[07]

Before Xia Li and Yan Sishi left Beicheng, they paid a visit to his grandfather for lunch.

To Xia Li’s surprise, his grandfather’s living quarters were far smaller than she had imagined, and the décor was simple and tasteful without a trace of extravagance.

Only the study’s bookshelves, lined with countless medals and certificates of honor, inspired in her an instinctive sense of reverence.

The grandfather smiled and said that if she had her eye on any particular medal or badge, she was welcome to pick it up and look.

“Are people really allowed to handle the medals so casually?” Xia Li laughed.

The grandfather said: “Of course — little Yan used to play with them all the time when he was small. He once told me he was going to grow up and win more medals than me.”

“But he didn’t take the same path as you.”

“Any path is fine. Isn’t he still contributing to society now?” The grandfather laughed and invited them to move to the dining room.

Yan Sishi had made a point of asking beforehand not to go to too much trouble, but his grandfather had still had an entire table of dishes prepared.

“Some of them are things little Yan has loved since childhood, and some are Chucheng specialties — the cooking may not be authentic, so I don’t know if it’ll suit your tastes.”

Xia Li quickly said: “It’ll be just fine.”

“Would you like some wine?” The grandfather looked toward Yan Sishi with a smile.

Yan Sishi said evenly: “We have to go to the airport after lunch, so I’ll skip the wine for today.”

His grandfather put the bottle he’d already taken from the sideboard back, smiling: “Then we’ll drink tea in place of wine.”

Over the meal, the grandfather naturally asked about their life in Bincheng — whether they had settled in, how work was going, and so on.

Xia Li noticed that no matter what they said — whether it was about the industry’s prospects or their daily diet — his grandfather listened with complete, genuine interest.

The grandfather said: “As long as you’re comfortable there. The south is humid and warm — quite different from the north with its four distinct seasons.”

Xia Li laughed: “That’s exactly why we came running back the moment it snowed.”

The grandfather laughed: “In that case, I should hope for more snowfall.”

There was a pot of lotus root and spare rib soup on the table, cooked to a very good flavor. When the grandfather noticed that Xia Li had helped herself to a second bowl, he specially called out to the cook to bring a little more.

As Xia Li sipped the soup, she asked his grandfather a question she had long wondered about: “Why do all the elders call Yan Sishi ‘little Yan’? Normally wouldn’t you use something from the given name as a nickname?”

The grandfather laughed: “You’d have to ask little Yan himself. When he was small we tried all sorts of nicknames, and he wouldn’t respond to any of them. But ‘little Yan’ always got a reaction, so it stuck all these years.”

“Huo-auntie seemed to call him ‘Ah-Shi.'”

“That was only after he was a bit older that his mother started calling him that.”

Xia Li said: “Ah, so that’s how it was.”

And once the subject of Yan Sishi’s childhood came up, his grandfather was like a floodgate thrown open. He recounted the smallest details — down to which year and month Yan Sishi had played a sand-table strategy game with the other children and effortlessly captured their stronghold — all from memory, as if describing the contents of a cherished collection: “Little Yan has always been sharp, with excellent strategic thinking. If he’d been interested, I genuinely had in mind to send him for military training.”

Xia Li glanced over at Yan Sishi, happily imagining what a military uniform would look like on him.

Yan Sishi caught her eye. His expression was somewhere between amused and knowing — as though he could see perfectly well what was running through her head at that moment.

After lunch, his grandfather kept them a while longer. Only when they truly had to leave to catch their flight did he finally, reluctantly, see them off.

At the door, they discovered his grandfather had already arranged a car to take them to the airport.

The driver came and opened the car door. Xia Li and Yan Sishi stood by the vehicle and said their goodbyes.

His grandfather asked with a smile: “Are you planning to go back to Chucheng for the New Year?”

Xia Li said: “That’s the plan for now.”

“That’s good — your maternal grandparents are both there, and it’ll be a lively New Year.”

Xia Li looked at Yan Sishi, not quite sure what to say.

There was something in the elderly man’s manner — an unspoken, barely-contained longing for closeness with the younger generation — that made Xia Li feel a slight ache.

Throughout the visit, his grandfather had not once brought up the situation with Yan Sishi’s father — no doubt out of care not to disturb his mood or the warmth of the meal.

After a brief silence, Yan Sishi said: “If we have time at the Lantern Festival, we’ll come for dinner.”

It was not an effusive tone, and not a firm promise. But his grandfather was already overjoyed, and said with a smile: “Then I’ll be waiting for you.”

He saw them into the car, and just before the door closed, said with particular meaning: “You two just focus on living your lives well. Don’t trouble yourselves about anything else — Grandfather is here to stand behind you.”

The car drove a long way before Xia Li turned to look back. His grandfather’s slightly stooped figure was still standing in the doorway, watching them go.

[08]

Xia Li’s birthday in 2019 was spent with Yan Sishi in Singapore. Along for the trip were Lin Qingxiao and Nie Chuhang.

Nie Chuhang had just completed a combined master’s and doctoral program and was about to start work at a state-owned enterprise, where he would be conducting research related to nuclear energy. His chances to travel freely abroad would be few in the future, so this trip served as both his graduation journey and a shared adventure with Lin Qingxiao.

The four of them first went around the city, visiting Merlion Park, the National Gallery, and other landmarks. Then, on Xia Li’s actual birthday, they took a boat to Sentosa Island.

The weather was superb. In a tropical region, the sky and sea have a kind of fresh blue that seems like something just peeled open and new.

They played at Universal Studios first, then went to the S.E.A. Aquarium.

Entering through a deep, luminous blue underwater tunnel, they could see through the glass the wreck of a vast sunken ship.

When Xia Li tilted her head to look up, Yan Sishi reached over and took hold of her fingers.

She turned to look at him. The shimmering aquamarine light fell across his face.

Above their heads, a whale shark glided past — free and solitary.

In that moment, the immense regret she had felt in 2016 when she learned that Singapore’s Underwater World was closing was finally replaced by something beyond words — a deep and quiet sense of being moved.

Like the wreck of that ship, it was the end of one adventure — the place where something great had come to rest.

Only their own story needed no display case, and required no other audience.

As evening fell, they left Sentosa.

At the pier, a small cruise ship was moored. When they boarded, the sun was just setting, and the clouds had been stained a gorgeous rose pink.

Lin Qingxiao took Xia Li by the hand and made straight for the bow. “Take a few photos of me!”

The sunset was beautiful and brief. Before long, the sky had gone fully dark. Across the sea, in the fading dusk, only a single thread of molten gold remained.

Xia Li and Lin Qingxiao made their way back to the rear deck — and stopped.

Out in the open air, a long table had been set up, draped in a white tablecloth and laid with a pristine white cake and a floral arrangement — white roses, peonies, and bellflowers.

Glass candleholders were placed across the table, and Yan Sishi was going along them one by one with a lighter, kindling each flame.

The sea breeze stirred the hem of his white shirt. The candlelight flickered, casting its warm glow over his face.

Xia Li could only murmur: “How did you…”

She was certain this had not been here when they first boarded.

Lin Qingxiao smiled: “It’s your birthday. We’re celebrating.”

So her pulling Xia Li away to take photos earlier had been a deliberate distraction.

The ship had cast off. There was no one else aboard besides the four of them — wonderfully quiet.

Xia Li was guided by Lin Qingxiao to her seat. Yan Sishi finished lighting the candles and sat down beside her.

The sky had gone entirely black. The ship drifted over the sea, candlelight swaying close by, and the distant glow of the city shimmering on the water — a sight beautiful enough to stay with a person forever.

Dinner was Western cuisine. The champagne caught the candlelight, a shade of amber more lovely than the sunset.

Xia Li, who didn’t normally drink, found herself unable to resist sipping a few mouthfuls. The mild warmth that spread through her was like becoming a seabird in the salt breeze, thoughts drifting upward like clouds.

Between bites, Lin Qingxiao asked Xia Li and Yan Sishi: “When are you two thinking of getting married?”

Xia Li said: “We haven’t even registered yet.”

Lin Qingxiao smiled: “That’s not so bad, actually. You could still change your minds. Nie Chuhang and I got ourselves bound by that certificate, and now we can’t even argue properly.”

Nie Chuhang’s expression said very clearly: Thank goodness we got that certificate.

And Xia Li thought, please — no more talk of “changing minds.” “We will register — it’s just that there’s never been time.”

Yan Sishi said: “You’ve never had time.”

Xia Li said: “I can work around it. Honestly, I’m fine either way. It’s really up to you.”

Yan Sishi reached over to smooth the hair the sea wind had blown across her face, his tone expressing mild disbelief: “Is that so?”

After dinner, the cake was cut, and conversation drifted on without a fixed topic.

By the time the night had grown deep, Yan Sishi gave word to the bridge to bring the ship to shore.

Back at the hotel, Xia Li didn’t go straight to shower. She had been keyed up all day with excitement, and the moment she lay down, she didn’t want to move.

She and Lin Qingxiao were swapping photos in the small group chat they’d made for the four of them, picking out a few to post.

Xia Li tapped through Lin Qingxiao’s photos one by one — and then went still.

Yan Sishi was sitting on the edge of the bed, undoing the buttons of his shirt, about to go shower.

She sat up and draped herself against his back, holding her phone screen in front of him.

Yan Sishi looked at the screen.

It was the moment in the underwater tunnel when they had held hands — the image underexposed, their figures rendered in black silhouette against the translucent deep-blue of the water, only their outlines visible.

Captured in that frozen instant, they were both looking up at the whale shark overhead.

As if they, too, had become two fish — swimming through long, lonely years of ocean — until at last they found each other in the quiet depths.

Xia Li said: “When we get married, I want to have this printed as the invitation.”

Her chin resting on his shoulder, her voice still carried the faint, airy quality of a slight champagne warmth — but it brushed against the heart like the tip of a cat’s tail.

Yan Sishi paused, then said: “Let’s change the flights.”

“…What?”

“Fly directly to Beicheng the day after tomorrow.”

“…What for?”

“Register our marriage.”

[09]

That early autumn, the company Xia Li worked for held a global product launch, and she needed to travel to New York.

At Yan Sishi’s suggestion, Xia Li took an extra two days of annual leave so they could visit Boston together.

While Xia Li was in New York, managing the details of the launch, Yan Sishi flew out to California to meet Wang Chen and attended several academic forums held in Silicon Valley.

Once both of them had finished their respective obligations, they reunited in New York and traveled on to Boston together.

Compared to New York’s relentless pace, Boston felt considerably more unhurried.

The hotel they were staying in was not far from the apartment Yan Sishi had once rented. When you drew back the curtains, you could see the Charles River.

The autumn afternoon air was cool and crisp — perfect for a walk through the university campus.

The main building complex of MIT comprises ten interconnected structures. Among them, Building 10 — the Great Dome, officially MacLaurin Hall — is the most iconic, modeled after the Roman Pantheon. Built of reinforced concrete, it carries all the sanctity and grandeur of marble.

There were many visitors. Xia Li walked up the steps hand in hand with Yan Sishi. Yet as she crossed the threshold, she felt a complicated emotion that no ordinary tourist would.

She had expected not to feel too much, because since being with Yan Sishi, so many past regrets had one by one been made whole.

But standing in that hall and tipping her head back to look up at the glass at the very top of the domed arch — through which a deep, clear blue of sky poured in — she couldn’t help but think: this visit had arrived many years too late, and only because of a chain of wrong turns.

“The first time you walked in here, did you look up at this too?” Xia Li asked.

Yan Sishi nodded.

Afterward, he walked her through the corridors, pointing things out as they went — telling her this was a classroom where he had once studied alone, with its tall glass windows framing a tree’s green canopy. On days when his mood was low, he used to sit by the window and listen to music or sleep, and it often made him think of the tree outside his high school classroom.

Building 32 was where his lectures were held — designed by an architect who had won the Pritzker Prize, though he hadn’t liked it. Too complex, too cluttered; it had avant-garde ambition but lacked real beauty. Perhaps for that very reason, other than for class, he rarely lingered there. He preferred to walk over to the business school building just to buy a cup of coffee.

The Alchemist sculpture, long regarded as a symbol of MIT, was made up of mathematical symbols, Arabic numerals, and Greek letters — a thoroughly nerdy sensibility. The reason he had chosen to study computer science, he said, was that it was a clean discipline, as pure as that sculpture: you put in a certain instruction, and you get a certain result. He had to admit that in the years he spent studying there, that kind of clarity and purity had given him a great deal of peace…

By the time they had finished making their way around, it was dusk.

They walked back to the main building’s long corridor.

This corridor connected several buildings and stretched a full 252 meters. Every year in mid-November and late January, at a precise angle, the light of the setting sun floods the entire passage — a breathtaking spectacle.

Yan Sishi said he had stumbled upon that sight entirely by accident the first time.

Before coming here, he hadn’t researched much about the school beyond academics — so it had never occurred to him that a corridor could become a landmark in its own right.

It was during his second year, one afternoon in January. He came looking for a place to study and found the two sides of the corridor packed with people.

They were all holding up their phones, waiting eagerly for something. He didn’t know what they were expecting — only that the crowd and the noise were irritating.

He was pushing open the door, about to step into a study room, when all at once the crowd broke into a collective gasp.

He turned around.

In just an instant — the entire two-hundred-meter corridor had been set alight by the setting sun. Vast and glorious, it looked like a passageway leading into another world.

The sight stirred something in him — like encountering, after a long absence, the ability to be moved by something beautiful in nature.

It made him want to see it a second time.

Once a person has something to look forward to, many dark moments become possible to endure.

Xia Li listened to the end, then looked at Yan Sishi. Her voice came out a little muffled: “It makes me think of Osamu Dazai.”

Dazai had written in The Declining Years: I had thought to die this winter, but then I received a hemp-cloth kimono, grey with fine white stripes — meant for summer. And so I thought I would live until summer.

They went out through the rear door of the main building, crossed a stretch of lawn, and reached the Charles River.

The sun was setting on the water. The sky and the river had both been dyed a brilliant, fierce shade of orange-red.

Yan Sishi said that he had never much enjoyed cycling, and would often walk home along the Charles River from campus, taking his time.

To some people, the sunset over the Charles River became dull after a while. For him, it never did — perhaps because, in many ways, that was the only stretch of time he felt was truly his own.

“I have watched this kind of sunset countless times.”

Those words made Xia Li stop walking.

A cool breeze came over the river’s shimmering, light-scattered surface. Across the bank, the glass of the buildings reflected the setting sun, dazzling almost to the point of pain.

She thought naturally of The Little Prince, and of forty-three sunsets.

Her chest ached with the sourness of swallowing a green olive whole — for these sunset hours, for the solitary little prince, for the Yan Sishi who had once faced all that emptiness alone.

Or perhaps she had, in some way, become part of the people who lived in his memory.

He had opened every door for her — allowed her to look in, to witness his vulnerability — trusting, from the bottom of his heart, that she alone would never hurt him.

Yan Sishi reached out just then and touched her cheek lightly. “Shall we rest for a moment? There’s still a bit of a walk to get back.”

Xia Li nodded.

There was a wooden bench nearby. Yan Sishi said she should sit for a while, and went to buy some water.

The bench faced the river directly. Xia Li sat for a little while and watched the sun slowly descend — and then the sky turned, improbably, into a deep, serene shade of pink-blue.

She was reaching for her phone to take a photo when she heard footsteps in the grass.

She turned. It was Yan Sishi, water in hand, walking back.

Xia Li was about to say something, but Yan Sishi looked at her and said: “Xia Li?”

Xia Li froze.

He was studying her with an expression of unusual seriousness, his voice even more so: “Long time no see.”

Xia Li understood.

In an instant, every emotion rose like a tide. She opened her mouth — and couldn’t make a sound.

If — if she had received the right information at the right time, and had come to Boston instead of Los Angeles, she would have waited for him right here along the Charles River.

If she had, wouldn’t she have found Yan Sishi at the very moment she was about to give up?

After a long moment, Xia Li heard her own voice, a faint trembling in her smile: “Long time no see… They said you were studying here. I was in town for work, so I thought I’d come by on the off chance — to see if we might run into each other.”

Yan Sishi sat down beside her. “What a coincidence.”

“Yes.”

The water bottle was in his hand, making a faint, slight sound as he held it. He glanced at her and held it out. “Some water?”

“Thank you.” Xia Li took it, and it seemed she couldn’t help but stay immersed in the imagined scene. “…How have you been lately?”

“Getting better, slowly.”

“It feels like… we haven’t seen each other in such a long time.”

“We haven’t. But I think we’ll see each other again quite soon.” Yan Sishi turned to look at her. Dusk and the remnants of the sunset were both in his eyes — shadow and light woven together — and it made her think of the summer they first met.

He said: “…Would you be willing to wait for me a little longer?”

To wait until the moment, in real time and real space, when they would truly meet.

At this, Xia Li’s throat tightened. She could no longer keep playing the scene.

She lifted her hand to cover her face, but felt Yan Sishi’s warmth draw close — his cool fingers gently pulled her hand away. He lowered his head toward her, and looked at her eyes, bright with unshed tears. For just an instant, he kissed her.

He tasted the faint salt of a tear, and felt something catch in his chest.

Xia Li rested her palm lightly against his shoulder. She said softly: “Real old friends reuniting after years apart wouldn’t kiss the moment they see each other. You played the scene wrong.”

Yan Sishi gave a low, quiet laugh. “Only if it’s you.”

Then it can’t be wrong.

Time comes when it comes. Fate arranges its own timing.

And he knew with certainty: fate runs like a great river, flowing in from every direction.

It always finds its way to where she is.

[10]

The AI text-processing model that Yan Sishi and his team had developed entered the internal testing phase.

As a family member, Xia Li naturally had the right to participate in the beta test.

Despite her repeated objections, the model’s interface retained the name SHERRY until public launch.

SHERRY was “intelligent” — at least noticeably more so than some of the chat-bot assistants Xia Li had encountered in various apps before. It could carry on a coherent, logical conversation.

During that period, Xia Li chatted with SHERRY regularly — asking it to find information, summarize things, recommend films, music, and books, and sometimes simply talking for the sake of it.

She admitted this particular question was nothing more than a random whim:

— SHERRY, do you know Yan Sishi?

— Of course. He is one of the engineers who created me.

— What do you know about Yan Sishi?

— Yan Sishi, born February 19, 1992, graduated from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology…

— I already know all the public information. I want to know things that can’t be looked up.

— Then you must promise SHERRY not to share what follows.

— I promise.

— Yan Sishi has stated, on his own account, that most things about Yan Sishi are not important.

What matters is this: his wife is the great love of his life.

She is his fish, his wild rose, his countless sunsets, his grey-striped summer hemp-cloth kimono.

His eternal summer.