When Fang Zhuo returned home, the first thing Yan Lie did was look at her hands. Seeing that she hadn’t come back with a freshly butchered chicken, he was genuinely relieved.

The two packed up their things and headed back to City A before the rain could start again.

The University A cafeteria had all its windows open on Sunday evenings. At around four o’clock, Fang Zhuo went to change into her work clothes at the third-floor dining hall and clocked out at half past six.

After dark, Yan Lie sent her a text to confirm she’d made it back to the dormitory, then came over to drop off her freshly washed and dried clothes — along with the autumn pieces he’d bought for her earlier.

Fang Zhuo jogged downstairs and took the bag from his hands.

There were still quite a few students passing nearby, so Yan Lie didn’t say much. He gave a small wave and turned to leave.

Fang Zhuo, worried the clothes might not be fully dry, hung them out on the small balcony when she got back to the dormitory to air out. Once she’d finished, she leaned against the balcony railing, lost in thought, her gaze drifting unfocused across the night.

The late-autumn air was cold and clear, without the oppressive heaviness it sometimes carried.

The streetlamps cast the campus paths in shifting patches of light and shadow. Passersby dragged long shadows through the amber glow, their faces invisible, yet the jostling playfulness of their movements stood out all the more vividly in contrast.

Fang Zhuo watched that high-hung light, watching people emerge from the dark and be illuminated, then walk onward into the darkness again, cheerful as before.

Among the crossing streams of figures, one silhouette suddenly stopped in the brightest spot, leaned back against the light pole, and looked down at a phone.

Fang Zhuo stared, and then she heard Yu Qingjiang calling from inside: “Fang Zhuo, your phone is buzzing!”

She went back inside quickly to get it, and saw the message Yan Lie had sent.

A Name of Fierceness: Are you watching me right now?

A Name of Fierceness: I’m under the streetlamp.

Little Sun: No.

A Name of Fierceness: Then I’m watching you.

A Name of Fierceness: 【Husky grinning stupidly】

A Name of Fierceness: You’ve come back out, haven’t you?

Fang Zhuo gripped her phone and stepped back onto the balcony. The figure below raised a hand and waved — unsure exactly which direction her dormitory room faced, it was a full sweeping wave aimed at every window equally.

Fang Zhuo aimed her phone toward him and took a photo, then sent it over. Almost simultaneously, Yan Lie sent her a photo of the dormitory building blazing with light against the night.

Everything in the dark was indistinct, except for the pinpoint of illumination in the focused frame. It made the place where the other person stood feel like the brightest place in the world.

A Name of Fierceness: Happy. Going to sleep now.

A Name of Fierceness: 【Cat with paws tucked in】

—

Having been drenched to the bone in that sudden turn of cold weather, Yan Lie did indeed end up catching a cold.

At first he tried to fight it off with his own immune system. But two days later, not only had it not improved — it had progressed from a blocked nose and sneezing all the way to coughing and a sore throat.

At his roommates’ strong urging, he trudged to the campus clinic and got himself a course of medication.

When the two of them attended an elective class together, Yan Lie sat in the corner wearing a face mask, coughing in muffled bursts. By bad luck, another sick student happened to be sitting directly behind him. The two of them traded low coughs back and forth, drawing repeated glances from the lecturer, who was moved by their dedication in attending class while unwell and offered a concerned reminder to the room: “The cold front has hit — everyone please remember to keep warm. Even if you normally have a strong constitution, do wear a few extra layers. Never underestimate a cold.”

The reminder to “put on more layers” was fast becoming a source of psychological discomfort for Yan Lie.

He felt a guilty twinge every time he heard it, convinced it was somehow aimed at him specifically.

That weekend, Wei Xi and Shen Musi, along with a few other friends, heard that Yan Lie was sick and made the generous sacrifice of their holiday to come and visit.

Since Yan Lie’s condition made it inadvisable to eat in a public space where he might spread germs, Shen Musi picked up several orders of takeaway and suggested they gather for a meal in the small garden in the student residential area.

The group all studied at University A, though in different departments. They still had plenty of occasions to run into each other, just not as frequently as before, and when they crossed paths on campus it was usually a quick wave and a passing greeting.

Yan Lie was in the student council, so when extracurricular activities came up he occasionally had work-related dealings with the others; Fang Zhuo’s appearances, it seemed, were largely confined to the cafeteria.

Wei Xi, cradling a box of stir-fried noodles, asked curiously: “Fang Zhuo, what club did you end up joining?”

“She didn’t join a club,” Yan Lie said in a hoarse voice. “She joined the athletics team.”

Wei Xi blinked. “Oh?”

“The PE teacher personally invited me,” Fang Zhuo said. “During the eight-hundred-meter run in the first PE class of the semester, I came in first. The teacher apparently thought I had some talent and casually invited me to join the athletics team, mentioning that the rewards were decent and that members were exempt from the daily morning run. I thought about it, and it suited me better than a club, so I said yes.”

University A wasn’t particularly strong in athletics — especially in long-distance running and track events. The athletics team drew its members partly from students recruited specifically for their sporting background, and partly from general enthusiasts.

The coach knew Fang Zhuo had no intention of making sports a career, so the training demands placed on her weren’t heavy — more of a hobby to cultivate, with the option to quit whenever she chose.

Wei Xi, accustomed to being caught off guard by this particular friend, said with genuine respect: “That’s so you.”

Fang Zhuo, as always, was modest: “It’s alright.”

The group caught up on how things were going.

Wei Xi had chosen an engineering major; Shen Musi, a humanities one. The two of them proceeded to complain at length.

One lamented that there were no female friends in his entire cohort, only an array of painfully taciturn straight men. The other complained that purely on the basis of his gender, he was expected to shoulder a physical workload far beyond his capacity. Life was genuinely difficult.

They clearly hadn’t done enough research before choosing their programmes.

Wei Xi suddenly remembered something and turned to Yan Lie: “Is your class doing a mixer with another department before the Spring Festival?”

First-year students were still enthusiastic about that kind of social event — the motivation tended to fade sharply by second year, when time became scarcer. Yan Lie gave a nod.

Wei Xi said knowingly: “I strongly suspect you caught this cold just to get out of the mixer!”

She turned to Fang Zhuo: “Who’s your class having the mixer with? Is it within your own department?”

Fang Zhuo hadn’t been paying attention, but vaguely recalled the class committee had mentioned it in the group chat: “I think it’s with the Accounting school.”

Wei Xi wiped the grease from her lips with theatrical solemnity: “Your class already has so few men, and yet you’re doing a mixer with a programme where men are an endangered species. Your class committee has definitely decided to make sure none of you find someone to date.”

Yan Lie let out a muffled laugh. His congestion gave his voice a low, rumbling timbre even normally, and right now it made him sound a little dopey — though it did nothing to conceal the smug edge in his tone: “Finding someone to date no longer concerns Fang Zhuo.”

“Give it a rest, will you!” Wei Xi burst out. “My roommate’s parents don’t even know you yet, but they already know you have a girlfriend!”

Yan Lie laughed uproariously.

—

Yan Lie’s cold cleared up in two or three days after he started the medication. Yan Chengli, however, didn’t find out about any of it until more than half a month later — and even then, only through another parent.

A group of parents from Yan Lie’s high school days had formed their own chat group on the side. After the New Year, a few of them fell into a casual conversation about current market conditions.

Shen Musi’s father suddenly asked, out of nowhere, whether Yan Lie had recovered from his cold — and it was only then that Yan Chengli learned his son had been ill recently.

In that moment Yan Chengli felt a sharp sense of defeat. He wasn’t even sure how to respond, and fumbled through some noncommittal reply, though the matter continued to gnaw at him afterward.

He closed the chat application and pulled up Yan Lie’s contact, staring at the conversation window on the screen.

The last time Yan Lie had sent him a message was on New Year’s Day. Right around noon, he’d left a simple, plain holiday greeting — wishing him good health, reminding him not to drink too much or stay up too late.

Father and son had exchanged a few stilted lines, the conversation trailing off when Yan Chengli brought up work.

Throughout the entire exchange, apart from the opening “Dad” from Yan Lie, the whole thing was cold and transactional — no warmth of family in it.

Yan Chengli could no longer recall exactly when they had become this way. From what limited memory he could dredge up, Yan Lie as a child had been willful and uninterested in talking to his parents. Though clever, he had always been easily stirred to noise and protest; then later, in high school, he gradually matured and stopped needing their attention.

In earlier years, Yan Chengli had taken pride in this — he had genuinely believed it when others praised his son for being “sensible,” seeing Yan Lie as a model child who gave them nothing to worry about. It was only when Yan Lie suddenly reached an age of genuine independence that something began to feel wrong.

Yan Lie didn’t need them to appear in his life. He related to them more like a part-time position — showing up to clock in for key moments, never more than about five times a year.

After work that evening, Yan Chengli sat alone in his study. He watched the time on his computer screen and calculated that Yan Lie was probably free by now. He sent him a text, one he’d chosen with deliberate care.

Yan Chengli: Lielie, when does your school break for the holidays?

Yan Lie’s reply came quickly, as expected.

Yan Lie: Early February.

Yan Chengli: Come to City B for the New Year. Take a flight over. I’ll pick you up at the airport. Book an early ticket.

Yan Lie: No need. I’m staying in City A.

Yan Chengli: The year-end summary at the company is keeping me too busy, and there are annual reports to review — I can’t make it back to City A.

Yan Lie: You don’t need to come back to City A. Everything is fine here.

His response was considerate. But reading it carefully, Yan Chengli felt a quiet sting.

He thought about calling directly, asking Yan Lie plainly what he was thinking. But he knew he was unlikely to say anything in a normal conversation that would make Yan Lie feel good, so he restrained himself and went back to laboring over each word of his next message.

Yan Chengli: Don’t you want to spend the New Year with Dad?

Yan Lie: You’re busy with work. Don’t worry about me.

His careless reply, sent from a thousand kilometres away, had a shape to it that was easy enough to picture.

Yan Chengli reached up and ran a hand through his hair, then pulled a cigarette from the pack on the corner of the desk and lit it, letting the small red flame burn as he gathered his thoughts.

Yan Chengli: I’ve been giving it serious thought lately — you’re an adult now, you should have more autonomy, including the right to manage and use assets on your own.

Yan Chengli: Think about when you have time, and go get your driver’s licence. Consider it a coming-of-age gift from me. I wasn’t able to get back for your eighteenth birthday — this is to make it up to you.

No man can resist the appeal of a car.

Yan Chengli liked to think of himself as a liberal, open-minded parent.

The screen lit up with a notification chime.

Yan Chengli exhaled a ribbon of smoke and leaned in to read it. The haze cleared, and Yan Lie’s reply stared back at him, calm to the point of cruelty.

Yan Lie: No need. I don’t have any particular requirements at the moment. Getting around University A, I basically go with classmates.

The smoke curled up between Yan Chengli’s fingers. Its heavy scent conjured a mood of vague irritation, and his patience crumbled along with the falling ash.

He hooked his fingers around the glass ashtray beside him and ground the cigarette out hard at the bottom.

Yan Chengli: Are you and your girlfriend still together? Are you spending the New Year with her?

Yan Lie: ? Of course.

Yan Lie: I hope you have no plans to involve her in anything.

Yan Chengli choked. He hadn’t actually done anything — at most, he had asked a teacher to quietly rearrange some seating during a critical stretch of Yan Lie’s senior year college entrance preparation, and nobody had gone along with it anyway.

Was he not doing it for Yan Lie’s sake?

Yan Chengli scrolled to a phone number he’d tucked away at the very bottom of his contacts. His finger lingered near the input field, hovering, uncertain.

After a long indecision, his expression clouded. He reached into the box and drew out another cigarette.

The flame had half burned down, and after turning over all manner of thoughts, Yan Chengli’s finger finally came to rest.

Yan Chengli: Excuse me — is your birthday the 28th of September?

Fang Zhuo hadn’t saved Yan Chengli’s name in her phone, because she hadn’t expected him to ever contact her again. Besides, every time this particular uncle messaged her, the content fell outside the range of anything she could have predicted.

Fang Zhuo read and reread the text message several times, and decided it was a remarkably elegant opening.

Fang Zhuo: That’s a bold and yet oddly roundabout question of you.

Yan Chengli: ……

Fang Zhuo was typing the next question for a survey form on her laptop. After setting up the response options, she noticed the other party still hadn’t replied, and began to wonder whether she’d killed the conversation entirely.

She went back and added another line.

Fang Zhuo: Did you need something?

Yan Chengli was being evasive about it.

Yan Chengli: Are you going home for the New Year?

Fang Zhuo: Barring any unexpected circumstances, yes. University A doesn’t allow students to stay on campus during the Spring Festival — the dormitory staff take their leave.

Yan Chengli: Yan Lie isn’t coming back.

Fang Zhuo: He can spend the New Year with us. Please don’t worry. And separately, there are also a number of his other classmates remaining in this city.

Yan Chengli grew anxious.

Yan Chengli: That’s not what I meant!

Yan Chengli: He’s not spending the New Year with his parents!

Fang Zhuo: ??

Fang Zhuo: I don’t spend the New Year with my father either.

Yan Chengli: You still have a father?

Fang Zhuo: ……

What a startling question.

Yan Chengli: I’m sorry — I assumed you only had one living relative, because he was the only one I ever saw.

Yan Chengli: What I mean is, is your relationship with your father also difficult?

Fang Zhuo’s brow remained firmly furrowed, and she felt a slight shortness of breath.

She replied with careful deliberation: Your situation probably shouldn’t take mine as a reference point.

Yan Chengli perked up somewhat, and once again pressed the cigarette butt out.

Yan Chengli: Has Lielie mentioned me to you? Whatever he said, I won’t be offended — please tell me honestly.

Fang Zhuo: Honestly, he’s barely mentioned you at all. I don’t have anything useful to pass along.

Yan Chengli felt the bitterness of that keenly. Yan Lie hadn’t even introduced him to Fang Zhuo? Despite having crossed paths with her a couple of times now.

Fang Zhuo: What did you want to know?

Yan Chengli: What I want to know.

Yan Chengli: There’s too much.

The weight of feeling behind those words was quite substantial. Fang Zhuo felt a note of caution rise in her.

Her inner scales tipped back and forth for a moment, the weights nearly exceeding what she could measure.

Her weakness when it came to managing relationships — particularly with elders — was making itself felt in an unavoidable way.

She had the sense that Yan Chengli was in roughly the same boat as her when it came to this sort of thing, or he wouldn’t be seeking her help.

Fang Zhuo replied sincerely and with care.

Fang Zhuo: May I ask — what is it you’re hoping to get out of this?

Fang Zhuo: I’m sorry — what I’m about to say may come across as presumptuous, and it may not even be relevant to what you’re after. I’m only sharing a small personal observation.

Fang Zhuo: Just as many parents cannot help playing favourites, children also cannot, simply because of mutual understanding, suddenly become warm and affectionate toward their parents. Respect and understanding can be earned. But closeness and dependence — perhaps not.

Fang Zhuo: So what is it you’re hoping to get?