Teng City.

Just as she remembered—hot, humid, deeply shaded. The air hung heavy and sticky, mixed with summer’s distinct sourness and the bitter-fresh scent of lush vegetation.

The door was still that old iron gate, and the lock was still the mechanical one replaced years ago.

After knocking for quite a while, Miao Jing’s gaze fixed on a spam advertisement plastered on the wall—”Lock picking in ten minutes.”

The old locksmith charged one hundred yuan, casually twisted his wire in the keyhole, and with a “click,” the iron gate opened.

“Want to see some ID?”

“You said it’s your own home, no need to check.”

She carried two large suitcases, having spent the night on the train with eyes wide open. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and the acidic smell of instant noodles clung to her. Her accent didn’t sound local. The locksmith studied her pretty face, glanced at the simple furnishings inside, then gathered his tools and left.

A building from the 1990s—exterior walls and corridors webbed with dark gray, stairwells cluttered with residents’ odds and ends. A broken drainage pipe leaked a trail of wastewater on the ground. Dirty, stifling, garbage piled up—this old community was dilapidated and messy. Only those without money lived here.

Miao Jing pushed her luggage inside. The two-bedroom apartment spanned about 80 square meters. The layout remained unchanged, though some furniture had been replaced. Not clean, but not too dirty either. The kitchen and refrigerator showed no signs of habitation, but the ashtray on the table overflowed with cigarette butts, and a crushed beer can on the coffee table still held half its contents.

She surveyed the apartment, finally approaching the room on the right. The keyhole was rusted, refusing to turn. It took considerable force to burst in. As the door swung open, dormant dust stirred in the airflow, choking in its intensity. The curtains, their original color indiscernible, had lost half their panels. The windows filtered in dim, gray light. The old wooden bed was stripped to its frame, and the room was cluttered with miscellaneous old furniture, leaving no space to step.

Opening the left bedroom door revealed a bright, quiet space. A relatively new spring mattress, a single wardrobe, and a desk for miscellaneous items. A plastic lighter casually placed on the desk edge, a semi-worn steel-band mechanical watch. A pillow lay on the bed, draped with a man’s white tank top and gray sweatpants.

She retreated from the room, sat in the living room ate some crackers, hastily washed her face, and went to the bedroom for a nap.

The pillow belonged to a man, mixed with the scent of cheap tobacco, sweat, and skin—like potent liquor, fermenting and steaming, spicy and invasive.

Changing position, turning her head, her clear, bright eyes suddenly fixed on something beside the pillow—a hair on the bedsheet, very long, black at the root, wine-red in the middle, and straw-yellow at the tip—a woman’s.

She calmly rose from the bed, opened the wardrobe door, changed to clean sheets and pillowcases, lay down, and closed her eyes.

Miao Jing slept deeply, not waking until two in the afternoon.

The two suitcases were packed to bursting—her entire worldly possessions—sitting on the floor waiting to be unpacked. But Miao Jing didn’t know where to begin. After spacing out for half an hour, touring the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom several times, she opened her phone app to order—curtains, mattresses, pillows and blankets, bedding sets, air conditioner, and fan, various odds and ends.

Then out to the supermarket for cleaning supplies—mops, rags, cleaners, shampoo, shower gel, toilet paper, sanitary napkins—returning with bags full of purchases.

Several elderly men and women sat chatting at the alley’s wind corner, watching her make trip after trip bringing things back, their aged eyes circling her again and again.

Miao Jing recognized one of them, calling out “Grandma Zhang.”

“You, you’re… from Chen’s family on the second floor…”

“Miao Jing, Chen Yi’s former sister.”

Grandma Zhang was shocked: “You, why have you come back?”

“Mm.” Miao Jing set down her shopping bags. “Chen Yi’s not home. Has he been well these years?”

Speaking of Chen Yi, there was too much to say. Still the same after all these years, bound to end up in jail sooner or later, but he had managed to live steadily, enduring the neighbors’ gossip until today.

“Same as always, grown this old and still unstable, won’t settle down, mixing with unsavory characters…”

Miao Jing knew Chen Yi had accomplished nothing in these six years, had lived elsewhere for two years, then returned to do business with friends, mixed with garbage friends, and dated disreputable women. His most recent occupation was owner of a pool hall near the vocational high school, but he seemed to have gone out and hadn’t returned for almost half a month.

She never expected him to amount to anything—a vocational school graduate and small-time thug, extortion, fighting and causing trouble. Not being in jail, being a normal person, that would count as success.

There was too much to say about Chen Yi, and plenty of stories about Miao Jing too. She didn’t wait for Grandma Zhang to turn the topic to her, claiming she had things to do and carrying her purchases upstairs.

She cleaned the house, starting with the kitchen and bathroom, throwing out what needed to be thrown, buying what needed to be bought, eating instant noodles and crackers when hungry, and sleeping on the spring mattress when tired. When the online purchases arrived, she cleared out the room, scrubbing and washing thoroughly, assembling furniture, and hanging laundry, and bedding to dry.

The dusty, cobwebbed cabinets yielded many items—her old clothes and belongings, a large stack of high school test papers and textbooks, all tied up in burlap sacks. Miao Jing spent a long time organizing, packing these things into storage boxes and sealing them under the bed, arranging her luggage items one by one until the room was finally in order.

She also deep-cleaned Chen Yi’s room—dust accumulated on cabinet tops, and curtains unwashed for years, laundering clothes and bedding, mopping floors, and wiping windows. From under the bed, she swept out deflated cigarette butts, a woman’s colorful hair tie, and an unopened condom—she disposed of them all as trash.

A full week of busy work left her with an aching back and waist. Nearby neighbors heard and saw the activity on the second floor, all-knowing someone had returned to the Chen household. Some new neighbors who didn’t know Miao Jing saw her twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old age, beautiful and refined appearance, and cool temperament—opposite to Chen Yi. Old neighbors who knew the history had endless gossip about the Chen family affairs.

–

Chen Yi had taken a trip to Yunnan by truck. Initially, a friend at the Yunnan border casually mentioned a business opportunity. Chen Yi seized the chance, acquired a batch of small commodities like lighters and flashlights, hired a freight driver to transport them to the Golden Triangle area, and returned with a truck of bananas and mangoes to Teng City. After deducting various costs and expenses, he earned several thousand yuan in hard money.

During the two-month summer vacation, the pool hall business was slow, so this counted as supplementary income.

The trip was rushed, eating and sleeping in the truck throughout, and the weather was hot. Chen Yi, reeking of sourness, returned to Teng City that day. After settling all business matters, he planned to go home first to shower and sleep, then meet friends for drinks in the evening.

He had no real luggage, just carrying a nylon handbag out and back, packed with quick-dry clothes, two cartons of cigarettes, toothpaste, a toothbrush, a towel, and a phone charger. Teng City’s climate was humid and hot; Chen Yi stripped off his sour T-shirt, draped it over his shoulder, and walked down the street with a cigarette slanting from his mouth.

His appearance wasn’t elegant, yet it made people want to whistle—that young man’s healthy, handsome, arrogant flavor. Tan skin, a black cord around his neck holding a jade pendant, broad shoulders, clearly defined muscle groups, scattered old shallow scars. His chest muscles weren’t excessively bulky but smooth and crisp, muscles sloping down to reveal flat abs, a tight waist, black trousers wrapping two straight long legs, thigh muscles taut and bulging.

Looking up at his face—a youth of twenty-five or twenty-six, clean-cut crew cut, knife-edge facial features, high straight nose, slightly dark sensual lips, though with a fierce look, a scar breaking into his left eyebrow—a dangerous handsomeness, especially those eyes, wild and unrestrained, bright and defiant, carelessly drooping tails, alert to bite back at any moment with lazy indolence.

Blowing smoke rings, head down climbing the stairs, chicken soup fragrance wafting in the corridor from some unknown home, he fished out his key to open the door. The scene before him suddenly brightened, windows clear and everything neat, as if it wasn’t his home, yet the furniture was familiar—on the strange wooden shoe rack by the door sat women’s sandals and high heels, but below were his sneakers and flip-flops, washed clean and arranged neatly.

The chicken soup fragrance… coming from the kitchen, where he could glimpse a skirt hem and back silhouette.

The floor was clean enough to shine. He dropped his handbag on the ground, fingers gripping his cigarette, lips curving in a flirtatious smile: “Didn’t you say you’d come sleep over tonight? Pulling a surprise? Suddenly so virtuous?”

The woman in the kitchen slowly stirred the chicken soup in the sand pot, turned at the noise, and met the man’s gaze.

More rounded, more mature, less fierce.

He froze, pupils sharply contracting, dropped his cigarette to the floor, cursed “fuck,” furrowed his thick brows, bright eyes fixed hard on her, like peeling an orange or some fruit, fingers splashing bitter-sweet lingering juice.

Miao Jing spoke first: “You’re back?”

“Want some chicken soup? I’ll get you a bowl.”

Chen Yi squeezed out a few words: “What the fuck… you, why are you here?”

“Why can’t I be here?” Miao Jing lowered her eyes, and slowly ladled a bowl of soup, voice floating lightly, “Can’t I come back?”

“What the fuck did you come back for?” He pulled on his wrinkled T-shirt, crouched to pick up the cigarette butt, stuck it back in his mouth, took a deep drag, brows furrowing deeper. Through the smoke haze, he first surveyed the home—bright light, warm and beautiful, both bedroom doors wide open, their arrangements visible, the balcony full of hanging laundry, the old living room sofa covered with a light-colored throw, fresh flowers in a vase on the coffee table.

He’d only been gone these few days, yet the home had completely transformed.

“Fucking… you…”

Miao Jing was long used to it: “Without that ‘fucking,’ you can’t speak?”

Chen Yi’s expression changed several times, instantly turning cold: “How did you get in?”

“Had someone pick the lock.” Miao Jing set the soup bowl on the table and turned to ladle her portion. “Found the spare key in the drawer.”

“I found a job, the workplace is in the development zone, a new auto company branch factory was built there. I switched jobs to come here, reporting to the company next week. Company accommodation isn’t great, so I’m living at home.”

“You’re a top university graduate, coming to work in this backwater city? Did your brain get hit by a car or short-circuit?” He seemed unhappy, kicked aside a low stool, took two steps, hands on hips. “Are you sick?”

“These days university graduates are everywhere, jobs are hard to find, big cities are full of high degrees, earning so little, working overtime until midnight every day, just enough for rent and expenses. Lots of people are returning to their hometowns to work and live now.”

“Is this your hometown? What’s it got to do with you? Your hometown is in Z Province, over 500 kilometers from here.”

“Brother… didn’t I live here for ten years too? Finally found a job, can’t even come back to stay temporarily?”

“Am I your brother?” His expression was unpleasant, sitting hunched in the chair. From her angle, she saw his flat broad back, thick black head. Chen Yi frowned, “Am I your brother?”

“If not then not.” Miao Jing sat at the table, leisurely sipping soup: “I’ll pay you rent first.”

“Where did you go? Haven’t been back for so many days, you stink.”

He kept a stern face, looking fierce and cold, completely ignoring her, standing up straight, and going to the bathroom for a cold shower.

A full six years not living together, suddenly having another person at home—the irritation and displeasure were real.

After showering, entering the room to find his change of clothes, Chen Yi couldn’t help kicking the cabinet again: “You touched my clothes?”

“Washed some dirty clothes, put them away for you.” Miao Jing stood at his room door, watching water droplets fall from his hair. “T-shirts on the left, pants on the right, socks and underwear I didn’t touch.”

He swallowed his anger, messing up that pile of clothes, hearing her say softly: “There’s also a woman’s nightgown and underwear, I put them in the drawer.”

Chen Yi’s temple twitched.

“Your girlfriend’s?”

“Mm.” He growled.

“Red hair?”

“Are you sick?” He bit his cheek, and slammed the cabinet door with a bang, glaring, “Miao Jing, are you sick?!”

Miao Jing pressed her lips together, slippers making pat-pat sounds on the floor, the neighboring bedroom door closing.

She sat at the desk, opened her laptop, checked emails for a while, browsed web pages, and finally left the room. The house was already empty, a bowl of cold chicken soup still on the table.