Chapter 18

Shang Mingbao was still sulking over that comment from the afternoon, where someone said she didn’t resemble any plant at all. When she heard what he said, she deliberately contradicted him, saying, “No.”

The bonfire glowed like gold, spreading its light across the dense night and reflecting deeply in the eyes of the man sitting across from her.

Shang Mingbao suddenly couldn’t bear to keep eye contact with him, her mind as chaotic and restless as a busy street in broad daylight.

Xiang Feiran curved his lips into a slight smile and simply said, “Careful of the cold wind.”

When Jiang Shaokang returned with a sullen face, Xiang Feiran was no longer by the bonfire. Instead, Shang Mingbao was draped in a jacket that clearly belonged to him.

Compared to the one he had first given her, this jacket was now fully imbued with his scent and the fragrance of his cologne. Draped over Shang Mingbao’s shoulders, it shielded her from the mountain wind, blatantly enveloping her breath.

Jiang Shaokang’s face stiffened, feeling that Xiang Feiran was declaring his dominance.

Fang Suining, unaware of the underlying tensions, asked, “Where did you go?”

Jiang Shaokang, ever the young master, replied, “I have some matters to attend to tomorrow, so I’m heading down the mountain early.”

“What?” The two girls were both startled. Shang Mingbao, displeased, said, “Why are you doing this? Acting all special.”

Jiang Shaokang held back his anger, replying with a grim expression, “You all can continue, I can go down on my own.”

“Wishful thinking.” Fang Suining, irritated, grabbed a stick and threw it at him. “You don’t even know the way. Do you think you can make it down alone? Feiran-ge will have to take you down.”

Shang Mingbao, sharp as ever, asked, “Did you two just have a fight? Impossible, he’s not the type to argue. He’d rather walk away than waste energy on you.”

Jiang Shaokang, struck right in his weak spot, huffed and crawled back into the tent.

As he bent down, he was surprised to find Xiang Feiran sitting cross-legged with his back against a backpack, reading a small book, a pair of black wired earphones dangling from his ears.

Jiang Shaokang felt uneasy. Even though he hadn’t spoken ill of him, saying he would head down the mountain out of spite was indeed immature and petty. He felt a sense of frustration at having lost both face and ground.

Xiang Feiran glanced at him, nodded slightly, and said nothing.

Since he couldn’t tell whether Xiang Feiran had overheard their earlier conversation, Jiang Shaokang nearly suffocated with the tension, yet he had no choice but to share the tent with Xiang Feiran. He bit his tongue until he finally fell asleep late into the night.

Once asleep, however, his snores were thunderous.

At two in the morning, Xiang Feiran opened his eyes, fully awake, staring at the moonlight filtering into the tent. After five seconds of silent contemplation, he decided to step outside for some peace.

The mountain night’s humidity was no joke; the beige tent fabric was already covered in a thick layer of condensation, making it seem as if it had rained. Xiang Feiran slipped into his damp hiking boots and pulled out a softened pack of White Sand cigarettes.

Just as he was about to light one, he noticed Shang Mingbao shivering by the extinguished bonfire, still wrapped in the jacket he had given her earlier in the evening.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he asked as he walked over, deciding not to light the cigarette because she was there.

Shang Mingbao curled up tighter, poking out a finger to point at the tent that was producing all the noise.

Xiang Feiran chuckled, “Why didn’t you fall asleep before he did?”

Shang Mingbao let out a frustrated breath, “Damn it, I’m definitely going to find a boyfriend who sleeps quietly!”

Xiang Feiran laughed so hard that he nearly dropped the cigarette from his mouth. He had to remove it and kept his head down, laughing silently.

Shang Mingbao had never seen him laugh like this before, and her face started to flush. She suspiciously asked, “What are you laughing at? Are you laughing at me?”

“No.” Xiang Feiran cleared his throat, stifling his laughter, and pulled out a pair of earphones from his pocket, offering them to her. “Want to listen?”

He didn’t use his phone to play music; the earphones were connected to a white iPod. Shang Mingbao took the wired earphones, holding up the right side and motioning to him.

Xiang Feiran fiddled with his cigarette, “I don’t need them.”

His earphones were the kind that wrapped around the ear, with subtle markings for left and right. After fumbling with them for a while, Shang Mingbao heard his low voice say, “Let me.”

He took the earphone cord from Shang Mingbao’s hand, his breath lightly grazing the side of her neck as he spoke, “Your hair.”

Shang Mingbao pushed her long hair behind her ears and felt the soft earphone cord being carefully looped around her ear.

As he moved, his cool fingertips lightly brushed against the cartilage of her ear.

Shang Mingbao didn’t dare look up; she only knew that the noise Jiang Shaokang was making had been stripped away from her world.

Xiang Feiran pressed the play button on the iPod, and the sound of rain softly began to fall in Shang Mingbao’s mind.

He was half-squatting, his eyes level with hers as she sat on a half-cut tree stump. His lips moved as if he were saying something brief.

Shang Mingbao couldn’t hear his voice, so she raised her hand, intending to remove the earphones.

But her fingers were caught by his, and the earphone she had half-removed was gently pushed back in.

That fleeting touch was like the rain in her ears spilling into reality, mossy dampness growing across her skin.

She wanted, impulsively, to hold onto him and ask him to stay a little longer.

The next day, perhaps due to the rain sounds she had listened to all night, the weather indeed turned cloudy.

But the weather in the mountains is unpredictable; the sun and rain could switch places within a few steps, so the group continued as planned. By evening, muffled thunder began to roll closer from the horizon.

Standing at the mountain’s peak, their sight could easily pass over the dense treetops to see the thick black clouds hovering over the city on the other side. The rain had been brewing all day but hadn’t yet arrived. The humidity was likely over 90%, and the air felt like it could drip, making it difficult to breathe.

During a break after dinner, Xiang Feiran received a satellite phone call, addressing the other person as “Shijie.”

He didn’t avoid anyone while on the call, listening carefully and occasionally replying with a brief “Mm.” At the end, he seemed to make an appointment to meet, saying, “Tomorrow afternoon.”

After he hung up, Fang Suining couldn’t help but speak, her tone laced with meaning, “I know which Shijie that was.”

Xiang Feiran glanced at her and, without addressing her directly, replied, “She’s asking me to help her with some data.”

Fang Suining made a noise of understanding, “She’s the same one who asked you to bring the Gongyi last time.”

“That was her boss stepping in.”

After several rounds of back-and-forth exchanges, it was evident that this senior had a significant connection with him, at least in the eyes of Fang Suining, his cousin, where her presence was clearly acknowledged.

Shang Mingbao poked the campfire, her eyelashes lowered, as she asked a seemingly unrelated question: “Do they call senior classmates ‘senpai’ in the mainland?”

“No, they also use ‘senior,’ but within the same research group, it’s common to use ‘senpai’ and ‘senior’ for addressing each other,” Fang Suining replied, blinking. “Since when did a certain someone become so kind-hearted? Even a satellite phone can find you—wasn’t it you who deliberately gave her your number?”

Xiang Feiran remained indifferent to his cousin’s teasing. “Just ask the people in the research group.”

He often worked in the field, initially to distance himself from others, but since the research group occasionally had urgent matters, there were a few members and a small guide who knew his satellite phone number. It wasn’t difficult to find out—just took a bit of effort.

Fang Suining didn’t notice that the person beside her had been silent for a long time, even her breathing seemed heavier, as she continued asking, “So when you get down from the mountain tomorrow, will you go straight to see her?”

Xiang Feiran didn’t make promises easily, but once he did, he was sure to keep them. He responded with a simple “Mm,” already beginning to search his mind for high-level papers related to the topic that this senior had been working on.

Although pursuing a master’s degree was the norm after undergraduate studies, entering a field one neither liked nor excelled in was a painful experience. This senior was such a case; she deliberately chose taxonomy to avoid molecular experiments and bioinformatics, but she hadn’t expected the reality to be far from her imagination—to properly tell the story of a species’ phylogeny and evolution, a strong foundation in bioinformatics was essential.

Her acceptance into Zhou Yingzhu’s team proved that her abilities and level were not lacking, but doing academic research is a tedious and lonely process. More than intelligence, it requires a certain level of spiritual strength—at the very least, not hating the subject. If a person feels nothing but rejection, fear, and disgust toward the daily academic routine, it will only bring pain. This senior had already delayed her graduation by a year, and her supervisor was very worried about her mental state, having personally asked Xiang Feiran to co-author a paper with her.

Shang Mingbao maintained a smile as she listened, using a stick to stir up sparks in the campfire. Those sparks looked like golden fireflies, but their lives were so short—they rose into the air and then vanished, becoming ash among the surrounding grass and trees.

Fang Suining still didn’t notice her odd behavior and continued to press Xiang Feiran, as if determined to make him admit he liked the senior. “So, you’re even accompanying her to see flowers at night.”

As soon as she said this, all the surrounding noises ceased.

The firelight illuminated Shang Mingbao’s face. She was caught off guard, seemingly bewildered, unable to fully grasp the meaning of this simple sentence.

When she finally slowly and clearly understood the meaning of the words, it felt as though the world’s humidity suddenly reached one hundred percent—

She found it hard to breathe.

Really? He also accompanied her to see flowers at night.

The warm wind machine drying the specimens continued to run, the buzzing white noise blending with the foggy mess in her mind.

She dropped the thin stick with the glowing red tip, her pale face remaining calm as she said, “It’s too stuffy outside, I’m not feeling well.”

Before she stood up to leave, she heard Jiang Shaokang’s voice: “Yesterday, Brother Feiran said he never pursued a girl. Does this not count? Didn’t he succeed?”

Xiang Feiran’s face was expressionless, his gaze coldly sweeping over Jiang Shaokang and Fang Suining. “Is that enough?”

Fang Suining fell silent and then watched as Xiang Feiran walked to their tent. Through the already drawn curtain, his voice sounded steady, “Shang Mingbao, don’t stay alone.”

Shang Mingbao sat on the sleeping bag, her tone as usual when she replied, “I’m fine, just feel it’s too damp outside.”

It was still early, the setting sun wrapped in thick clouds, with only a bit of golden light visible at the edges of the dense clouds. Fang Suining had been talking all day about catching two dragonflies and damselflies for specimens, and there happened to be a small lake near the meadow. She pleaded with Xiang Feiran to take her there, hoping to net some insects with unique colors.

She found an excuse to ask Shang Mingbao, “Mingbao, do you want to catch dragonflies? It’s really fun, you probably haven’t tried it before.”

Shang Mingbao said she wouldn’t go.

Xiang Feiran gave some instructions through the tent door, especially reminding her not to wander off on her own and to use the walkie-talkie if she needed anything.

Shang Mingbao responded obediently to each instruction.

Finally, Xiang Feiran paused for a moment before asking again, “Are you really okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The lake wasn’t far, just a fifteen-minute walk. As they approached and saw the water’s reflection, Xiang Feiran suddenly thought of putting the warm wind machine used for drying specimens into her tent to drive away the dampness.

How slow of him, why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? The moment she mentioned feeling unwell, he should have thought of this solution.

Halfway back, he realized even more slowly—it could have been mentioned via the walkie-talkie, why did he feel the need to go back himself?

In Xiang Feiran’s life, which was full of data and systematic deductions, this was the first time he felt intuition taking precedence over logic, and he helplessly and consciously allowed this foolish, thoughtless, and non-optimal decision to guide him.

On the muddy, root-entangled mountain path, he almost started running.

Shang Mingbao hadn’t expected him to return.

She had come to get the warm wind machine, wanting to use it to ward off the cold and dampness. But in a casual glance, she saw the box of cigarettes pressed under his sleeping bag pillow.

The image of catching him smoking for the first time resurfaced from the depths of her memory.

The lighter. Side profile. Sparks. Curled fingers. Hands cupping the flame. Indifferent, lonely eyes.

Driven by some impulse, Shang Mingbao leaned down, her hands resting on the smooth and soft down sleeping bag, inching forward on her knees, and then stopped.

Her waist stretched forward, her outstretched arm was slender, and in mid-air, it hesitated for a second as if unsure.

“She forgot to zip up the tent.

The beige tent flap fluttered gently in the breeze. Xiang Feiran didn’t think much of it, bent down, lifted the flap, and knelt in—

The girl before him was like a cat, her knees bent and waist soft. Even her brown eyes were wide open like a startled cat, becoming round and full.

…What kind of luck is this?”

Shang Mingbao was still in shock and disbelief from the embarrassment when suddenly a thunderclap boomed, seemingly exploding right at the edge of the hollow forest area.

She visibly shook all over, fell over, and sat down, clutching the box of cigarettes behind her with both hands, her eyes fixed firmly on Xiang Feiran.

What’s the difference between this and being caught red-handed?

The watch emitted a sharp warning sound, rapidly rising to 190 in seconds.

Might as well die here.

Shang Mingbao closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and gave up any self-help measures that might make her feel even a bit better.

If only the scene could be more chaotic, maybe it would distract him enough so he wouldn’t notice her unfortunate state.

Xiang Feiran placed his hands on her shoulders, pushed her backpack aside, and ordered, “Hold your breath.”

Shang Mingbao shook her head desperately, her face turning pale, her eyes misted over like the fog outside.

“What are you trying to do!” Xiang Feiran scolded her in a low, stern voice. The harsher “Are you trying to die?” he kept unsaid.

She wanted to “steal” something.

Shang Mingbao’s heart replied. After knowing you have someone you like and want to care for, she still wanted to “steal” your pack of cigarettes.

She wanted to know the taste you favor, the taste that makes you cough every time, and hold onto the scent of your fingertips.

Shang Mingbao, you are so disappointing.

Her heart seemed to have jumped to her throat. She couldn’t speak, fearing that if she did, her entire heart, along with all the grievances, sadness, pain, and hopelessness, would come pouring out.

Her breathing had truly weakened, not from holding her breath to save herself, but from the intense onset of her illness causing difficulty and sudden cessation of breathing.

Holding tightly onto Xiang Feiran’s sleeve, she wished he would just leave her alone and let her be.

Xiang Feiran knelt beside her, his gaze fixed deep into her eyes from beneath his lowered brow.

Between life and death, whose heartbeat is muffled beneath the thunder?

Yes, he knew she would hold her breath during an illness attack, but with her breathing stopping suddenly, there was a one-in-a-million chance. What if?

What if there was a one-in-a-million chance that at this very moment, she needed his oxygen?

As the unfamiliar breath entered, Shang Mingbao’s eyes widened in confusion. Her pupils, constricted in pain, relaxed and dispersed amidst the rumbling thunder.

Her grip on his sleeve loosened, falling softly to her side.

Her eyes closed as well, her lashes fluttering, like the sensitive mimosa she saw that night, feeling the arrival of the evening.

The heavy rain suddenly stopped, pattering on the tent and engulfing everything inside, both quiet and not quiet.

—

“I’ve rarely experienced such a passionate summer. It is so enchanting, so radiant, sweeping over me like rich wine filling my heart.”

Later, she wrote this in her diary.

“Well, we’ve already had an unforgettable summer even though we’re still young,” her elder sister Shang Mingxuan said, noticing the mist in her eyes and teasing her.

“No,” Shang Mingbao naturally denied, “Clearly, every summer I couldn’t swim or surf and could only watch you all play, so I still haven’t had a real summer.”

“Once the surgery is done, everything will be fine.” Her elder sister patted her on the head and hugged her.

The farewell to summer was quite vague.

Shang Mingbao cuddled in her embrace, eyes closed, unable to recall many scenes.

She couldn’t remember that afternoon when she hurriedly delivered a hard drive to him, in a run-down neighborhood, at the entrance of a spacious, warehouse-like room, hearing someone talking to him.

That person said they liked him, with a tone as decisive as burning boats.

After a long silence, she heard his reply:

“I’m sorry, I already have someone I like.”

Her heart ached, not sure if it was for the girl who confessed just a door away or for herself.

She blinked, moved aside, and waited until they finished talking in the room before she walked in nonchalantly.

That was the house he temporarily stayed in while working part-time in the city, very messy, with tangled instrument cables. But he didn’t say he played any instruments, just that they didn’t belong to him.

She tripped over a cable and he caught her in his arms.

“Sorry, I wasn’t prepared for your visit…” It was the first time she heard him speak in an uneasy tone, explaining, “Because I haven’t been here for a week, it’s been messed up.”

The culprit of the mess entered from outside, glanced at her, poured himself some cool tea, not sure if he was sneering at someone. He asked a strange question, “Sister, do you have a pink-haired rabbit?”

After Shang Mingbao nodded, the unserious person choked on the cool tea and patted Xiang Feiran’s shoulder with his backhand.

Xiang Feiran’s expression remained unchanged, signaling him to leave with his eyes.

That was her first time in the band’s rehearsal room, touching and playing every instrument, learning to play air guitar like in movies, and asking him to take photos of her.

She was very expressive, and he could indeed take photos. The set he took became the most rebellious and uninhibited of her youth before turning eighteen.

Later, this set of photos was posted on social media. Someone private messaged her, saying he was a drummer in a band in New York. They dated once in a dark bar, and she had a fleeting feeling for him on stage. But she could distinguish this fleeting feeling.

It’s just that he’s like him.

“Hey, do you know artificial respiration?” She looped her arm around his neck, making him look silly.

He really wanted to kiss her, but she easily pushed him away with a smile.

Summer. Summer.

She turned around, her vision blurred, and took out a cigarette from the pocket of her short skirt.

There was a power outage that day.

It was also the first time she had encountered a power outage in her life. The old district was under construction, and the construction team had damaged something. The power company sent an apology text message.

It was a very short power outage because the national power grid was so powerful that the repair was more efficient than the rescue.

But in the pitch darkness, she was once protected by him in the corner.

In his nonchalant manner lay hidden tension: “It won’t act up again this time?”

Because it was another very hot night. Like yesterday’s rain-soaked forest.

She wanted to ask what it meant to watch flowers with her at night. If it was very ordinary, whether she cared too much meant she lacked ambition; if it was very special, then why share it with others.

But she didn’t ask, because there was a sequence of events; clearly, she was the later one.

He wanted to tell her that he had never watched Flowers at night with anyone else; what Fang Suining said was that he had to help that senior with pollination observation.

But he didn’t say it because she didn’t ask, and he wasn’t sure if she cared about it. That night in the mountains, she didn’t ask, which meant she didn’t care.

A summer night without air conditioning, so hot.

She gently said, “Brother Feiran, see you next time.”

He gave her a book, with a strange title, “Botanical Communication.” She thought it was an advanced textbook on bioinformatics, but after flipping through a few pages, she realized it was for a ten-year-old girl.

So I’m that small in your eyes.

But do you know that during the minute you gave me artificial respiration, I imagined lifting my hand to hook your neck more than sixty times?

Before leaving, she said, “The blueberry cake you gave me last time, I haven’t had a chance to eat it yet. I wonder if it’s good?”

The café had closed, and he promised to bring another piece to her when he went home the next day.

When he returned, she had already left.

The blueberry cake was put into the fridge and remained untouched for a long time before Aunt Lan threw it away. Before discarding it, Aunt Lan consulted him, “Feiran, can this be thrown away? It’s been expired for two days.”

He took off his glasses, still with the same expressionless face, and said okay.

Aunt Lan was very worried about him, “If you have something to say, you should speak up. You never say anything and don’t write it on your face.”

Actually, there was nothing. It was just an early farewell that had been anticipated for a long time.

Fang Suining told him in detail that after receiving an urgent call, Shang Mingbao had been trembling. Not long after, the merchant’s car arrived and took her away early.

What happened after that, they didn’t know.

She took a helicopter from the nearest civilian airport directly back to Hong Kong. Her grandfather was critically ill, and she was luckier than her older brother, as she saw him one last time.

Shang Boying held the hand of his youngest granddaughter, smiling and wishing her a successful operation that would come after adulthood, saying that this world is interesting. Grandpa confirmed it for ninety-two years, so go ahead.

He later saw the news of her grandfather’s death on the news and trending searches, overwhelming and unavoidable. Even those isolated from the internet could see it on various news channels and in the fluctuations of stock prices.

The funeral was solemn and solemn, and the segments were broadcasted on the evening news. The man he had seen at the hospital, who had handed him a business card, was holding a portrait of the deceased at the memorial.

Xiang Lianqiao went to offer condolences but did not appear in this slow and mournful footage.

Xiang Feiran learned from the funeral that her family background was prominent, far beyond ordinary imagination.

When he thought of her one hundred thousand in gratitude, although he already knew what that thing was that he couldn’t afford to write off, the answer no longer needed to be told her.

Indeed, it was her “small gift with great affection.” She never intended to use this to write off anything; it was he who couldn’t bear it—even though it was her smallest return.

He did not have her WeChat.

The frequency of picking up his phone became unprecedentedly high, suspecting he would see a red dot in the contacts section, a new friend request.

After school started, bad habits became ingrained. Senior brothers and sisters said that his body was in Cao Ying but his heart was in Han’s, his soul had flown to Professor Tryon across the ocean, which was why he frequently checked his phone.

He smiled. Hong Kong is not the Pacific, but it seems to be insurmountable.

Offer, visa, plane ticket—everything settled, and he went to Hong Kong.

The city he used to visit often, now on the world-class trail, was talked about by Moon, walking among flowers and grass, listening to stories of the red-flowered acacia. This time, however, it felt different—the city’s noise, the sea and mountain’s breath, the sunset at Kennedy Town, the blue of West Kowloon.

On the tram to Victoria Peak, he heard a few middle school students vividly discussing the gossip of the rich and famous—who lived in Repulse Bay, who lived in Deep Water Bay, and who had property on Victoria Peak.

In the stories of middle school students, all this seemed so glamorous and flashy, a longing that ordinary people could only dream of.

In the next life, they said with laughter.

In this extravagance, there was a name he once knew well.

In the next life.

The wind on Victoria Peak brushed past his cigarette star, brushing past the fifteen days of summer he vaguely remembered here.

At first, Fang Suining occasionally talked about her recent situation in Hong Kong, but later it decreased. She didn’t use WeChat, and few people needed her to log in to WeChat to contact her.

Connections between people can end quickly, especially when everyone has their own circle, their own troubles, their own future.

That day he asked about the surgery, and Fang Suining, as if recalling someone from the last century, said, “Oh, Shang Mingbao? I don’t know. Huh, didn’t she add you on WeChat?”

She asked why she didn’t add him.

Perhaps there were too many chaotic events that summer, perhaps her pampered grandfather’s death had left her unable to pull herself together for a long time, or maybe it was the alcohol and social circles keeping her lingering in one night after another.

“Hey, babe, have a sip, it’s very low-proof. It would be strange if anything happened.”

When she was restless, his indifferent, serious eyes always flashed before her. She didn’t drink.

Or perhaps, there was a more direct, fundamental reason.

She just didn’t like him that much.

She understood the disparity in their backgrounds. Why, when it was merely a matter of “liking,” did she think of this point? She didn’t understand.

Top-tier wealth never flows downwards; interests and alliances are only solidified through repeated marriages of equals. She was Shang Mingbao, the youngest and most innocent daughter of the Shang family, but she always calmly understood this principle.

Yet, why did she think of this distant point when she merely felt that she “liked” him? She still didn’t understand.

Moreover, he liked someone else.

Pursuing someone impossible was not her way of experiencing life.

The sadness is real, the reluctance is real, the tears shed are real, the racing heart is real—everything is real.

But reality doesn’t mean eternity.

After finally setting the date for the ablation surgery, her anxiety and fear reached their peak as she desperately sought anyone and anything that could give her courage.

There was an inspiring celebrity who gave her the courage to move forward. She tracked his schedule and had her first so-called “fated” star. Later, that celebrity contacted her and pursued her.

It was hard to tell whether it was genuine liking, only confirming her feelings from those familiar heartbeats and awkward moments.

It was very similar, like the feeling she had when interacting with Brother Feiran.

She held her left hand with her right hand, feeling the pulse within.

About a year or perhaps two years later, one day Fang Suining suddenly said that Shang Mingbao was going to have surgery.

Xiang Feiran asked her when and where.

She gave a date, and the surgery would be at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, one of the top hospitals in the world in that field.

He went to his first temple in his life for her.

The mountain steps were endless, shrouded in mist, with the orange-yellow outer walls casting shadows of camphor trees. The Bodhisattva lowered its eyes, listening to his worldly concerns.

The morning prayers lasted from four to six, and he couldn’t remember how many times he knelt and stood up, how many times he bowed.

Leaving the temple, he smoked a cigarette. The dew dampened the outer layer of his soft-shell jacket.

A monk in gray robes swept the courtyard and told him, “Layman, ask for a charm.”

For her surgery, he returned to New York in advance.

It was an unknown glance—she was delivered to the hospital entrance in a stretch limousine, while he was across the street, just a short distance less than two adjacent streets’ “Manhattan distance,” yet still far beyond the difference between Upper Manhattan and Queens.

She entered the hospital in a gown, with a cascading pink rose train, carried out of the car by attendants and trailing along the semi-circular stone steps.

Like a scene from a movie or a grand advertisement. Xiang Feiran couldn’t help but smile, the cigarette in his fingertips forgotten.

Still a little girl.

She was afraid, and he understood.

This was a glance she would never know in her lifetime.

The management of a top private hospital is so strict that unregistered visitors are not allowed inside. For high-security VIPs, visiting is as much a matter of confirmed invitation as a banquet. He left only a bouquet at the hospital’s front desk, unsigned and without a word.

It was a bouquet of pure white bellflower, one of the most successful flowers in the Gentianaceae family he studied and cultivated.

Among the five thousand plants I know, none can compare to you. So I offer you this modest gift with my beloved and studied bouquet.

Later, he finally learned her social media account.

In his lonely mornings and nights at the library, her life in New York was glamorous and free. Champagne, gowns, celebrities, fireworks.

She posted a photo with a white male drummer. Xiang Feiran knew that they had met twice, with the drummer performing in a bar two blocks away.

They used to be so close.

One day, she posted a photo of an orchid and said, “Sophie told me today that the florist said this orchid has a story. What story?”

Xiang Feiran replied, explaining the name of the orchid.

“After a long period of co-evolution, its form highly adapted to a specific pollinator. So much so that after the insect that pollinated it went extinct, it could no longer accept new ones. Fortunately, in its evolution, it also developed a self-pollination mechanism. Thus, it transitioned to self-pollination and ceased further evolutionary changes, preserving all its forms at the moment when that insect last visited it, becoming the last lonely record of its existence on this planet after its extinction.

That might be the story she was referring to.”

She had once clicked on this account, but there was nothing there.

She was certain it couldn’t be him, as he wouldn’t attach such a romantic and lonely narrative to biological evolution.

The news reported that New York would experience a once-in-a-century snowfall this year.

As the snowflakes fell, no matter which neighborhood, street, or bridge people were on, they all vaguely thought: Maybe this is the snow from the movies, the one where the story begins.

Xiang Feiran looked up at the light and rounded snow between the brick-red buildings, finished the last half of his cigarette by the trash can, pushed open the door, and walked into the apartment.

The old apartment in the Upper West Side of Manhattan was quite aged, and even the doorman downstairs seemed to be of matching age. Upon seeing Xiang Feiran, he shook off his drowsiness and straightened up.

Xiang Feiran approached the counter, stopped, and took out a leaf from his notebook. The leaf had clear veins, feather-like, and was still very green. The doorman took it with one hand and, with the other, removed his hat and gave him an old-fashioned salute.

Xiang Feiran nodded and walked into the elevator, which smelled of aged timber.

The doorman never exchanged a word with him, but as he returned to his seat, he took out a bulging, brown paper notebook from a drawer and carefully pressed the leaf inside.

As Xiang Feiran inserted the key into the lock, the door was already opened from the inside. His Italian roommate, Simon, stood there, dressed and ready to go out.

Xiang Feiran put the key in his jacket pocket, nodded at him, and took off one of his black headphones as a greeting.

“You’re back so early? Is the snow heavy?” Simon asked, adjusting his shoes.

Every Tuesday, the Brooklyn Botanic Garden was free all day, so Simon, who had a direct PhD offer in botany from Columbia, would always take the terrible subway across town to visit.

What impressed Simon even more was a weekend when he casually accompanied Xiang Feiran on a walk and discovered that Xiang’s recent favorite green space was, in fact, a cemetery.

Since then, Simon had developed a profound respect for him and the distant Eastern country, making a conscious effort to keep his distance from anyone with a face like his.

The building’s management had turned on the heating, so the apartment was relatively warm. Xiang Feiran first placed the “Oil Painting Wedding” plant in the entryway and then took off the other headphone and wrapped up the cord.

This wired headset, worth twelve thousand, was the only valuable item he owned, which he carefully stored in its protective case.

After doing this, he took off his coat and answered Simon’s question: “It’s okay, just starting.”

“Did you buy this?” Simon’s curiosity turned to the plant with white and green leaves and purple-red underside and stem. It looked half-dead.

“Not mine.”

Simon’s gaze was intense, so Xiang Feiran decided to be generous with his words: “Joy asked me to help her save it.”

“Well…” Simon shrugged, unsure whether to comment, “This is Joy’s way. She’s interested in you.”

Xiang Feiran’s face remained expressionless.

He had spent half the day at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden and walked for hours in the Green-Wood Cemetery, planning to pass the rest of the time at the Metropolitan Museum on his way back. However, due to Joy’s request, he had to detour to 70th Street to pick up this nearly dead spider plant.

The “Oil Painting Wedding” spider plant was only twelve dollars, but for its owner, even a tip seemed excessive. However, Joy was very earnest on the phone: “Save it.”

Reluctantly, he changed subway lines to the Fifth Avenue, which he found quite bothersome.

When he met Joy at the entryway, she asked with a smile while brushing her hair: “It’s in danger now, could you please come visit it regularly?”

Dog-walking services in Manhattan were forty dollars per hour, and the cost of providing end-of-life care for plants was yet unknown. Xiang Feiran calmly quoted a price, earning a string of ellipses from the beautiful woman.

Ultimately, he managed to bring the half-dead spider plant back, or it would have been thrown away by its original owner.

Xiang Feiran placed the spider plant in a corner by the floor-to-ceiling window in his bedroom. Afterward, his phone vibrated with a call from an anonymous number, indicating the caller’s lack of effort in saving the number.

He declined the call and returned the call from WhatsApp: “I’ve told you, international calls are expensive.”

Xiang Weishan’s voice remained calm and deep: “I don’t want to give you the call credit either.”

He always recharged Xiang Feiran’s phone, which was the only money he could give without Xiang Feiran’s consent, but it was always returned.

Xiang Feiran ignored this and crouched down to carefully observe the state of the spider plant, while asking absentmindedly: “What’s up?”

“Since you’re not coming back for the holidays this year, I’ve arranged an internship opportunity for you. At Wu—”

“Not going.”

Xiang Weishan’s breath clearly showed a wave of displeasure, though he suppressed it. After a two-second pause, he said heavily: “Since you won’t accept the favor, at least make a visit. That’s what your grandfather wanted.”

By dinner time, a standard party invitation was sent to his email, signed by “Wu.”

Xiang Feiran bit into a piece of toast, skimmed through it quickly, and deleted it.

Later, Xiang Lianqiao indeed called personally, recounting the long-standing connections with the Wu family and mentioning Shang Boying in the conversation.

“At your age, you don’t understand which side will be the last one you see in this lifetime. You won’t understand this yet.” His voice was more tired than three years ago.

I understand.

Xiang Feiran answered in his heart.

The discontinuity of fate is unrelated to age; sometimes the years are long, but the separations come quickly.

Because of this call, he had to dig out the suit he had prepared for academic conferences from his wardrobe.

He had considered taking it to the bar in a dust cover, but given the distance from his apartment to downtown Manhattan, he would need to take the subway and ride a bike, potentially encountering drunken homeless people along the way.

Preferring to avoid any hassle, he simply put on the suit, layered it with a jacket, and went to the bar like that.

In the changing room, the band members and manager mocked him mercilessly while guessing how much the suit, which was unbranded, cost.

Having played the mute for an entire year with both extraordinary willpower and laziness, Xiang Feiran ignored everything around him, simply curving his lips into a faint smile. He struck a series of light, crisp bass notes on the drum kit, his demeanor relaxed and nonchalant, signaling them to be quiet.

After performing for half of the show and receiving his fee for the night, he exchanged pleasantries with the black drummer who came to take over. He changed back into his suit, zipped up his North Face jacket to the top, and rode his silver road bike to the subway station.

Under the streetlights, snowflakes drifted down gently, and his tall figure seemed to merge with the night.

He was so disinterested as to be almost indifferent, unaware that his second act was just beginning.