Perhaps it was truly exhaustion, but after her shower, Fang Zhuo felt overwhelmingly drowsy, forgetting her original plans entirely—the moment she lay down on the bed, she fell asleep.

The soft bedding still carried the scent of sunlight, and within that comfortable embrace, Fang Zhuo sank into a long, bright dream.

She dreamed she had turned into a vast sea without wind or waves.

On this day, across the broad, calm surface of the sea, a great ship suddenly came sailing, blowing its horn, flags fluttering, desperately announcing its own existence.

The sailor Yan Lie stood at the bow, waving his arms toward her. And the captain was Ye Yuncheng, hands gripping the wheel, drifting across the vast ocean.

The sky was washed clear blue, not a trace of any other color in sight.

Ye Yuncheng took off his sun hat, leaned against the railing, and cast a fishing net down with a sweep of his arm, pulling it up together with Yan Lie.

“Caught something good!” Yan Lie shouted happily. “I’ve fished up the sun!”

As the net surfaced, the thing inside dissolved into golden light that scattered outward, rippling swiftly along with the waves, blooming across the shimmering water’s surface into clusters of gorgeous flowers.

Yan Lie spread his arms wide and shouted, “It smells like osmanthus! Fang Zhuo, come quick!”

It was this shout that jolted Fang Zhuo awake, breaking into a cold sweat over this bizarre, fantastical dream of hers.

…What on earth was all that?

By now the sky outside had already grown light. Fang Zhuo sat on the bed, steadying herself for a moment. Only after the sunlight shifted angle, streaming in through the window and falling on her bedside, did she finally lift the quilt and get up.

There was still no sound from next door; she didn’t know if he was awake yet. Fang Zhuo crept quietly around the room, wanting to search out something of her mother’s past.

There were clothes in the wardrobe, odds and ends in the wooden cabinet—just as Ye Yuncheng had said, most of the places still carried traces of their former occupant’s life.

She stopped in front of the window.

On the desk by the window were scratch marks left by a small knife—the indented carvings linked together into two simple stick figures holding hands, with their names written crookedly above their heads.

Because the character “曜” in “Ye Yaoling” was too hard to write, pinyin had been used instead.

Fang Zhuo’s fingers traced over the desk surface, feeling this childish handwriting strangely vivid. She bent down slightly and pulled open the drawer below.

The drawer was full of used pencil stubs; underneath were yellowed exercise books, arranged in disarray, their surfaces already coated with a layer of dust.

Fang Zhuo casually tidied them up and found, at the very bottom, a notebook with a cover scribbled all over. Curious, she flipped it open and saw several lines of handwriting—carefully written stroke by stroke, yet still somewhat slanted.

“I hate the yellow pencil case. I want the two-tier box. I’ve said it so many times!”

“I want watercolor pens. No money to buy them.”

“Mom took my money to buy groceries again. I hate it!”

“My little brother got beaten up in a fight. So stupid.”

“I made over two thousand buttons—why no wages! I’ll never trust Mom again!”

“Bought popsicles, seven little dwarfs, split three with Yunyun. He ate so messily.”

Fang Zhuo laughed, turned around, and leaned half against the desk to keep reading.

You could almost picture it—a girl biting on her pen, sitting at a brightly lit desk, quietly recording all sorts of innocent little worries.

But further on, things changed.

Fang Zhuo’s expression darkened.

The pages were covered in all sorts of chaotic, meaningless lines, used to record the owner’s pent-up irritability with nowhere else to vent.

A few pages in the middle had been torn out. Fang Zhuo held the notebook up high and managed to barely make out a few characters from the indentation marks left on the following page—all gloomy, negative content. Written with great force, the impressions remained clear even after several decades. Mostly things like “I deserve this,” “why,” “might as well die,” and similar phrases.

This state of affairs lasted for some time, until Ye Yaoling gradually grew steadier, and the notebook came to be used only for recording accounts.

Various scattered amounts—a dime, two dimes—gradually growing more frequent, though still only a few yuan at a time.

She had been saving money.

“I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back.”

The final line was written cold and stark, with a damp mark at the bottom of the page.

Fang Zhuo hesitated, then flipped a few more pages further.

On the yellowed paper, in black ink pen, written clearly in mature handwriting:

“I wish I’d never given birth to this child.”

Fang Zhuo’s mind felt as if it had been struck hard by a heavy hammer, her heartbeat suddenly racing. She didn’t dare let her gaze drift down even one more word, quickly pulling the notebook up and staring fixedly out the window, thick with wildflowers. In that abruptly accelerated rush of blood, her world went completely blank, and then began to drizzle down like rain.

She had come back to this place she’d once said she’d never return to, only to leave behind a single sentence like this.

So then?

Was the first half of her short life one of bitter suffering, and the second half full of regret?

Fang Zhuo didn’t read any further. She forcefully closed the notebook and put it back in its original place.

She had no idea whether there were further notes about herself further on, but even if there were, they were probably nothing kind.

Going by her name, she should have been a person of intense warmth.

Yet her world so often saw rainy seasons—as if everywhere within it was cold.

As for why, perhaps it had been fated from very early on.

Her mother was named Ye Yaoling—”Yaoling” meaning the sun. The sun had set far too early, so how could the grass and flowers grow their leaves*?

*[Translator’s note: a wordplay on the character 叶 (Ye), which means “leaf,” embedded in both mother’s and daughter’s surnames.]

Fang Zhuo sat at the desk for a long while, hands clasped together, lost in a blank daze. She felt she ought to do something, so she dug a jacket out of her backpack, put it on, and walked out of the room with her hands tucked into her pockets.

Yesterday’s nest of chicks was still in the cardboard box, sitting quietly in the corner of the wall.

Fang Zhuo poured them a little water, then added some leftover rice from last night, tore the outermost leaves off a head of bok choy, and shredded them in as well.

Chickens eat a lot once they’re grown. By then, she could go pick some vegetable leaves from the fields, mix them with porridge or leftover rice, and add a little wheat bran and rice husk for them to eat.

But wheat bran and rice husk couldn’t be added too much, or it would affect the chickens’ egg-laying.

Once she’d settled them, Fang Zhuo turned and headed to the chicken coop.

The coop hadn’t been cleaned up yet—understandable, given how inconvenient Ye Yuncheng’s hands and feet really were. Inside, all sorts of stones were piled up messily, with weeds everywhere.

Fang Zhuo rolled up her sleeves and pant legs, first roughly clearing out the trash inside, moving the uneven stones to the wall, trying to clear out a flat patch of space. Then she pulled out the weeds.

The little yard was about twenty square meters or so—it didn’t look big, but because it had been neglected for so long, cleaning it thoroughly proved quite difficult.

Fang Zhuo bent over working, and by the time she came back to herself, the sun had already turned fierce. She was drenched in sweat, her lower back aching, her unprotected hands covered in mud stains, stinging painfully.

“Fang Zhuo.”

Ye Yuncheng stood at the entrance to the yard, a man following behind him, both of them looking at her in surprise.

“I thought you were still sleeping. Why are you up so early?”

Fang Zhuo dropped the weeds in her hand and rubbed her palms together.

“This is Uncle Liu, he does poverty-relief work,” Ye Yuncheng introduced. “Today’s Mid-Autumn Festival, so he brought mooncakes and gifts. Come have breakfast.”

Though he was called Uncle Liu, the man had a baby face, looking quite young, making it hard to tell his actual age.

Fang Zhuo nodded at him; he smiled and responded in kind, seeming like a quite easygoing, kind-hearted person.

Ye Yuncheng had cooked porridge, set it on the table, then cut up the mooncakes that had been brought.

Fang Zhuo saw it was the five-kernel variety, which she didn’t particularly like, and shook her head declining, quickly scarfing down a few bites with yesterday’s side dishes instead.

Uncle Liu and Ye Yuncheng seemed quite familiar with each other, chatting away as they sat together, mentioning how a girl in the village who’d been “dragged back” to attend classes had gotten into a junior college, and that he was now arranging to help her apply for poverty assistance. As he spoke, he glanced at Fang Zhuo.

The meaning in that gaze was far too obvious; Fang Zhuo put down her bowl and silently met his eyes.

Ye Yuncheng laughed proudly and said, “Zhuozhuo is a student at A High School.”

Uncle Liu’s face immediately lit up. “A High School is great! Getting into a good university shouldn’t be a problem at all. Do you have any dream schools in mind?”

Fang Zhuo shook her head.

While they talked, Ye Yuncheng took a clean pair of chopsticks from beside him and kept adding meat and vegetables to Fang Zhuo’s bowl.

Uncle Liu suggested, “If you’re interested, you could try for A University, my alma mater. Both the teachers and the academic atmosphere are very good.”

Fang Zhuo, who’d been in the middle of stopping Ye Yuncheng’s feeding offensive, paused upon hearing this, glancing at him a couple more times.

Ye Yuncheng laughed and said, “Your Uncle Liu had excellent grades—back when he took the township civil service exam, he scored dozens of points higher than the runner-up. He’s local, and he just wanted to stay and help build up the village for a few more years. You can actually ask him if you have any questions.”

Uncle Liu scratched his head, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve already been out of school for several years, so I’m not so sure anymore. I’ll gather some materials and pass them to you.”

Fang Zhuo ate quickly, partly because she was the only one at the table actually focused on eating. Ye Yuncheng’s bowl was still full when Fang Zhuo had already stood up with her own empty one in hand.

Ye Yuncheng quickly said, “There’s more in the pot.”

Fang Zhuo set her bowl and chopsticks in the sink, replying, “I’m full.”

Seeing her about to head out again, Ye Yuncheng said, “Don’t bother with it—I’ll help you with that later.”

“I’m almost done,” Fang Zhuo said. “I’ll do some laundry while I’m at it too.”

Fang Zhuo went back to the yard, then remembered she should ask Ye Yuncheng if he had any thick gloves. As she approached the door, she heard the sound of conversation inside, deliberately kept low.

She leaned against the wall outside, listening to the two of them still talking, the conversation not yet finished.

“Brother Ye, I’m going to say something you might not want to hear. I know you have your own ideas, but you, you—” Uncle Liu lowered his voice in advice. “Can you really take care of a senior in high school like this? I told you before—”

“Please, Qiaohong.”

Ye Yuncheng cut him off. His voice sounded flat, but the slight hoarseness in it betrayed turbulent emotions hidden beneath.

He lowered his head, raising a hand to cover those eyes filled with melancholy and sorrow.

“I don’t want to see her look homeless, lost, with nowhere to belong, ever again.”

Standing there lost and despondent, his gaze hollow as though there was nothing left inside it, and yet—as though just a couple more questions would bring tears.

He understood that feeling. There was too much emotion pressed down inside his chest; his heart had become a whirlpool of churning, murky waves, the rushing current condensed into a blade—any stir of his heart would cut him with its cold edge.

“She’s definitely come to save me,” Ye Yuncheng said.

She needed family too desperately, and so did he. He’d been like this for so many years, having nearly drowned in boundless loneliness.

Both inside and outside the house fell into a silent stillness.

Fang Zhuo thought to herself. They were a ship lost at sea, both of them—people who had fallen into the water.

She wouldn’t be afraid anymore.

Not long after, Ye Yuncheng saw Liu Qiaohong out.

Leaning on his crutch, he walked down the stone steps by the door and invited him, “Will you come over for dinner tonight? I’ll have Zhuozhuo buy a chicken. It’s Mid-Autumn Festival, after all.”

Liu Qiaohong sighed. “So busy, so busy. There’s a leadership inspection coming in a couple days too.”

Ye Yuncheng could only smile, not pressing further. Once the figure had disappeared, he turned back to help out in the yard.

Ye Yuncheng had found some wood planks from somewhere, hammering and knocking together a chicken coop. He laid black cloth on top, reinforced the sides with stones, and placed it in the little yard—it fit perfectly.

By the time they’d finished tidying the yard, it was already evening.

Ye Yuncheng had actually wanted to say that no household’s chicken coop was ever kept that clean—after all, with the chickens eating, drinking, and relieving themselves all in there, it would surely turn messy again before long.

But seeing the finished result, he still felt deeply comforted, his heart filled to the brim, sensing that this old house had finally come alive with bustle again.

Fang Zhuo stared intently at the patch of bare ground in the middle and said, “We could bring in some soil later and plant vegetables in the middle.”

Ye Yuncheng laughed helplessly. “Sure, let’s plant vegetables then.”

He couldn’t help asking, “Do you like playing farming games?”

“Farm? You can even play games like that?” Fang Zhuo asked in surprise.

She recalled a term she’d heard someone else use and asked, “Like clubbing*?”

*[Translator’s note: 蹦迪 (bèng dí), “clubbing/dancing,” sounds similar enough that Fang Zhuo seems to have confused it with farming games.]

Ye Yuncheng: “…?”

“Never mind.” Ye Yuncheng pulled her over to the water basin, telling her to hurry and wash her hands. “Did I waste your time? Look at you, you’ve worked all day.”

Fang Zhuo, rinsing under the water, said, “It’s fine.”

Ye Yuncheng said regretfully, “Look, you haven’t even had time to do your homework.”

Fang Zhuo: “…”

Ye Yuncheng took a few photos of the little yard, sighing with feeling, “How wonderful—Zhuozhuo’s spending Mid-Autumn Festival with her uncle this year.”

Fang Zhuo listened quietly, raising her head to look at the clear, bright moonlight, and suddenly thought of something.

As Ye Yuncheng was about to go inside to cook, Fang Zhuo asked, “Can I borrow your phone for a bit?”

“Sure.” Ye Yuncheng handed the phone to her. “Go play inside, there are mosquitoes out here.”

Fang Zhuo agreed, pulled up Yan Lie’s name, and typed out “Happy Mid-Autumn Festival” in the message box. Before sending it, she felt it was rather dull, and deleted it again.

She held the phone, turning it over a couple times, thinking about taking a photo to send him, but she didn’t know how to use the picture-messaging function on this phone. And besides, she’d heard sending picture messages was quite expensive.

So instead she sent Yan Lie a Schrödinger’s-style image*.

*[Translator’s note: meaning an ambiguous or “open to interpretation” photo—likely just a picture of the moon, left unspecified.]

Fang Zhuo: Does this moon look familiar?

Yan Lie was watching TV, and after waiting a while without receiving any picture, was utterly baffled.

Yan Lie: It’s not the one above my head, is it?

Fang Zhuo: I don’t know.

Yan Lie: That would be way too much of a coincidence!

Fang Zhuo gave no further reply.

Yan Lie refused to accept it. How could this person be like this?!

Yan Lie: When are you coming back to school?

Yan Lie: Why’d you suddenly invite me to look at the moon? Today’s moonlight really is pretty.

Yan Lie: Is it a bit strange not seeing your desk-mate for two days?

Fang Zhuo, having returned to the bright room, glanced at the last message, and as if possessed by some mischievous impulse, typed out: No. I even saw you in my dream yesterday.

Yan Lie nearly jumped up off the couch, staring at that line several times over, unsure whether he should read too much into it—but regardless, there was a certain floating, giddy excitement to it.

Yan Lie: Thank you for sparing the time to dream of me. Do I have the right to know what I was doing in your dream?

Yan Lie: If it’s something bad, I can reflect on it.

Fang Zhuo: Chicken-raising mogul.

Yan Lie: Wouldn’t that be quite profitable?

The conversation had no further continuation.

The other side seemed like a robot that had suddenly lost power, vanishing without any explanation. Yan Lie waited ten minutes, and could only helplessly accept this fact. He pulled up a calendar to check the date for returning to school, let out a long sigh, and fell backward onto the couch.

A day and a half left.