The height of summer. A fierce sun burned overhead, blazing and relentless, as if the entire city had been scorched.

Lin Luxiao used his leave and went directly with Big Liu and Shen Mu to book train tickets back to Northern Xun. Half a year had passed since he last set foot on this land. The man seemed to have changed in many ways — his back was still tall and straight, but a deeper silence had settled over him. When he wasn’t speaking, the composed, slightly contracted set of his brows carried a thin edge of cold solitude.

Shen Mu knew only that someone had died in service, and that Lin Luxiao had come back to see him off. Seeing that his mood was low, he didn’t press for details.

On the train, the scenery slid past — a sweep of unbroken green as far as the eye could reach.

Xiao Jiu used to say all the time: “Commander, my favorite color is green — the color of Chinese soldiers. The color of hope.”

The kid was earnest and a little goofy — whenever he spoke, he’d scratch the back of his head with a bashful grin.

When the media storm had broken.

Lin Luxiao was at the unit handling handover procedures. Xiao Jiu had crept up to him and murmured in his ear: “Whatever anyone else says, Commander — I support you. Nan Chu is a good girl.”

He said nothing in return. He reached out and gave Xiao Jiu a pat on the shoulder. It meant — I hear you.

Such was the comfort men offered one another.

No words needed. One gesture was enough.

The Anjiang line hadn’t yet been upgraded to high-speed rail. The old green train rolled along the tracks at a steady, unhurried pace, the trees outside the window flickering past like shadows.

Inside the car the air was stale and the noise constant.

The three men sat on hard seats. The fourth seat was occupied by an elderly person holding a small child — they seemed to be heading to Northern Xun to visit family. The child wasn’t old enough to talk yet and had been crying and fussing the entire journey, filling the car with restless noise.

A passenger nearby lost patience and snapped at the elderly person: “If you can’t handle a child like this, you shouldn’t be bringing them out — do you have any idea how annoying this is?!”

At that outburst, all eyes turned to the elderly person.

The elderly person quickly apologized, looking flustered and a little embarrassed. “I’m so sorry — he’s usually very well-behaved. I don’t know what’s gotten into him today. I’m truly sorry.”

Everyone assumed that one scold would be the end of it.

But the moment the apology was finished, the child started wailing again. The male passenger, now beyond endurance, exploded in a torrent of abuse. The language was vile — directed at a helpless elder with a small child who didn’t dare fight back, and who just sat there with their head bowed, trying to soothe the tiny infant.

The man kept up his foul-mouthed complaints. It was truly unpleasant to hear.

The rest of the passengers in the car — a moment ago chattering and animated — all turned into spectators, the kind who watch quietly and eat their melon seeds.

The elderly person was holding the infant, helpless tears being wiped away with a free hand.

Small murmurs and snickers broke out here and there across the car.

Until — the man rose from his seat and started charging toward the elderly person, as if he meant to use his hands.

Lin Luxiao had been holding himself back this entire time. But when the large, heavyset man actually stood up and rushed at the elderly person, the man wearing a black duck-bill cap across the aisle extended a foot and blocked his path, his tone thoroughly unimpressed: “Are you finished?”

The man thought this was amusing.

He turned and asked: “Is that your kid?”

Lin Luxiao, coldly: “No.”

“Then mind your own business.”

In truth, we all lack a certain quiet courage — in love, and in life as well.

Lin Luxiao had no interest in arguing. When he was serious, he had a way of making a person feel the weight of authority without raising his voice: “Go back to your seat.”

The man sized him up under the brim of the cap — he thought this man didn’t look particularly more built than himself, and figured that in a fight he could probably hold his own.

Then Shen Mu and Big Liu spoke up from beside him.

“Brother, when you’re out and about, giving others a little room is the same as giving yourself room. Who hasn’t needed help at some point? Beat up an elder and a child — you think I won’t put you online? People would bury you in their spit alone.”

“My friend here,” he said, gesturing at Lin Luxiao, “has a temper on a normal day. Today his mood is particularly bad. And he still hasn’t said a word — it’s not like your complaint was any great matter. Have a little understanding for each other — when everyone makes themselves the center of the universe, how does anyone actually live? You look like a real man on the outside — how come nothing you’re doing right now is what a real man does?”

The man probably took stock of the three of them, and of how particularly grim the capped one looked.

He stretched his expression into a scowl and walked away.

Lin Luxiao withdrew his foot and folded his arms, closing his eyes again to rest.

The situation settled. The elderly person was moved to tears, and once the child was finally quieted, thanked them in a low, earnest voice — genuine gratitude.

This group of young men could fool around and joke at times, but the hot-blooded spirit in their bones hadn’t changed one bit.

Big Liu, being the chatty type, asked: “Where are you heading?”

The elderly person hesitated, then tears began to fall. “I’m going to see my grandson.”

“What does your grandson do?”

“He’s a firefighter.”

Lin Luxiao, who had said nothing, looked up and glanced over.

Big Liu: “Hey, what a coincidence! My buddy here is a firefighter too. Which unit is your grandson in?”

“The Special Services Squad. He died in the line of duty two days ago… I’m going to the memorial service.” The elderly person could hold back no longer and broke down, covering their eyes and weeping.

“Xiao Jiu?” Lin Luxiao’s voice came out rough.

The elderly person looked up in surprise. “You know him?”

“He was my comrade.” His voice was very quiet.

Three words — and the car fell suddenly silent.

Every passenger turned to look at the elderly person, struck by something that looked like awe.

The grandson was a hero.

And what had they just witnessed — and done nothing about?

Right and wrong are never absolute.

A ripple of applause moved through the car. The man who had caused the scene pretended to sleep through the clapping and the judgmental stares. Someone came over to speak to Lin Luxiao: “Friend, my little brother is a firefighter too. It’s hard work. You’re all heroes.”

He gave a faint smile.

Bowed his head. Curved the corner of his mouth.

And suddenly thought of a line from a film:

I’m not a hero. I’ve just fought alongside heroes.

Nan Chu had just wrapped filming and climbed into the van when Yan Dai’s call came in.

“Nan Chu.”

She smiled, watching the bright sunlight outside the window. “Well, well — you remembered my number?”

The other end went quiet for a moment. This time, unusually, there was no joke.

“Xiao Jiu… has died in the line of duty.”

There’s a saying: life is unpredictable.

Though it was blazing July, a bone-deep chill spread through her from all sides. Nan Chu’s smile faded instantly, frozen on her lips.

Was that the Xiao Jiu who liked to call her a celestial beauty?

Xiao Jiu, who wasn’t even twenty years old?

“The memorial is tomorrow. Lin Luxiao is already on his way back. Head Instructor Yang asked me to check — do you have anything on your schedule?”

Is it Lin Luxiao?

Nan Chu wondered — how long had it been since they’d seen each other?

Counting it up, only a little over half a year.

And yet the time she had spent with him already felt like something from a former life — from a long, long time ago, so distant that she had even begun to lose the clarity of his features.

“I’m free.”

He was her comrade too. She had to come and see him off.

The next day, all six of the celebrities who had taken part in the program back then appeared together, all dressed in black.

Of the six, Nan Chu and Yan Dai had the most enviable careers.

The other four were still drifting along quietly, and rarely crossed paths.

Among the six, Nan Chu was the most talked-about — some of that attention was the kind earned through controversy, but a film she’d recently released had won her considerable praise. Audiences were gradually discovering that Nan Chu’s face was made for the big screen, and were surprised to find that her acting wasn’t half bad either. Every role she brought to life was vivid and memorable — both films had performed well beyond expectations. Combined with Nan Yueru’s team’s sharp PR instincts, plus her volunteer work at a disaster relief site a while back, she had won over a good number of casual fans.

In Yan Dai’s words: she was just one defining role away. Once she had that one role under her belt, she’d be completely redeemed in the public eye.

The six of them stood at the entrance and chatted briefly — nothing about work, all about the days when they’d filmed that program together.

Nan Chu came back after finishing a cigarette.

The others were still talking.

She turned her gaze — and in the distance, a military vehicle pulled up.

It stopped beside them.

The front passenger door swung open. First a pair of black military boots landed on the ground, and then a tall figure in full military uniform stepped out.

He didn’t look their way at all. He went directly to the rear door and opened it, helping down an elderly person holding a child, followed by Meng Guohong in his severe military dress.

It was Meng Guohong who noticed them first. He said something to Lin Luxiao and gestured in their direction.

The man turned and swept his gaze this way — a light, unhurried glance — then looked away without any particular expression.

Nan Chu was in a black dress today, her long hair loose behind her, making her small face look fresh and pale. She stood there calmly — beautiful, unmistakably so, and somehow more mature than she had been.

All the way here, she had been wondering:

If they came face to face, what expression should she use to meet his eyes?

As it turned out, Lin Luxiao didn’t look at her at all. His gaze swept past Yan Dai, and then he turned away.

Someone came out from inside and murmured something in Meng Guohong’s ear.

He gave the six of them a nod from a distance, signaling he was heading inside first.

Lin Luxiao followed behind.

“Luxiao!” Someone called out from behind.

They all turned. A few meters away stood a kindly-looking elderly figure.

The vehicle had stopped just beside them. Lin Luxiao said something quietly to Meng Guohong. “It’s the old commander. Let me go see him.”

That voice — low, cool, with a clean, cutting edge to it.

The one she longed for in her dreams.

The sun was blinding. She squinted into its light and watched him openly, without restraint. The man was in full military uniform — his back still tall and upright, the short hair catching the light in reverse, the uniform collar crisp and neat at his neck, exposing a section of his throat — the prominent point of his Adam’s apple — leaving her somehow both numb and intoxicated.

This man, no matter when, was always her most beloved sight.

No matter when.

In a crowd, she was certain — she would fall in love with him at a single glance.

Standing there in place, Nan Chu fell into a quiet reverie: what if they had never crossed paths before? Never met. Never fallen for each other.

What if every story between them had begun only from this moment.

If that were so, she could have approached him with no hesitation, no history, wearing her very best face, and smiled up at him openly. Reached out her hand. Said:

Commander Lin, I’m Nan Chu. It’s very nice to meet you.

Love, stripped back to its most original form.

Everything, exactly as it was at the very beginning.