[05]

There were many things about Yan Sishi that Xia Li only came to know after they began living together.

For instance, no matter how late he had stayed up, he always woke at a fixed time in the morning. He said it was a body clock he had forced himself to form — because once he gave in to the foggy, undefined state of sleeping on and on, he would find himself growing more and more listless.

For instance, he made a point of setting aside time to exercise twice a week. This, too, was because physical activity made him feel more in command of his own state, while also producing dopamine.

For instance, he had learned to paint during his undergraduate years — initially as a suggestion from his therapist. He had started with sketching, then moved on to oil painting, going to the studio once or twice a week. The atmosphere there was like a university library, and it allowed him to enter a state of calm, undisturbed focus.

Even now, when something was troubling him and his thoughts were in disarray, his first instinct was still to pick up a pen and make marks on paper — which was the origin of that entire box of handwritten drafts Xia Li had sorted through during the move.

Another thing she discovered: someone who seemed, in her eyes, to pick up everything effortlessly — actually had one blind spot. Cooking.

He would follow a recipe to the letter, measuring salt, pepper, and butter down to a tenth of a gram in precision. Yet whatever came out of it tasted like the pre-made food from a fast food chain — not bad, exactly, but with a quality of mechanical, assembly-line mediocrity.

In the early days after arriving in Bincheng, even when they were both swamped with work, the two of them made time to go to the mall and supermarket together, carefully choosing the tableware and cookware they liked best.

Perhaps not wanting to let her enthusiasm go to waste, Yan Sishi made repeated efforts to improve his cooking. He approached it like a chemistry experiment — his collection of ingredients grew more extensive and specialized, right down to every product brand matching the tutorial exactly.

Xia Li tasted his cooking again and again, and again and again couldn’t bring herself to discourage his efforts.

But clearly, Yan Sishi knew his own limits.

The day he set the steak on the table, he cut off a small piece and tasted it, then set his fork down and made a solemn announcement: “Cooking truly is a wall I will never scale.”

Xia Li froze, then hurried to comfort him: “It doesn’t matter — you’re already incredibly skilled. Most people are happy to reach eighty out of a hundred. You’re already at ninety-nine!”

“That missing one point…” Yan Sishi seemed to consider this, “…will have to be compensated for in other ways.”

Later, Xia Li repeatedly begged for mercy — she really didn’t need any more compensation, it was already a perfect hundred.

“No — a hundred and one!” she told him to stop.

Yan Sishi, in turn, offered his assessment of her: if he absolutely had to deduct a point from her as well, “it would have to be for saying one thing and meaning another.”

[06]

Bincheng’s climate was warm. In the coldest stretch of winter, a light trench coat was enough to get by.

One day, Xia Li’s social media feed was flooded with videos and photos of snow in Beicheng, and she found that whenever this time of year came around, she would develop a shallow, momentary fondness for the city.

Yan Sishi’s response was direct: if she liked it, they should go and see it.

Wen Shubai had gone back to Beicheng a while before, and upon hearing that Yan Sishi and Xia Li were coming, invited them over to the Wen residence for dinner.

Yan Sishi politely declined, saying they were only coming back for the weekend and didn’t want to trouble anyone with the fuss.

Wen Shubai said in that case he wanted to come and visit them — he’d only been to the Taoyue Lane residence once, when he’d helped Yan Sishi arrange for someone to tidy the place.

Yan Sishi said perfect timing — they’d have hot pot for dinner; the more people, the livelier.

Hot pot had naturally been Xia Li’s suggestion.

She’d brought it up on a whim, then immediately shot down the idea herself, since Yan Sishi couldn’t eat spicy food.

But Yan Sishi said it was fine — on a night this cold, nothing suited the occasion better than hot pot.

When Wen Shubai arrived, the broth was already boiling in the pot. It was not the Beicheng-style copper pot of rinsed mutton, but Sichuan hot pot — a split pot with two broths. The housekeeper had been simmering the stock all afternoon. The spicy side had tallow base added, a vivid, alarming red that put you on edge just to look at it.

Wen Shubai laughed: “Why not eat hot pot at a restaurant? Isn’t all this trouble?”

Xia Li said: “No hot pot restaurant can offer a view like this.”

The carved-lattice red window was half open; beyond it lay a courtyard heaped with snow, a few stalks of bamboo, spare and quiet in the stillness.

Wen Shubai took it in for a moment. “You two really know how to live well.”

Everyone had arrived. Xia Li began lowering ingredients into the pot.

Thin-sliced beef, pre-marinated, went in first — half into the spicy broth, half into the clear.

Yan Sishi watched as Xia Li lifted out a slice of beef from the spicy side, dipped it in sesame oil, and put it in her mouth. He asked if it was too spicy.

“Not spicy — it’s actually quite good. Would you like to try?”

As she said it, she picked up a slice for him as well.

Yan Sishi tasted it, his expression unchanged, and remarked to Wen Shubai: “It’s really not that spicy. Try it yourself.”

Wen Shubai, who had been finding the clear-broth beef a little lacking in kick, took Yan Sishi at his word and picked up a slice himself.

The heat of it hit him and he nearly leapt from his seat. Fanning his mouth and gasping, he said: “…You tricked me!”

Yan Sishi calmly reached for his glass of iced water. “Might as well fool one if I can.”

Xia Li watched Wen Shubai, nose tip glistening with sweat, the skin behind his ears flushed red, and quickly said: “I didn’t trick you — I genuinely thought it wasn’t spicy.”

Wen Shubai turned to Yan Sishi with an accusation: “So deceiving people runs in the family now?”

Xia Li said: “Runs in the family?”

“Isn’t Huo-auntie also from Chucheng?” Wen Shubai glanced at Yan Sishi, and seeing his expression remain calm, continued: “When I used to come visit during my school days, she’d sometimes cook dishes from her hometown, and tell me the food wasn’t spicy at all. Then the second time, she’d come up with a new excuse — said it was really not spicy this time…”

Xia Li laughed.

Yan Sishi said: “She managed to fool you the same way three times.”

Wen Shubai was not entirely resigned to this: “How is that my fault? People who look harmless like the two of you — you’re the ones who should be reflecting on yourselves.”

Xia Li loved hearing stories about Yan Sishi’s past and urged Wen Shubai to share more.

Wen Shubai said: “He doesn’t tell you himself?”

Xia Li said: “The same story told from different perspectives is a completely different thing.”

Wen Shubai looked at Yan Sishi: “See — she doesn’t trust you. She’s come to me for a second opinion.”

Yan Sishi was unmoved: “Trying to drive a wedge between us won’t work.”

Wen Shubai asked Xia Li with a grin: “What do you want to know?”

Xia Li said: “The first time I met you, there was a girl who seemed to know Yan Sishi well. Then I ran into her again at the entrance to Lüshuang House.”

Yan Sishi looked at her. “Why didn’t you just ask me directly?”

Xia Li smiled. “Because then you’d know I was jealous.”

Yan Sishi gave a quiet laugh.

Wen Shubai was never one to pass up the chance to watch excitement unfold. “The one you’re describing is probably Fang Shumu. She and Yan Sishi had a childhood betrothal arrangement.”

Xia Li: “…Did the memo about the founding of New China not make it to them?”

Wen Shubai burst out laughing. “Right up until Yan Sishi transferred schools, the two of them were still on quite decent terms.”

Yan Sishi corrected: “Ordinary.”

Wen Shubai ignored him. “Probably because of her, a lot of people were interested in Yan Sishi back then, but not many dared approach him directly.”

Xia Li nodded: “She’s quite pretty.”

At this point Yan Sishi reached for the communal chopsticks and began placing lamb into the pot, asking Xia Li: “No longer jealous?”

Xia Li said: “Subjectively jealous, objectively acknowledging she’s pretty. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Wen Shubai laughed: “Your personality is genuinely fascinating.”

Xia Li: “Thank you. So is yours.”

Yan Sishi, his tone flat: “I’m still here.”

Hot pot is one of those things — you feel like you’ve barely eaten anything, and then somehow you’re full without noticing. The flame had been turned down low; the clear broth bubbled gently with vegetables, and everyone occasionally reached over to fish out a mouthful.

Wen Shubai took a sip of beer and asked Yan Sishi: “Speaking of which — while you’re back in Beicheng, are you going to visit your grandfather?”

Yan Sishi said: “We’ll see.”

Wen Shubai said: “The old man is something else — truly ruthless when it comes to upholding principles over family. When he said he’d cut his own son off, he meant it. Your dad is in a real mess right now. Everything he had going has ground to a halt. Hard to say whether it’ll hold up under round after round of scrutiny.”

Yan Sishi’s expression didn’t change.

The tangled chaos of the Yan Family affairs was something Xia Li had already heard from Yan Sishi himself; she understood perfectly well why leaving Beicheng had held no trace of reluctance for him.

She glanced at Yan Sishi, then asked Wen Shubai: “And, um… what about that person?”

Wen Shubai said: “I don’t know the details. All I know is that not long after the old man made his move, she took the child and left the country. Nobody knows where she is now. With Yan-uncle barely able to keep himself afloat, she probably won’t come back.”

These were all family elders, and it wasn’t Wen Shubai’s place to pass judgment. “Then there’s Fang-uncle — he was heavily entangled with Yan-uncle in a lot of matters. Whether he’ll come out of it clean is anyone’s guess. That’s why Fang Shumu has been staying close to your grandfather, hoping he’ll put in a good word.”

Neither Yan Sishi nor Xia Li spoke for a moment.

“It’s probably for the best that you two aren’t in Beicheng — just hearing my dad mention any of this in passing is enough to give me a headache. My dad had dinner with your grandfather a while back, and the old man said the Yan Family was a family’s misfortune, and told my dad to take it as a cautionary tale.” Wen Shubai gave a rueful smile. “So my dad has been watching over me like a hawk ever since.”

After the hot pot, the three of them moved to the tea room. They had a round of hot tea, and seeing that snow looked about to fall again, Wen Shubai took his leave.

Not long after, snowflakes indeed began to drift down. Xia Li set down her teacup, didn’t even stop to put on her coat, and went running excitedly out into the courtyard.

She was already crunching through the soft, cotton-thick snow underfoot when she caught sight of Yan Sishi coming outside, carrying her down jacket and a cashmere scarf.

He draped the down jacket over her shoulders, wound the scarf around her once, and said: “Don’t catch a cold.”

Xia Li took a step toward him and tucked both hands into the pockets of his coat, tilting her head up. “Did you play in the snow here when you were little?”

Yan Sishi nodded, then added: “Though later on, it was mostly accompanying someone else.”

“Huo-auntie?”

“Mm.” Yan Sishi lowered his gaze, his voice gentle and unhurried. “She didn’t like Beicheng much either. She’d only be happy on days when it snowed.”

“From what Wen Shubai was saying, I get the feeling she was someone with a real childlike spirit. And didn’t she use your forgeries to pass them off as originals to people?”

Yan Sishi nodded.

One of the biggest reasons he had been unable to come to terms with Huo Qingyi’s suicide for so long was simply that she had been such a genuinely good person.

She and Yan Suizhang would quarrel bitterly behind closed doors, but she never once lost her temper with him. She had taught him everything with warmth and patience; if he made mistakes, she never scolded him — she would even smile and say that was exactly how a normal child should be. Children are supposed to be a little foolish; a foolish child is adorable. Take little Wen Shubai — isn’t he sweet? Easy to trick, too. “Ah-Shi, you’re just too clever. Clever children tend to be unhappy.”

As his mother, she had not been above a great deal of mischief at his expense — like the time she replaced the candy in the sugar jar with salt and coaxed him into making himself a cup of what he thought was sweet water; or the time during a snowball fight when she pretended to be hit and said her nose was bleeding, and the moment he came running over in concern, shoved a snowball down the back of his collar. He’d been only eight years old at the time — his own mother, and she showed him absolutely no mercy.

But she was also the one who, when the house was being repaired, made a special point of instructing the workers not to touch the swallows’ nest under the eaves. Every spring when the swallows returned, she would be thrilled. She forbade the household staff from buying bird’s nest for cooking, saying an extra bowl of tremella soup was just as good and had the same effect.

That place held so many memories, and every single one of them, when he thought back, was beautiful.

He could still remember coming home from school one afternoon in primary school to find her asleep at the stone table in the courtyard. She woke at the sound of him arriving, and yawning and smiling all at once, said that there was lotus root soup simmering in the kitchen — she’d finally managed to buy the right kind this time, the soft starchy variety that would go tender. That evening, the sky had been ablaze with a stunning sunset of burning clouds.

Xia Li leaned into Yan Sishi’s arms and listened quietly as he spoke.

Snow fell and settled across both their shoulders.

By the time they had showered and lay down in the bedroom that had once been Yan Sishi’s, the snow had already stopped.

The accumulated snow seemed to have absorbed all the sound in the world, leaving everything in a deep and gentle silence.

Xia Li lay listening to that stillness, and when she spoke, her voice was soft as mist: “It was also snowing that day…”

“Which day?”

“…” Xia Li found she couldn’t bring herself to continue.

But Yan Sishi clearly knew what she was about to say. In the darkness came the quiet sound of his laughter, and then he lowered his head and kissed her.

What had been intended as something brief and light — and yet, as always between them, things seemed never to be decided by reason. The moment he kissed her, those images surfaced unbidden: what she had said, that day with its snow — his birthday.

And it was here, in his room. In another room, back in Chucheng.

The heating inside was more than sufficient. Xia Li worked up a light sweat. The space was very quiet, and even the faintest hurried breath seemed magnified. Since they had come back on a whim without preparation, Yan Sishi, ever cautious, never took risks. But even so, he still had his ways.

When Yan Sishi returned to her side, she curled against him, trembling throughout — like a taut bowstring that had just been released, its vibration still ringing in the air long after.

After a moment, Xia Li seized on that lingering resonance and pushed back the covers.

Yan Sishi immediately caught her arm. She lifted her eyes and looked directly at him, and gave her arm a gentle tug. That gaze, warm with intent, made him involuntarily loosen his hold.

Yan Sishi’s fingers threaded into the hair at the back of Xia Li’s head; he closed his eyes, and in the end was unwilling to refuse — so within what seemed like barely half a minute, he simply gathered her up.

When he moved to kiss her, she turned away. Her face buried in the curve of his shoulder, she said in a muffled voice: I want to make you happy too.

Yan Sishi kissed her hair and said softly: “Just being with me is enough.”

They woke to a room bright with morning light.

Xia Li thought it must be much later than it was. She reached for her phone and looked — not yet nine o’clock.

The light was that brilliant because of what lay outside.

Xia Li got up, slid into her slippers, and walked to the window.

She looked out to find Yan Sishi in the courtyard, crouching in the snow, feeding a bird.

Where it had come from and what species it was she couldn’t say — its feathers were a plain, unremarkable brownish grey. It looked like nothing special.

But it was neither afraid of the cold nor afraid of people, and it stood right there before Yan Sishi, pecking at the grain he had scattered.

Xia Li didn’t dare make a sound, afraid of startling it away.

Yan Sishi, though, seemed to sense her presence. He turned his head and glanced up.

He scattered the remaining grain from his hand onto the snow, brushed his palms together, and stood. Then he walked toward her.

Xia Li opened the window. Yan Sishi leaned his arms on the windowsill and looked at her. His white knit sweater was brighter even than the reflected snow.

“Good morning,” he said.

Xia Li smiled. “Good morning.”

The world was still and silent.

She looked at Yan Sishi, and for the first time, the phrase through the end of time came to her mind.