So as not to wake Xu Ning, Xia Li moved with great care as she came through the door.

She took a hot shower, lay down in bed, and felt the heavy, drifting sensation of someone who had been up all night.

But sleep wouldn’t come. She lay there, awake, until it was time to get up for work as usual. When she looked in the mirror while getting ready, her reflection stared back — complexion dull, no color at all.

The whole morning she felt as though her head were too heavy and her feet were barely touching the ground. During the meeting, her thinking ran a full beat slower than it should have, and she felt as though she were walking around as an empty shell.

She was just about to get up and refill her water when a colleague called her name. She turned toward the sound — and standing beside that colleague was Lin Chiyu from the design department.

Xia Li smiled and greeted him warmly, still calling him “Teacher Zack.”

Lin Chiyu looked slightly uncomfortable at the title, and reminded her once again that she could just call him “Xiao Lin.”

“I heard yesterday was your birthday, but it sounds like you weren’t in the office all day.”

“Naturally.” Lin Chiyu extended a gift bag he was holding. “I got you a little something for your birthday. Happy birthday.”

Xia Li smiled and said “thank you,” then peered inside. “It’s not something too expensive, is it?”

“No, not at all. A set of enamel pins I designed and had produced myself. Just a little thing.”

Lin Chiyu still seemed slightly awkward about it all. “Well then — I’ll head back to my department.”

After Lin Chiyu left, Xia Li unwrapped the gift.

It was a set of six enamel pins, all on a zoo theme — each animal rendered with an endearing, slightly dopey charm.

Baked enamel technique, carefully made.

She couldn’t quite think of a way to use them, though. After admiring them for a bit, she tucked them into her desk drawer.

She didn’t stay late that day and left on time.

Back home, the first thing she saw was the bundle of white roses on the table. They stood there so quietly and beautifully that the small sadness she felt just looking at them seemed almost unfair to them.

Xia Li couldn’t quite name what she was feeling. She sat there for a while, just gazing at them. Then she took a photo, set her phone down, and got up to shower.

Coming back to her room, her eyes landed immediately on the gift box from Yan Sishi that she had left on her vanity table that morning.

She hesitated for a long moment, then opened it. She did it quickly — as if deliberately resisting the impulse she could feel in herself to be careful, to treat it as something precious.

Inside were two things.

A necklace: a platinum fish-shaped pendant with clean, slender lines, elegant in its simplicity, with a small blue gemstone set where the eye should be. In the light, it cast a shimmer that brought to mind the glittering instant when a fish leaps from the deep sea and its scales catch the sun.

And the other was a small oil painting, measuring roughly thirty by twenty centimeters.

Deep, all-encompassing midnight blue, with a few brushstrokes of white — the quiet, wave-stirred surface of the ocean at night.

In the corner, in finer brushwork, two lines had been lettered:

The big wave brought you.

Xia Li stared at the initial “Y” in the lower corner for a very long time — stared until something like a faint mist seemed to rise from the painted surface of the sea.

After that, it was not as though she stopped encountering Yan Sishi entirely — they did, after all, share the same compound.

Once, she was sitting at the outdoor café seating in the central courtyard, on a call, when she caught a glimpse of Yan Sishi far away, walking toward the building where her company was located. He was wearing a white shirt. He saw her too, and offered a small nod from a distance in greeting — like a white-feathered lark skimming past against a grey sky, glimpsed for just a moment and then gone.

Another time, she was at the Starbucks inside the compound with Lin Chiyu, talking through a new project’s visual direction, when Yan Sishi came in to buy coffee.

She noticed him when he was standing at the pickup counter, looking at her.

She wasn’t sure how long he had been watching, but when she looked over, he gave the same small nod, then turned away.

He collected his coffee, pushed the door open, and stepped out — a wave of summer heat rolled in before dissipating moments later.

One more time, it was at the compound gate. She was finishing up after working late, waiting at the entrance for a car, when she saw Yan Sishi walking over from the direction of the convenience store with a bottle of tea in hand.

He was on the phone, speaking in English. The person on the other end seemed to be a colleague or industry contact — the conversation was dense with specialized terminology from the computing field, and she only understood about seventy or eighty percent of it.

Yan Sishi noticed her. His stride seemed to slow slightly. As he reached her, the call came to an end. He asked whether she had just finished for the day. She said yes. He paused, as though on the verge of saying something — but in the end, said nothing.

During each of these chance encounters, Xia Li always had the feeling that Yan Sishi had reverted to what he had been the night they ran into each other again at the convenience store — the world at its coldest, like a remote, uninhabited outpost at the edge of everything.

Beyond those moments, their lives had no further point of intersection.

In mid-August, Xia Li traveled to San Francisco for a business trip.

The company ran three major brand marketing campaigns a year — one each in spring, summer, and autumn. From the on-the-ground execution of the campaign to the post-event debrief, she was there for just over a week. The schedule was relentless, the details exhausting, and by the time it was done she was depleted in body and spirit.

On the day of her return flight, she had the misfortune of a delayed departure and spent an extra four hours at the airport.

She had always felt that the indoor air conditioning in America ran colder than it did back home. Those extra four hours in the chill were probably what did it: after sleeping through part of the long-haul flight, she woke to find her throat aching and her nose blocked.

She had a bad feeling about this.

She landed in Beicheng, made her way home, and immediately mixed herself a packet of cold relief granules — which might have amounted to nothing more than a placebo.

In the end, she couldn’t escape it. She had caught a cold.

Though she caught one almost every year — it had started to feel like an annual ritual, practically a standing appointment.

This one arrived with unusual force. Within a short time she had developed a fever.

She couldn’t find any medication at home. She drank a glass of hot water, then opened a food delivery app and ordered some fever reducers, and lay down on the sofa. She sent Xu Ning a message: I think the second half of your script might have its ending after all.

Xu Ning sent back a string of question marks.

Two weekends ago, a web drama had started filming in Yongshi. Xu Ning, as one of the screenwriters, had gone to join the production crew and would be staying until most of the filming was wrapped.

Xia Li: I have a fever.

Xu Ning: How high?

Xia Li: Couldn’t find a thermometer. Looks like there’s no fever medicine at home either. I just placed a delivery order.

Xu Ning: Then take the medicine and rest first. If the fever doesn’t come down, you’ll need to go to the hospital.

Xia Li: Okay.

Xia Li set her phone down on the coffee table and closed her eyes.

She drifted off into a hazy, light sleep, and dreamed:

She heard someone knocking at the door.

Her whole body felt soft and boneless — she had no desire to move. The knocking came in a pattern: three knocks, a pause, then three more.

Measured, unhurried.

What a polite, patient delivery person. Anyone else would probably have started kicking the door by now.

She gathered what strength she had over a very long stretch of time, finally forced herself up with a grit of her teeth, slid her feet into her slippers, and shuffled to the door — head heavy, feet light.

The person at the door was Yan Sishi.

She must have developed a fever-induced stupor, because she stood there for a moment before managing: “…When did you start doing deliveries?”

Yan Sishi looked down at her, his voice very even. “Xu Ning told me you had a fever. I live nearby — she asked me to come check on you. She was worried.”

“What about my delivery order?”

“What delivery order?”

She fumbled in her pajama pocket — empty. She turned back into the apartment, found her phone on the coffee table, opened the delivery app, and saw that her order had been placed but never paid for. It had timed out and been automatically cancelled.

“Can I come in?”

She turned back with a slightly dazed expression. “Oh… yes.”

Unable to find a suitable pair of guest slippers, Yan Sishi slipped off his shoes and walked in on socked feet over the tile floor.

He set the paper bag he was carrying down on the coffee table, went to the dining table, and picked up the electric kettle.

It was probably still full of water she had boiled earlier — though whether it was still hot, she couldn’t say.

Yan Sishi poured out a cup of water, brought it over and set it on the coffee table, then took an electronic thermometer out of the paper bag, pressed the button to switch it on, and handed it to her.

She sat down on the sofa, took the thermometer, and tucked it under her collar into her armpit.

At that moment, Yan Sishi turned away for a bit.

A moment later, with the thermometer settled in place, he turned back. He took fever-reducing tablets out of the paper bag, pressed one free from the foil packaging, and placed it beside the cup within her reach.

She was running a half-step behind on everything — she took it slowly, and swallowed the tablet down with a sip of water.

The electronic thermometer beeped twice.

She took it out and looked at the reading. 38.5 degrees Celsius.

Yan Sishi leaned in to look as well.

“Where’s your room? Go and rest.” he said.

She nodded. “And you…”

“I’ll stay for a bit and then go.”

She got up, her steps unsteady, and made her way to her bedroom, leaving the door ajar, and lay down fully dressed, pulling the covers over her head.

The medication must have started to take effect — in her drowsy haze, she was aware only of a continuous stream of sweat.

She didn’t know how long she slept. Then she heard a quiet knock at the door.

Xia Li opened her eyes and looked toward the bedroom doorway. There was Yan Sishi, standing there.

She startled for a moment.

So what had happened earlier wasn’t a dream.

“…You’re still here.”

Yan Sishi nodded, his voice calm. “Has the fever come down?”

“I’m not sure… I think so.” She felt it must have — she was thinking clearly enough now.

Clearly enough to begin perceiving his presence.

“Check your temperature again?”

Xia Li nodded.

The thermometer was in the other room, so she said: “Could you hand me the thermometer?”

Yan Sishi went out to the living room.

A moment later, he returned to the bedroom doorway, paused briefly, then walked in and came to stand at the edge of her bed.

She took the thermometer from his hand, drew the blanket over herself a little, and tucked it under her armpit from the collar of her top.

Yan Sishi stood by the bed with one hand in his pocket, gaze appearing to rest on her bookshelf.

She followed his line of sight.

There was the small oil painting.

She had spread a white tablecloth over her desk and arranged it carefully. The deep-blue painting, leaning against the grey-white spines of her foreign-language books, looked extraordinarily beautiful.

Xia Li glanced once more at the “Y” initialed in the corner of the small painting, then shifted her gaze to Yan Sishi.

Those brief, distant encounters earlier hadn’t conveyed much. Up close now, she thought he seemed slightly thinner — the white shirt making him look lean, almost spare.

He didn’t seem to be in a good state. There was a quiet, subdued shadow between his brows.

Because he had been looking at that painting for so long, Xia Li couldn’t help but ask: “Did you paint that yourself?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I studied it when I was abroad, for only about half a year. I’m not very good.”

“It’s already very good. It’s beautiful.”

Yan Sishi said nothing, and turned to look at her for a moment.

There was no reading whatever emotion lay in that glance — she didn’t try to.

The thermometer beeped twice.

Xia Li took it out and looked at it. “36.9. Just about back to normal — have I been asleep a long time?”

“Are you hungry? I ordered a bowl of congee for you.”

The feeling of hunger wasn’t strong — just a kind of light, emptied-out looseness. She knew she needed to take in something to keep her strength up, so she nodded and pushed herself up on one arm from the edge of the bed.

Yan Sishi had already gone ahead.

Xia Li walked to the dining table to find the food already arranged on the surface.

Alongside a serving of chicken and shredded rice congee, there were several simple, refreshing side dishes.

She recognized the logo on the chopsticks and paused for a moment, feeling a small jolt.

It was the Hong Kong-style café — the same one Yan Sishi had ordered “takeaway” from that other time.

About three weeks ago, she and Xu Ning had been home together, and to celebrate Xu Ning’s script — the production was about to start filming — they decided to treat themselves to something nice. Xu Ning hadn’t been willing to wash her hair that day, so she absolutely refused to go out, insisting on delivery.

Xia Li thought of this Hong Kong-style café — but when she searched for it on the delivery app, they had no delivery service whatsoever. She even called ahead to confirm: they had never opened a delivery option, and had no plans to do so in the short term. Dine-in only.

Yan Sishi placed the congee bowl in front of her. She picked up her spoon, looked down, and offered a soft word of thanks.

She didn’t ask how he had managed to get them to send a “delivery.” She could guess it had involved considerable effort.

Being sick made the mind soft and yielding. She knew this about herself — so she didn’t ask.

The gentle warmth rising from the plain congee stirred a little appetite in her. She scooped a mouthful and tasted it — the clear, lightly salted warmth was exactly what she needed.

Yan Sishi closed the lid on the delivery carrier, tucked it back against the wall, and then said: “Take your time eating. I should go.”

Xia Li was briefly startled.

She looked at the time then — it was already eleven-thirty at night.

She had slept for at least three hours.

Had he been waiting all this time for her fever to come down?

“I’ve put you to so much trouble today.”

Yan Sishi gave a small, expressionless nod. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Xia Li nodded.

And with that, he turned and walked to the door.

He put on his shoes at the entryway, said a brief farewell from the threshold, then opened the door, walked out, and closed it softly behind him. The latch clicked into place with a quiet sound.

He left without any trace of lingering.

Xia Li set down her spoon and sent Xu Ning a message: Fever’s come down. Yan Sishi has already left. Thank you for asking him to come.

Xu Ning replied without a word, and simply sent over a series of screenshots.

The first was a circle of friends post she had put up — screened from colleagues and supervisors — venting about coming home and immediately getting sick after landing.

The second was a conversation between Xu Ning and Yan Sishi.

YAN: Sorry to bother you. I was wondering — how is Xia Li doing right now?

XN: I’m not in Beicheng, I’m out of town with the production crew.

YAN: So she’s home alone?

XN: She is.

YAN: Do you have any mutual friends in Beicheng who could go check on her?

XN: Aren’t you one?

XN: If you’re worried, you could go take a look for me.

Xia Li read it through and didn’t know how to reply.

Xu Ning: Next time, make absolutely sure to screen him from your posts 😏

Outside the residential complex.

The car that had been parked too long had, once again, earned itself a ticket.

Yan Sishi sat in the car for a long time without moving.

He knew, realistically, that she almost certainly wouldn’t need anything more tonight — but the faint “what if” still kept him there. If she did need to reach him, he could be there quickly.

He had tried to hold back from checking in too much, not wanting to place any weight on her.

Today, perhaps, he should not have come.

But if he hadn’t seen with his own eyes that she was all right, he would not have been able to set his mind at ease.

There was also something more selfish in it. It had been too long since he had seen her — and that quiet, gnawing thirst inside him had reached its peak the moment he saw her post. He would rather drink the poison than endure the waiting.