The show was a recording.

That particular segment — because of Nan Chu’s “non-compliance” — was cut entirely in post-production. Even the fan-shot footage that leaked was bought out by Nan Chu’s management team.

The whole thing turned into a mystery.

Backstage, Yan Dai cornered Nan Chu in the dressing room and locked the door.

“What were you doing out there?”

Nan Chu crossed her legs and settled onto the sofa. She reached into her bag for a cigarette, brought it to her lips, and held it there. With slender fingers she picked up the lighter and flipped it — a smooth, practiced motion — her thumb struck the wheel, and the flame rose. She bent toward it, lit the cigarette, and exhaled slowly, eyes half-closed. “Nothing.”

Yan Dai leaned against the door, staring at her. “You called the commander, didn’t you?”

Nan Chu blew a ring of smoke and looked at her wordlessly.

Yan Dai studied her carefully. “You planned this, didn’t you? You never mentioned it during rehearsal.”

Nan Chu held her cigarette at an angle, and suddenly laughed — a look that even Yan Dai, a woman, found undeniably magnetic. She said casually: “No plan. I wanted to call, so I did.”

A full year had passed since that whole incident.

Yan Dai felt that Nan Chu had changed a great deal, yet in some fundamental way remained exactly the same. That ease about her — the kind that never worried about consequences, that simply acted on impulse — was still there in her bones.

Like right now, for instance. In the aftermath of all the uproar, and now that she had grown strong enough — she actually wanted to go find him.

There were many things she wanted to say to him. He might not want to hear them.

Yan Dai suddenly understood: Nan Chu’s world was, in truth, very simple. What she wanted and what she didn’t want. She was clear-eyed, she was free, she was uncontained.

“So what are you going to do now?”

Nan Chu stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and said: “He’s not picking up, so I suppose I’ll go find him in person.”

Yan Dai nearly broke out in a cold sweat. “You’re going to the mountains to find him? Are you out of your mind? You’re at the height of your popularity right now — if you go looking for him at a time like this and your mother finds out, won’t she kill you?”

Nan Yueru had never been a problem for her, in her mind. But there were certain practical realities worth considering.

Such as the things Nan Yueru had said. All of it could be dealt with slowly, after she’d found her way back to him.

In early January, Nan Chu wrapped up all remaining filming work and that same evening went to find Shen Mu.

Shen Mu had recently developed an aversion to women, and was currently in meditation retreat at the Dazhao Temple. On the grounds that Nan Chu was a brother’s woman, he charitably treated her as male and had her admitted.

Candles burned in front of the hall. Inside, the golden figure of Shakyamuni gleamed, his gaze compassionate.

Incense and candlesmoke hung heavy in the air.

Shen Mu came out from inside, his tailored suit wrapped neatly around his lean, straight frame. He held prayer beads in one hand and wore an expression of one thoroughly resigned to the secular world: “You wanted something?”

Nan Chu came straight to the point. “I need Lin Luxiao’s address.”

The man’s voice was cool in the night air. “You’re going to find him?”

“Yes.”

Nan Chu nodded.

“Find him for what? To abandon him again?” Shen Mu asked, bluntly.

Nan Chu’s eyes were clear. Behind the temple was a bamboo grove — dense and thriving — and the wind curled around the back of her head.

Something about Shen Mu tonight was unexpectedly strange.

Shen Mu, who could go three sentences without saying anything meaningful — who would have just dropped the address in her hand and walked away without sparing her a second word — was actually asking her why she was looking for Lin Luxiao?

Nan Chu didn’t answer for a long moment.

Shen Mu slipped the black beads onto his wrist, tucked both hands into his trouser pockets, and gazed down at her with a sardonic look. “What — hard question? Or do you women just all prefer to act on a whim, on a momentary impulse?”

Who had acted on a whim and left him looking this aggrieved?

Strange. Very strange indeed — Shen Mu tonight was genuinely strange.

January had just brought a heavy snowfall. The cold wind cut bitterly.

In the biting wind, Nan Chu said to Shen Mu with complete composure: “I’m going to find him because I want to do what I love, of course.”

Her expression was entirely guileless. Not a trace of subtext.

Ahem —

Shen Mu cleared his throat, tossed her a slip of paper, and turned back into the hall. “All right, all right — go on, go!”

The train ride from Northern Xun to Anjiang took twelve hours — on the old green train.

A long, exhausting journey. For all twelve hours, she barely slept — her mind was full of Lin Luxiao’s face, and every possible outcome of seeing him again. She ran through every reaction he might have, arrived at the worst-case scenario, and with her defenses built, found her heart surprisingly steady.

Nan Chu stepped off the train — the car had smelled terrible — half her life drained out of her. She picked up her single rolling suitcase, adjusted her scarf, and asked someone for directions to Lushan Town.

Buses from Anjiang to Lushan Town ran twice a day: eight in the morning and five in the afternoon.

Lushan Town was small — she’d heard you could still see people on three-wheeled pedicabs there, and there was a bridge at the head of town where the local aunties and grandmas liked to sit and trade gossip.

So-and-so’s daughter is getting married this year—

This family’s child got into a famous university—

Someone has built a new house for their parents—

A recent heavy snowfall had left the area blanketed, the mountain forests white and deep, covered as if by a thin blanket. A passerby told her: the minibus to Lushan was not running.

“When will it be running again?”

The passerby shook their head. “Hard to say — depends on when the snow up in the mountains gets cleared. Should be soon, I think. The firefighters have been clearing snow up there every day.”

“Is there any other way up?”

“There might be private cars, but you’re a young girl traveling alone — probably better not. Wait it out. The minibus should be running again in a few days.” The passerby looked at the well-bundled young woman and offered the advice in good faith.

Nan Chu had her mask and sunglasses and hat on, with her scarf covering the better part of her face — she was essentially a person wrapped in fabric, lacking only a full veil. She wasn’t particularly worried about being recognized, but there was no reason to invite unnecessary attention.

She couldn’t simply wait. The time she had available wasn’t unlimited, and she couldn’t afford to waste it here.

At six in the evening.

Nan Chu used a ride-sharing app to book a private car.

Anjiang County was small — so small that a few famous landmarks served as the default meeting spots among friends, and you could recognize a third of all passersby on your way out to buy groceries. But this small county was tranquil. Everyone wore easy, contented expressions on their faces.

And Nan Chu, this outsider with her striking looks, attracted attention.

She stood outside the bus station waiting, felt the weight of passersby’s glances, pulled her mask up higher over her face, and rubbed her arms to stay warm while she waited for the car.

Two minutes later.

A white Toyota Reiz pulled up in front of her. The window came down. The driver was a solidly built man in his early thirties, with a square face.

Nan Chu looked him over carefully before loading her bag into the car and getting into the back seat.

The driver wasn’t the talkative type. The moment she was in, Nan Chu asked: “How long?”

“About an hour, give or take — if the road conditions are good. If not, could be two hours or so. Depends how far the firefighters have gotten with the snow clearance.”

At most two hours. And they would be face to face.

The car wound up the narrow mountain road. Through the not-quite-clear window glass, Nan Chu watched the world outside — a sweep of white in every direction, stitched through with flickers of deep green.

Lin Luxiao had just come back from clearing snow. He hadn’t even taken off his outer layer — he’d been sitting on his bed for exactly one minute when his phone went into a frenzy of vibrations.

He leaned against the headboard — military boots still on, feet propped against the edge of the bed — and fished his phone from his jacket pocket. It was Shen Mu. He pressed accept and held it lazily to his ear. “What?”

“Have you seen her?” Shen Mu’s voice came through with unusual clarity.

Lin Luxiao frowned. “Seen who?”

Shen Mu said: “Tch! That girl. She came to find me yesterday for your address. I figure she’s probably on her way to you.”

Lin Luxiao had been slouched against the headboard. At those words, he suddenly sat upright. His feet hit the floor — the whole bed frame shuddered with the shift — and startled Zhao Guo in the bunk above, who peered down over the side. “What’s got you, friend?”

He must have heard what he thought he heard.

After a long moment, Lin Luxiao settled down and thought it through rationally: the mountain roads were sealed, the minibus couldn’t get in, and she surely didn’t have the nerve to hire a private car. Surely no driver would risk it, either.

Then again — you could never be certain there wasn’t someone reckless enough.

He lay back down, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “What is she coming for?”

Shen Mu: “She said to do what she loves. Hanging up.”

Shen Mu had recently sworn off women as a species entirely. But when it came to a girl making the trip across the country to find his brother — he figured the least he could do was give the man a heads-up.

After the call ended, Lin Luxiao fell into a restless state — keyed-up, hair-trigger.

He propped himself on his arms against the headboard and knocked on the side of Zhao Guo’s bunk with his hand.

Zhao Guo received the signal, his round head appearing over the edge, looking down: “Yeah?”

“Can people still get in with the mountain road blocked by snow?” Lin Luxiao asked, voice low.

Zhao Guo dangled his head off the bunk and thought for a moment. “Generally not, but every year there’s a handful of fearless types who try it the moment the snow’s cleared even a little. The year before last, a few people died.”

He had barely finished the sentence.

The alarm bell suddenly rang out—

The dormitory door was shoved open. “Quick! A car’s gone off the mountain!”

The moment the words landed, both men practically launched themselves off their beds simultaneously. Zhao Guo was swearing as he hunted for his military boots. Lin Luxiao grabbed his jacket and sprinted out the door.

One single thought was running through his mind —

Who the hell has a death wish — you actually brought her in?

Outside, the wind was knife-sharp. By the time Lin Luxiao arrived at the scene in the truck, the sight of the small vehicle suspended over the cliff’s edge made even his eyebrows contract.

The situation was dire.

A small gray-silver van was half-hanging off the edge of a sheer drop. Had the luck been any worse — had a few trees not caught it — the whole thing would have gone straight down into the ravine. Lushan was notorious for its heights. The bottom was something like an abyss.

If it had gone down, there would have been nothing left to recover.

“A man and a child are trapped inside.”

Lin Luxiao paused — and felt that he’d been overthinking things. He laughed inwardly at himself. She wasn’t nearly that reckless.

By the time the rescue was complete and they returned, exhausted, to the fire brigade station, the guard on duty said to him: “There’s a young woman here looking for you.”

Lin Luxiao turned instinctively.

And standing there behind him was Nan Chu, in a cashmere coat.

A red scarf around her neck.

Against the pale and colorless world, it was a single stroke of vivid brightness — as if a black-and-white scene had suddenly bloomed into full color.