[What had kept them company through an entire year?]

When Bai Zhun opened his eyes again, it was already daylight.

“You’re awake?” Huo Zhenye poked his head in from outside the bedroom door, grinning. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, arms smudged with ash, and he was holding a tray of food.

“I figured you’d be hungry when you woke up, so I made you something to eat.”

He’d spent half the morning learning how to light a coal stove and used the only small pot available to boil milk and fry French toast for Bai Zhun. The scent of butter and milk blended together in the air. Bai Zhun felt so cozy and lazy he didn’t want to move.

The milk had maple syrup in it, and there were rings of fruit cut and laid neatly on top of the toast. Huo Zhenye had unknowingly packed the fridge full. As he watched Bai Zhun nibble at the toast, he said, “I’ll go get some German sausages later and fry them for you. Sausages and beer—Germans really know what they’re doing.”

Bai Zhun took a sip of the milk. With the added syrup, it tasted sweeter and creamier—so much so that even his breath carried a faint milky scent.

“Better than Chinese cured sausage?”

“Of course not. Chinese sausage smells amazing. You want some? When winter comes, I’ll buy a bunch and hang them up in the house.”

“You shameless thing. You planning to freeload all the way till winter?” Bai Zhun said that, but still finished all the toast and milk.

Full and satisfied, he lay back in bed, warm and comfortable.

“I’m heading to the police station today, then to the hospital to check on Little Kai. I’ll bring back hot pot for dinner.”

“Go on then,” Bai Zhun replied in an indulgent, almost royal tone. After Huo Zhenye left, he realized he was wearing Huo’s pajamas—fuzzy and soft, no wonder they were so comfortable.

Bai Zhun frowned slightly and looked at the paper servant standing by the bed. “Did you change my clothes?”

The paper figure stared down at its own toes in silence.

“Was it Ah Xiu then?”

The two paper servants shoved each other back and forth, and Bai Zhun understood immediately—it had been Huo Zhenye who changed his clothes.

Meanwhile, Huo Zhenye stepped out of the Bai residence. The neighborhood of Yuqing Alley was at its liveliest—every household was stoking up their stoves for breakfast. Seeing him, people tried to hold in their laughter.

“Off to work, Mr. Huo?”

As if he lived here. Huo Zhenye’s lips curled slightly—he smiled.

He first drove to the Song residence. The place was already cordoned off and guarded by patrol officers. He showed his consultant badge to get in.

He didn’t go upstairs immediately but searched the garden carefully. Finally, in the bushes, he found a crumpled ball of yellow paper—a little yellow finch, completely lifeless. A hole had torn through its body, one wing was crushed and bent, exposing the bamboo frame inside.

Huo Zhenye gently rubbed its tiny head with his fingers. “Don’t be scared. I’ll take you home and let your master fix you.”

The yellow bird didn’t move. Its once bright, darting eyes were now nothing more than two dots of black ink on paper. Huo Zhenye tucked it into his pocket.

Then he went upstairs in a few quick steps and took a walk around the building.

There were still traces in the house of what had once been a happy family. The rooms were full of children’s toys—badminton rackets, and even a Christmas family photo still stood on the piano.

In the photo, Song Mingjie was holding a large sack of Christmas presents, Mrs. Song wore a fur coat, and Song Fusheng had one arm around his wife and the other holding their child.

Huo Zhenye took the photo out of its frame and slipped it into his pocket.

He bought some candies and cookies and went to the hospital. Cheng Liankai had suddenly regained his heartbeat the previous night, and his body had slowly warmed back up. By now, he could already speak.

He was lying on the hospital bed, surrounded by family. Cheng Junyi clutched her little brother’s hand tightly, still afraid he might disappear again.

When she saw Huo Zhenye, the little girl politely greeted him, then secretly asked, “Was it Song Mingjie’s mom and dad who took Little Kai?”

The news of the Song couple abducting a child had already made the front page of the newspaper that morning. She’d overheard the adults whispering about it.

“I saw Song Mingjie last night,” she told only Huo Zhenye, not her parents. “I saw him in the garden behind the church.”

Cheng Junyi lowered her voice. “He helped me and Little Kai. He was locked outside the house.”

Huo Zhenye nodded. “I’ll let Song Mingjie’s parents know.”

—-

Song Fusheng was being held at the police station. The former servants of the Song household had also been brought in for questioning.

The maid shook her head. “I couldn’t keep working there. No matter how much they paid, I just couldn’t stay in that house.” She heard the sound of little shoes running back and forth every night, and the sound of a child bouncing a ball, riding a bicycle.

She locked herself in her room. No amount of money could keep her there.

“Madam’s gone mad. Every night, she plays with the young master.” That’s what the gardener said. He didn’t live in the main house, but in a small building by the garden. Sometimes Madam would come into the garden, and the master told him: if you see something, pretend you didn’t.

The gardener quit too.

Housekeeper Feng had left even earlier. She told the police, “Madam was such a kind person, and the young master was so sweet… Damn those kidnappers.”

Madam Song had once been a devout believer. She brought the whole family into the faith and had donated generously to the church.

After losing her son, she began to mourn endlessly at home. Then one day, she smashed the statues of the Virgin Mary and Jesus in the house—perhaps because she felt that after giving so much money, her son still hadn’t received divine protection.

“Master did everything he could to make her happy—bought her clothes, jewelry… and Madam had started to improve. She even went back to church. But somehow, she suddenly got worse again.”

She stayed locked in her room during the day and only came out to wander around at night.

After speaking, Housekeeper Feng sighed. “I told the master: find a Daoist nun to collect the soul. Once the soul’s gathered, the person recovers.”

But he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on going to a Western doctor and giving her holy water. As if holy water could compare to charm ash water. Either way, this house was no longer livable—so she resigned and left.

Huo Zhenye glanced over all the statements and asked Da Tou, “Where’s Song Fusheng? Has he woken up?”

“He woke up yesterday, but no matter what we ask, he won’t answer.”

“I’ll question him.”

Huo Zhenye walked into the interrogation room. Song Fusheng sat dazed on the other side of the long table, murmuring his wife’s name.

Da Tou felt a chill looking at him. “Is this guy insane?”
If he wasn’t crazy, why would he kidnap so many children just to play house at home?

One of the older kids finally started talking. He said that every night, they were forced by Mrs. Song to play pretend games with a doll.

Huo Zhenye sat down across from Song Fusheng. He took out the family photo and pushed it across the table toward him.

At first glance, Song Fusheng looked like he’d been scalded—he lowered his head. But in the end, he couldn’t help it. He looked at the photo and started to cry.

“Mr. Song, please tell me honestly—what is it?”

Song Fusheng shook his head, face pale. He reached for the cross hanging around his neck and pressed it tightly to his forehead, muttering something under his breath.

Seeing this, Huo Zhenye changed tactics: “Did you ever go to a priest for an exorcism? Or maybe a Daoist priest? A monk?”

Song Fusheng kept his head down. That was Little Jie. Even if he no longer listened, even if he wasn’t obedient anymore—he was still Little Jie. All he wanted was for his wife to return to normal, and for them to send Little Jie away—not harm him.

“Mr. Huo… do you know any spiritual master who can help a wandering soul pass on?”

He was willing to pay any price—as long as it meant his wife could return to normal and Little Jie could be sent off properly.

Thinking of Bai Zhun sitting in his wheelchair, still fond of Western pastries, Huo Zhenye’s face didn’t change. “Tell me first, how did you come into contact with those three children?”

“It—it was through church donations.”
They were donors, and they’d found out that these children shared a birthday with Little Jie. The way his wife had looked at them back then had made Song Fusheng’s heart ache.

“And how did your wife manage to lure them away?”

Song Fusheng shook his head. “I don’t know.”
All he knew was that there were more and more children in the house. He just noticed that there were more and more children in the house, and their running and playing made him believe that “Little Jie” had attracted more “little friends.” ^[1] Ghosts

It wasn’t until he realized they were the missing children from the newspapers that Song Fusheng actually felt… relieved.

“Then why didn’t you call the police?” Huo Zhenye asked.

Song Fusheng lowered his head. All he wanted was for his wife to wake up—once she came to her senses, they could quietly return the children, or leave Shanghai altogether. He could easily move to Hong Kong and start a business.

But he hadn’t expected his wife to become completely obsessed.

“What exactly is that thing?” Huo Zhenye stared hard at Song Fusheng.

Song Fusheng hesitated, his eyes darting—he was still trying to hide something.

“Mr. Song, let me remind you—whatever that thing is, it’s by your wife’s side. It could harm her.”

To Huo Zhenye’s surprise, Song Fusheng let out a breath, as if reassured. He said with quiet certainty, “It won’t. He wouldn’t hurt my wife.”
Little Jie loved his mother very much.

Huo Zhenye tapped the wooden table. “Your son had a friend in the choir named Cheng Junyi, correct?”

Song Fusheng froze, then nodded. When his son was still alive, he had secretly mentioned liking a girl in the choir—Cheng Junyi.

Even though she was fierce and loud, he’d said, she was really cute.

“She said she saw your son,” Huo Zhenye said. “She said he was in the garden behind the church.”
If the real Little Jie was there—then who, or what, had been staying with the Song couple all this time?

Song Fusheng’s lips trembled violently. He gasped for breath like someone choking on air, clutching his own hair in disbelief.
There was no garden behind the church—only a graveyard. Little Jie was buried there.

His son had stayed quietly in his grave all along. So what had kept them company through an entire year?

“Tell me—what was that?”

“…It—it was a paper figure!”