,” Su Yu thought of Fang Muyang’s wife who worked at the hat factory.

Fang Muyang becoming a waiter at the Foreign Affairs Hotel was so unexpected that, out of curiosity, Su Yu decided to accompany Ling Yi.

Ling Yi not only brought coffee beans for Fang Muyang but also a Moka pot for brewing coffee. Su Yu wasn’t as elaborate, just buying some tangerines on the way.

They only knew which building Fang Muyang lived in. At the bottom of Fei Ni’s building, Su Yu saw a young woman about to enter with them and asked if she knew where Fang Muyang lived.

Wang Xiaoman gave the two women a cursory look. The shorter one was beautiful but excessively proud, not even looking at her while asking for directions, as if coming here was completely beneath her. The taller woman’s words were concise and polite enough, but her tone was ice-cold. From their watches, clothing fabric, and shoulder bags, she guessed their outfits weren’t cheap. She particularly liked the taller woman’s Perri’s trousers, which didn’t look bulky even in winter.

“Are you Little Fang’s colleagues?”

“Something like that.”

Wang Xiaoman was quite displeased with them—what was there to be proud about being a waiter at a foreign affairs hotel?

“Your hotel must have good benefits.”

“What hotel?”

Ling Yi realized the woman had mistaken them for Fang Muyang’s coworkers, which annoyed her, so she said, “We’re from the publishing house, bringing reader letters for Fang Muyang.”

Wang Xiaoman remembered Fei Ni once mentioning her husband was an artist, but hadn’t expected he’d published a comic book. She thought to herself that Fei Ni was quite composed. Between the manuscript fees and the hotel job, this Little Fang must make quite a lot each month, maybe even more than her husband Xu. That made sense—someone as shrewd as Fei Ni wouldn’t marry someone truly without means.

She asked the one who’d requested directions, “What did Little Fang draw?”

Su Yu told her the comic book’s title.

Because of their cold attitude, Wang Xiaoman also lost enthusiasm for giving directions. At the doorway, she pointed to the door beside her own, “There, that’s Little Fang’s home.”

The corridor was largely occupied by a stove, with coal cakes piled on both sides. Ling Yi couldn’t say she was unfamiliar with such housing—before her father’s status was restored, she and her family had lived in similar quarters. Having lived in such conditions made her recall those difficult times, making it increasingly unbearable.

But in the same layout, Su Yu noticed that Fang Muyang’s door and the cabinet outside were cleaner than the neighbors’.

Piano music seeped through the door crack. Ling Yi’s hand hesitated at the sound before finally knocking.

Hearing the knock, Fei Ni came to open the door. Today she wore a blue, white, and black sweater over her shirt. The reason for the multiple colors was that hat factory employees could buy one hat annually without coupons or tickets. Four years’ worth of wool hats had been transformed into this sweater.

Those unaware would hardly guess she had unraveled hats to knit it herself; they could only see it was a labor-intensive piece.

Fei Ni first noticed Ling Yi, and being more familiar, she saw how a person’s eyes would announce their good fortune—so this was how someone suddenly restored to privilege looked. A year ago at this time, Ling Yi had been quite dejected. As for the other visitor, after she introduced herself, Fei Ni immediately connected her to Fang Muyang’s comic book, having seen Su Yu’s name on the cover.

Ling Yi asked Fei Ni, “Is Muyang here?”

“He went out but will be back soon.”

“We’re bringing reader letters for Muyang. His comic book is very popular; there are letters every day lately.”

Hearing this, Fei Ni found even Ling Yi more agreeable and smiled, saying, “He’ll be back soon, please come in and sit.”

Su Yu surveyed the tiny room, first noticing the piano in the corner. She asked Fei Ni, “Were you playing just now?”

Fei Ni smiled, “Just playing around.”

“What piece?”

“Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral.'” She added, “It’s been allowed to be performed for the past few years.”

Not seeing any sheet music, Su Yu asked, “Can you play without sheet music?”

“I just play the same few bars over and over.”

Su Yu appreciated Fei Ni’s honesty. She handed over what she’d brought, and Fei Ni thanked her, put out bananas for them to eat, and said, “I’ll make you some tea.”

Ling Yi said, “Thank you, but I don’t like tea, no need to make any for me.”

Ling Yi discovered their life was considerably better than she’d imagined—such a room even had a piano. Visitors to the room could hardly miss the loft bed and desk cabinet below. Ling Yi had never seen such a bed in furniture stores, but unlike Su Yu, who immediately guessed Fang Muyang had made it himself.

Su Yu asked where they’d bought the bed.

Before Fei Ni could answer, Ling Yi said, “This must be Muyang’s work. He often did carpentry when we were sent down as youth. He even designed the houses we lived in.”

This was somewhat exaggerated. Although Fang Muyang had indeed drawn the designs, the final form didn’t entirely follow them. His designs were too inappropriate for the village, and materials were scarce.

Ling Yi noticed the small sculpture on the chair, clearly depicting Fei Ni, and knew the chair was also Fang Muyang’s work.

This home was too clean, too unlike Fang Muyang’s style. In her memory, Fang Muyang’s bedroom always had a lingering turpentine smell, wafting from canvases throughout the room, the floor covered with plates of various paints, paintings everywhere—finished, unfinished, about to begin… Later when Fang Muyang went to the countryside, she would occasionally catch that smell on him.

Fang Muyang had crafted a home for this woman, yet it had no trace of turpentine. In such an excessively clean and tidy household, Fang Muyang probably could only draw profitable comics, not oil paintings. After earning manuscript fees, he still had to earn a second income at the foreign affairs hotel. This small room allowed a piano to occupy so much space but couldn’t accommodate a violin.

She remembered Fang Muyang played the violin very well.

She felt somewhat sorry for Fang Muyang. At this rate, his talent would surely be destroyed.

Since Ling Yi didn’t like tea, Fei Ni could only offer her water.

Ling Yi asked Fei Ni again, “Is Muyang still working as a waiter at the hotel?”

Fei Ni made an affirmative sound.

“Muyang and I are very good friends. If you’re having financial difficulties, you can always ask me. I’ll help however I can.”

Fei Ni immediately replied, “Thank you, but we have no difficulties at all. Why would you think that?”

“That’s good if you don’t.” Ling Yi mentioned the newspaper job again, “My father recommended Muyang for a position at the newspaper office. Though there’s no official position yet, one will open soon. The initial salary might not match the hotel’s, but I think newspaper work suits him better. When choosing work, don’t just look at immediate gains and losses, take a longer view. Muyang’s strength is in drawing; being a waiter doesn’t suit him. I really can’t imagine him working as a waiter for survival—it would have been unimaginable before.”

Before Fang Muyang became a waiter, Fei Ni also found it hard to imagine, but she heard accusations in Ling Yi’s words—what right did she have to question her?

Fei Ni smiled, “Are you suggesting I forced him to become a waiter for money?”

“That’s not what I meant, you misunderstand.”

Fei Ni borrowed Ling Yi’s words: “That’s good if I don’t.”

“I don’t know the reason, but I feel waiter work doesn’t suit him.” Ling Yi smiled at Fei Ni, “Don’t you agree?”

Ling Yi’s words were gentle, but Fei Ni heard the displeasure within them. She hadn’t known about Fang Muyang’s opportunity at the newspaper office. That he’d given up newspaper work to become a waiter… she certainly didn’t approve.

In front of Ling Yi, Fei Ni maintained her smile: “You’ve been friends with Fang Muyang for years, don’t you understand his nature? How can you assume he went to the hotel just for his livelihood? Couldn’t it be to gather creative material? He won’t stay there forever.” Fei Ni deliberately left an opening for Fang Muyang—if he still wanted the newspaper job, he could say he’d gathered enough material.

Although she disliked Ling Yi’s current demeanor, professionally, Fang Muyang was more than qualified for newspaper work, and personally, Ling Yi owed Fang Muyang a great debt of gratitude—it would be natural for him to accept her thanks. She couldn’t let her prejudice against Ling Yi hinder Fang Muyang’s future.

She trusted Fang Muyang and was confident nothing would happen between him and Ling Yi. Even if something did, she’d accept it. Fang Muyang’s unhappiness would do her no good.

Ling Yi hadn’t touched Fei Ni’s water. She took out the coffee beans and Moka pot from her box and placed them on the table. “I brought these for Muyang. Coffee helps stay alert; you can use an alcohol stove normally.” She smiled, “If you don’t know how to brew it, I can teach you.”