Love's Ambition

Qiu Luo

The day before her departure, Qiu Luo woke up unusually early. To avoid disrupting her usual routine, she lay in bed for a long time. Only when the time felt right did she slip on her nightgown, walk to the living room, turn on some music, and approach the window. She pressed the button, and the electric curtains slowly drew back. Squinting, she gazed at the sun outside, its red hue almost sickly sweet. Then she took a shower, blow-dried her hair, brewed coffee, toasted bread, and fetched the day’s newspaper from downstairs, placing it on the table.

After completing these tasks, she glanced at the clock on the wall—it was time to wake Jing Yu. But when she entered the bedroom, she found him already awake, sitting on the bed in a daze.

That morning, his movements were unusually slow. It was already past his usual departure time, yet he remained at the table, reading the newspaper, his coffee only half-finished. The day before, the company had officially announced his promotion. Perhaps because he had finally achieved what he had worked so long for, his entire body seemed to relax all at once.

She had waited for this day for a long time too. After urging him several times, Jing Yu finally stood up. Before leaving, he mentioned that his colleagues wanted to celebrate with him that evening and asked her to join. Qiu Luo refused, though she immediately regretted it. Whether she saw his radiant, triumphant face or not, it would only bring her sorrow.

After seeing Jing Yu off, she locked the door, pulled out an empty suitcase, and began packing. Just selecting the clothes she wore most often already filled it to the brim. Qiu Luo took them out one by one and returned them to the wardrobe, reminding herself that she was about to start a brand-new life—these old clothes shouldn’t come with her. The hairdryer, curling iron, cosmetics, records, books—she scrutinized every item that might accompany her on this journey, placing them in the suitcase only to take them out again. At one point, she suddenly felt none of them held any real value. The suitcase was instantly empty again. The cat, which had been watching her the whole time, suddenly leaped into the suitcase and sat stubbornly in the center, refusing to budge. She didn’t know what it meant—whether it didn’t want her to leave or wanted to go with her.

It took a great deal of effort to catch the cat and lock it in the study. By the time she returned, she had lost all patience and simply stuffed the nearest clothes and cosmetics into the suitcase, along with some frequently used medications and electronics. Then she snapped the suitcase shut, not wanting to look at it any longer. She had never been good at packing—perhaps because she rarely traveled far. She had never liked traveling before. Travel was full of constraints, a restricted way of living. But now, her perspective had shifted slightly; she preferred to call it a "measured life." She dragged the heavy suitcase back to the balcony and placed the dusty shoebox on top of it once more. Aside from the cat, now wailing in the study, no one would know that inside that suitcase lay the beginnings of her "measured life."There was still half an hour before the supermarket opened. She sat on the sofa, skimming through the half-finished novel. The ending was bland—perhaps the author had realized halfway how hypocritical the story was and lost all confidence, hastily wrapping it up. Qiu Luo hadn’t read a satisfying ending in a long time. Many novels had moving passages in the beginning, but the charm never lasted, soon becoming lost and directionless. She knew she was too harsh on those authors, but she held herself to the same standard—which was why she never became a novelist. The writing dreams of her youth had been strangled by her own severity.

At ten o’clock, she arrived at the supermarket. Black trash bags (50×60 cm), men’s oil-control refreshing shower gel, anti-dandruff shampoo, mugwort soap, collar cleaner, refillable hand soap, three boxes of pull-out tissues, men’s multivitamins, 60-watt energy-saving light bulbs, A4 printing paper, hazelnut cookies. Before checking out, she grabbed four packs of AA batteries and tossed them into the cart.

At noon, she went to the dry cleaner’s to pick up one of his suits and three shirts.

At twelve-thirty, she finished a bowl of pork cartilage ramen alone, then hurried to the pet store for a five-kilogram bag of picky-eater cat food and ten pouches of gourmet cat treats. She asked the owner for a business card with the address and delivery number. Next door, she withdrew money from the bank to recharge the electricity and gas cards.

By one in the afternoon, she was at the café. After a shot of espresso, she still felt drowsy and dozed off with her head on the table.

It was almost two when Yuan Yuan finally arrived, of course, with her child in tow. They moved outside to sit in the sun and chatted briefly, interrupted several times by the child’s crying. When Yuan Yuan picked up her daughter, pressing the little face against her forehead while gently soothing her, Qiu Luo suddenly had a strange thought: Did this little girl know her mother’s double eyelids were surgically made? Of course not—she didn’t even know where eyelids were yet. Qiu Luo mused that the world had been lying from the very beginning. Even the eyes of a mother, smiling desperately at you, could be fake.

At three-thirty, they left the café. On the way home, Qiu Luo washed the car and filled up the tank. She just thought that the life she left for Jing Yu shouldn’t be too empty. By the time she got home, the part-time cleaner Xiao Ju had already arrived and was mopping the floor.

“We’re doing a deep clean today,” Qiu Luo announced as soon as she walked in.

“Are we expecting guests?” Xiao Ju asked.

“Can’t we deep clean without guests?” Qiu Luo retorted, and Xiao Ju fell silent.

For the first time, she worked alongside Xiao Ju. They took down and washed the curtains, changed the bedsheets. They threw out nearly half the expired and flavorless food from the fridge, discarded four pieces of clothing and three pairs of boots she would never wear again, trimmed the cat’s matted fur, and organized the clutter piled on the balcony. The more they cleaned, the more there seemed to do—only then did she realize how messy the house truly was. Xiao Ju came every afternoon for about two hours of cleaning, but now it was clear she had only been doing superficial work. Qiu Luo suddenly felt a pang of sadness, realizing her mother had been right all along: being too kind to Xiao Ju had spoiled her, making her lazier by the day.After finishing the cleaning, it was nearly seven o'clock. Xiao Ju was a bit sullen because her working hours had been extended without reason. Qiu Luo thought since it was the last day, there was no need to dwell on it. She gave Xiao Ju the old clothes and boots, knowing she loved dressing up and had always liked those items. Sure enough, Xiao Ju cheered up and, seeing Qiu Luo cooking spaghetti, offered to help. As they brushed past each other, Qiu Luo caught that familiar scent again. When Xiao Ju first arrived, the smell had been almost unbearable—a grassy, dry grain odor, the scent of poverty from poor nutrition and lack of oil. Over time, as Xiao Ju stayed longer in the city, the smell gradually faded. Now, what lingered seemed like the last traces, quickly dissipating into the creamy aroma of the spaghetti.

Having watched Qiu Luo cook often, Xiao Ju had learned to add a little oil to the pot to keep the noodles from sticking together. She had also picked up skills like making pizza, cheesecake, cookies, brewing coffee, and opening wine. Qiu Luo wondered if these fancy skills would ever truly be useful to Xiao Ju one day.

Originally, Qiu Luo had planned to invite Xiao Ju to stay for dinner, but she had to rush to another job, saying she was already running late. Qiu Luo ate the spaghetti alone. Having used up half a jar of meat sauce, the noodles were overly salty and thick, so she only managed to finish a small portion.

Sitting there lost in thought, she remembered she had forgotten to tell Yuan Yuan that she had watched the movie Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? a couple of days ago. Long ago, Yuan Yuan had mentioned the film, unsure whether the recurring line "Who's afraid of Virginia Woolf?" held any deeper meaning. After watching it, Qiu Luo searched online and finally figured out the phrase was a pun on the famous nursery rhyme Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? She then dug out Woolf's essays to read and spent a long time studying the author's portrait on the title page. That not-particularly-pretty, elongated face bore judgmental eyes that seemed to collapse one's heart, forcing a confession about the falseness of their current life. She wanted to discuss it with Yuan Yuan, even felt the urge to call her immediately. But right now, Yuan Yuan was probably playing building blocks with her daughter, scolding the newly hired fourth nanny, or continuing the debate with her mother-in-law about whether to send the child to a private or public kindergarten. Even if she had remembered to bring it up that afternoon, Woolf would never have been their topic. Not anymore. The Yuan Yuan of today was only afraid of the big bad wolf, not Virginia Woolf.

The cat jumped onto the table, sniffed the spaghetti, took a few steps back, and sat down to stare at her with a puzzled look, as if saying, What will happen to me when you're gone? Indeed, the cat had been Qiu Luo's insistence—Jing Yu had never liked it. Because of it, he had to spend five minutes every morning using a lint roller to remove cat hair from his suits. Now that Qiu Luo was leaving, the cat couldn’t help but worry about its fate. But looking on the bright side: while searching for someone to take the cat, Jing Yu might plunge into a new romance, and the next mistress of the house might happen to love cats and not mind the lingering scent of past lives. Then the cat could smoothly join their new life.She found herself imagining Jing Yu's new life. How much time would he spend searching for her? How much time grieving her loss? How much time healing from that grief? How much time finding the next girl he fancied? How much time dating her until they slept together? How much time sleeping together until they moved in? Of course, many steps could overlap or be skipped altogether. That aligned with his efficiency-driven approach, and his personality did have an uncompromising edge. She felt deeply hurt, as if he'd already wounded her profoundly, making her departure feel like self-defense.

Qiu Luo, restless and agitated, glanced at the clock—already ten. Unable to resist, she called Jing Yu. Raucous laughter filled the line; after dinner, they'd gone to Old Huo's place for drinks. Jing Yu's voice buzzed with excitement, clearly tipsy.

"I'll come get you." Afraid he might refuse, Qiu Luo hung up immediately.

Old Huo was Jing Yu's boss, living in a suburban villa Qiu Luo had visited often. Each time she entered this sprawling compound, she'd get lost, but the security guard would pedal up on his bicycle to lead the way. During her first visit, she'd been enchanted—who wouldn't be? European-style mansion, expansive private gardens, nights so quiet they felt otherworldly. Antique furniture with storied histories filled the rooms. A floral-patterned rug older than her grandmother made her tread lightly. The fruit in the bowl belonged in a Vermeer painting; every vessel gleamed. Clutching her wineglass, she'd thought she'd never tasted such crystalline wine. The hostess served lobster flown in by air and steak from spiritually nurtured cattle, later showcasing her jade collection. This woman, as dignified as the vintage furniture, seemed custom-made for the house. The floor lamp's glow, like an obedient dog, cast Madonna-like radiance upon her. Only after spotting the hostess in a café later did Qiu Luo feel relieved—her foundation wasn't perfectly blended after all, unable to fully conceal the age spots time had brewed.

Qiu Luo had masked her discomfort masterfully, behaving impeccably. She knew Jing Yu felt similarly, perhaps more acutely—raised in the countryside, no matter how grand the scenes he'd witnessed since, an undercurrent of melancholy remained. After their first visit, she'd asked if reaching Old Huo's position would earn them such a house. She didn't know why she'd blurted the question—perhaps just to bridge the distance with the mansion—but its utterance laid bare her longing. "Probably," Jing Yu had replied. His hesitation wasn't about his prospects, but the house's surreal quality. Yet as an aspiration, it felt utterly tangible.Later, Qiu Luo became very afraid of coming to the Lao Huo's house. When they spent an entire evening discussing the antique Ming Dynasty vase on the table, she would suddenly be seized by the wicked urge to stand up and smash it on the ground—as if to prove she had the courage of the child who exposed the emperor's new clothes. But she never did. All she had was this lingering, wicked thought that unsettled her so much she had to exert great effort to keep herself seated. Whenever this happened, she would cast a resentful glance at Jing Yu. But never once did he catch her gaze.

She despised the very life she longed to approach and attain. The worst part was, it wasn’t out of jealousy. She quickly abandoned the idea of telling Jing Yu about it. To sustain his hard work, he had to remain utterly focused and gaze at this goal with desire. To shake this goal would be like taking away the bone placed before a dog—the result was predictable. So she stayed silent, but she had known from very early on that their ideals had diverged. Compared to breaking up, separating, or dividing assets, the parting of ideals required no effort at all.

When she arrived at Lao Huo’s doorstep and heard the burst of laughter inside, she felt a pang of timidity and didn’t want to walk in under everyone’s gaze. She thought maybe she could stand here quietly for a little while. She looked at the three black cars parked nearby and suddenly couldn’t tell which one was Jing Yu’s. She had to walk around to check the license plates to be sure. They were so alike.

A girl approached from a distance. It was Lao Huo’s daughter, only fourteen but already full-figured. Qiu Luo hesitated over whether to greet her but ultimately lowered her head hastily, pulling out her phone to pretend she was about to make a call. The girl stopped in front of her and asked:

“Why aren’t you going in?”

Her tone was somewhat sharp, almost as if challenging her. Qiu Luo was furious and nearly retorted, Why should I? But she held back and remained silent, continuing to fiddle with her phone.

The girl went inside and closed the door. Qiu Luo knew she had to go in now. Just as she was about to ring the doorbell, the door opened. The guests were leaving. Lao Huo’s wife patted her shoulder lightly:

“You’re here. Coming in for a bit?”

Qiu Luo smiled and shook her head. Everyone who saw her greeted her warmly. Jing Yu, having changed his shoes at the door, also came out and handed her the car keys.

As they saw them off to the car, Lao Huo’s wife pinched the thin blouse Qiu Luo was wearing. “Aren’t you cold dressed like this?”

“Seeing you makes me feel cold,” Qiu Luo said, pointing at the sable shawl draped over Lao Huo’s wife’s shoulders, her smile bright.

Jing Yu fell asleep in the car. Qiu Luo turned on the music—a sorrowful man’s voice filled the space. She had never heard it before; this wasn’t a record she had bought. When the car stopped, Jing Yu woke on his own, opened the door, and walked straight to the elevator in the garage, his suit in hand. Watching him from behind, she felt he was already living in the life that would continue after she left.

Neither of them had any intention of making the night last longer, so they didn’t make love. It wasn’t until the next day, as she dragged her suitcase out the door, that she felt a twinge of regret—as if she had forgotten to pack one last thing.Qiu Luo had always thought she would surely suffer from insomnia on her last night. But that didn’t happen. Before falling asleep, she turned her face to glance at Jing Yu one last time—without feeling any trace of sorrow. On all the nights before this, she had watched him like this, rehearsing their farewell alone. She had rehearsed it too many times, and with each repetition, the sorrow diminished until, in the end, she even grew impatient. Who would have guessed that the reason she had to leave was simply because she had spent too much time imagining it, so it had to become real—otherwise, life itself would feel like a lie.

Xiao Ju

The next day, Xiao Ju didn’t have much work in the morning, and since she had to go to the post office in the afternoon, she arrived early. As she entered the apartment building, she ran into Qiu Luo, who was dragging a suitcase toward the exit. When Qiu Luo saw her, her expression faltered for a moment.

“Going on a business trip?” Xiao Ju asked.

“Mm.” Qiu Luo paused briefly before continuing on her way.

Xiao Ju thought there might be something else to say, so she turned and kept watching her. Qiu Luo walked faster and faster, eventually flagging down a taxi that had just dropped off a passenger. A strange intuition made Xiao Ju believe: Qiu Luo might not be coming back.

Xiao Ju unlocked the door, took off her shoes, and began her work. As she washed coffee cups in the kitchen, her mind kept circling back to Qiu Luo’s departure. She abandoned the half-washed cups, dried her hands, and wandered through the bedroom and study. She found no letters or notes left behind. Of course, she thought—who would leave a letter or note in plain sight, knowing the housekeeper might see it? Besides, maybe the husband already knew she was leaving. Still, for some reason, Xiao Ju was more inclined to believe he didn’t. She checked the wardrobe and the vanity. The clothes were still packed full, and at first glance, nothing seemed missing. The cosmetics were mostly untouched, and the jewelry box still held necklaces, earrings, and rings. She grew tired from overthinking and finally decided it really might just be a simple business trip.

After leaving Qiu Luo’s place, Xiao Ju took the bus to the post office. Along the way, Deming called three times, but she hung up each time. She really didn’t want to scream at him on the bus. When she reached the post office entrance, her phone rang again. She answered:

“Stop rushing me, I’m already at the post office!” She hung up in frustration. At last, her phone fell silent.

Inside the post office, long lines had formed, the longest being the one for money transfers. The girl in front of her had her hair tied into the shortest possible bun and clutched a small cloth pouch that looked nothing like a wallet. At a glance, Xiao Ju could tell she was also a housekeeper. Looking further ahead, she guessed at least two more were the same. She wondered why it was always women sending money—were the men in their families all like Deming too?Deming hadn't worked outside since last autumn. At first, it was because the family was building a house, but even after the house was completed, he showed no intention of going out to work. Xiaoju didn't necessarily want him to come to Beijing. Their child would start elementary school this autumn, and having someone closer to home could help look after her. Deming himself didn't like coming to Beijing either—last year, he stayed less than six months before leaving as soon as the construction team disbanded. Xiaoju just hoped he would go to Mianyang, only an hour's journey away, so he could come home every day. Right after the Spring Festival, he went for over half a month. Then it rained for several days in a row, halting the construction, and he never went back after that. Instead, he spent his days playing cards with a few others—and when they played, money was always at stake, otherwise it wouldn’t be any fun. Every time Xiaoju called home, he would say:

"I woke up this morning and saw how overcast it was—looked like rain was coming..."

"Are all the clouds in the world gathered over your Sichuan?" Xiaoju snapped at him angrily.

He always had his reasons, saying the weather this year was abnormal, and it looked like some disaster might strike—maybe a massive storm or a mudslide. Xiaoju retorted, "Since when did you learn to read the skies?" They would argue until it became a full-blown fight, both shouting about divorce. After a week, Xiaoju’s anger would fade, and she’d call again—only to hear that the weather still wasn’t good. They’d start arguing all over again. This cycle repeated endlessly, and Xiaoju still sent money home every month. But starting two months ago, she began keeping a little extra for herself. This time, before even a month had passed, Deming was already pressing her to send money. After much questioning, he finally admitted he had lent the money to his cousin for building a house. They fought again. Xiaoju cursed fiercely over the phone, but in the end, she still went to the post office to send the money.

Xiaoju felt wronged just thinking about it. She didn’t mind working outside—it wasn’t as hard as some made it out to be. Unlike others who missed home terribly even after being away for a long time, shedding tears at the thought of their children, she adapted quickly. She found that Beijing had its own charms. She even bought a secondhand TV to watch Korean dramas in the evenings after returning to her place. Occasionally, she’d buy some fish or shrimp from the market and cook them herself. She didn’t miss her child much either, calling occasionally without much worry. Perhaps because she could make do anywhere, she increasingly wondered what use such a useless man was to her—he couldn’t even make her life a little better.

That afternoon, Xiaoju clutched her wallet as she stood in the money transfer line with a few other nannies, inching forward slowly when a sudden wave of sorrow washed over her. She desperately wanted to break free from this shackled queue and grasp a bit of freedom. Freedom—the word conjured an image of Qiu Luo’s retreating figure, pulling her suitcase behind her. She believed that figure was heading toward freedom.

The next day, Xiaoju arrived at Qiu Luo’s home to find no one there. Strangely, the place was immaculate, exactly as she had left it. Everything remained in its original spot, untouched. It didn’t seem like the husband had returned either. The cat’s food bowl was empty, and when Xiaoju refilled it, the animal devoured the food ravenously—clearly, no one had fed it the night before. Though the house was clean, she couldn’t just sit idle, so she wiped down the floors and bookshelves again. As she worked, she puzzled over what could have happened. There were two plausible explanations: either they had both gone on a business trip or vacation, or Qiu Luo had truly run away, and the husband had gone after her upon discovering her absence. She quickly dismissed the first possibility—if both had left, Qiu Luo would have mentioned it when they last met or at least left a note. But the second scenario didn’t quite add up either. From the moment the husband returned home to realizing Qiu Luo was gone, some time must have passed. While waiting, he would have eaten or drunk something, yet not even a water glass had been touched. Before leaving, Xiaoju tucked the flyer she had taken from the door back into place.

The following day, she found the flyer still on the door. The house remained just as spotless, and the cat dashed to her the moment she entered, meowing plaintively. No one had come back. She breezed through the cleaning, then settled on the sofa to flip through a fashion magazine on the table. Sunlight filled the room in the afternoon, and soon her eyelids grew heavy. She dozed off on the sofa, waking later to find the cat curled warmly at her feet. She put on her coat and shoes, picked up the keys, and stepped outside, suddenly feeling a strange attachment to the house.

By the fifth day, she couldn’t resist calling Qiu Luo. The phone was off. She tried several more times from afternoon till evening, but it remained switched off. Her biggest fear was that something had happened to the husband, and Qiu Luo, having run away, still didn’t know. Before bed, lying down, she recalled that it had been the husband who first called the agency to hire her. Maybe they still had his contact information. She decided to ask them the next day.But this matter also had its difficulties. She had long since fallen out with the agency over a very common reason: after securing a few regular employers, she bypassed the agency and dealt directly with them, settling payments on her own. This way, the employers paid less, and she could earn at least twice as much every month. Many hourly workers did the same, but there were also plenty of failures—some returned after a few months, meekly begging the agency to take them back. Watching them back then, Xiao Ju had resolved to be more resolute; once she left, she wouldn’t crawl back.

She could only turn to Sister Xia. When she left the agency, she had tried to persuade Sister Xia to join her, but Sister Xia was afraid she couldn’t make it on her own and didn’t want to burn bridges with the agency. Everyone has their own path, and Xiao Ju didn’t want to force her. They still met often in the evenings to chat.

Xiao Ju didn’t tell Sister Xia the whole truth. She only said that the master and mistress had quarreled, and the master hadn’t come home for days. The mistress had fallen ill from anger, refusing to eat or drink. So she wanted to secretly call the master. Sister Xia laughed at her, saying she meddled too much—was she their housekeeper now? But she also admitted she probably couldn’t help. Asking directly was out of the question, and the phonebook was locked in a drawer, impossible to peek at. Xiao Ju pleaded relentlessly until Sister Xia finally agreed to look for an opportunity when the time was right.

But the next day’s delivery completely dashed Xiao Ju’s hopes of calling the master. She was brushing the cat in the empty house when the courier banged on the door. He had come up on a whim since he was in the area:

“I’ve been calling for days, but the phone’s been off,” the courier complained. Xiao Ju took the package, which was addressed to Qiu Luo.

Without thinking, she tore open the envelope. These courier company envelopes were everywhere, and resealing it wouldn’t be hard. Inside was a single sheet of paper—a letter. She glanced at the signature: Jing Yu.

As she read, she slowly walked to the sofa and sat down. Then she read it again.

Luo Luo:

The afternoon the promotion was announced, I felt completely hollowed out. I sat in the office, unable to do anything, unwilling to go home. I was like a spinning top whipped into motion, turning frantically—only to suddenly stop. Now I can’t even stand steady.

I know I shouldn’t be dissatisfied with my life as it is. It’s stable, comfortable, and bound to get better. But I can’t bring myself to think too deeply about what this “better” really means. The moment I do, I realize it’s meaningless.

When we first met, we were a little unrealistic. Back then, you still wrote sometimes—I remember you talking about the novel you wanted to write. Thinking back, it feels like such a distant past. You know I’ve always said it doesn’t matter whether you work or not, as long as you’re happy doing what you want. But if I have any wish left, it’s that you could give me a little passion, a little idealism. I’m terrified of becoming as dull and vulgar as my colleagues. I’m not blaming you for any of this.Sometimes when I wake up in the morning and think about the remaining years of my life, I find it terrifying how utterly predictable it all seems. I know leaving like this means losing many things. Yet I can't convince myself to stay and continue living this life devoid of any surprises. As for where to go or what to do next, I truly have no plans.

I remember during this year's Spring Festival, your parents discussed with us about getting married this year. Counting back, we've been together for six years. Now that this won't happen, I feel deeply apologetic. But my leaving isn't to escape marriage. What I'm running from might be something even bigger than marriage.

I'm writing this letter in the office. Perhaps it's the atmosphere here that makes my words sound so serious and prevents me from discussing matters of the heart with you. Let's leave those conversations for later—perhaps things will be clearer then.

I'll leave the apartment and car to you. I'll help transfer the ownership when I return someday.

Jing Yu

Xiao Ju put down the letter, utterly astonished. These two people had coincidentally run away from home on the same day without prior agreement. Moreover, they still hadn't gotten married after all this time, yet seemed like an old married couple. Calculating, she was actually a year younger than Qiu Luo, yet already had a six-year-old child. City women could remain unmarried for so long.

That night, the power went out in her residence. Sitting alone in the dark, Xiao Ju contemplated many things. She thought about how city people lived with such meticulousness and pickiness—the moment they sensed a problem, they immediately sought change. Country folks like her weren't lacking in courage to change their lives either, but they muddled through their days, often blind to life's issues. Yet perhaps that wasn't entirely true—she did know where the problem lay. It was De Ming. Nearly all her troubles stemmed from him. So she had always known the source of her problems and wasn't afraid to bear the consequences of changing her life—she had simply never properly considered solving them.

Xiao Ju seriously contemplated divorce. If she went through with it, she definitely wouldn't return to Sichuan, nor would she take the child. The thought of staying alone in Beijing didn't frighten her. As for men, she believed there would always be opportunities. If not, she'd accept that too. Qiu Luo had once told her she was a Virgo, and Xiao Ju felt all the descriptions of Virgos fit her perfectly. She had her own uncompromising standards—the type who would rather go without than accept something subpar.

Feeling stifled by her thoughts, Xiao Ju decided to take a walk. She reached the main street lined with small restaurants, their signs glowing red. People sat around circular tables, eating spicy food, drinking foamy beer, laughing and chatting boisterously. Watching the lively scene, she felt herself becoming energized too. She took out her phone and sent De Ming a text:

"When I mentioned divorce, it wasn't said in anger. I truly feel there's no meaning in continuing like this." After writing, she reread it and changed "meaning" to "significance."

After sending the message, she felt much lighter. Looking up, she realized she had unconsciously walked to the building where Qiu Luo lived. Hesitating briefly, she decided to go up and stay awhile—she could even take a hot shower there.Xiao Ju heard muffled thumping sounds when she unlocked the door with her key, making her a little nervous. She worried they might have returned, yet curiosity kept her from turning back. Upon entering, the interior was pitch black, seemingly empty. When she turned on the light, she saw the cat kicking and struggling near the shoe cabinet. It had always enjoyed playing with the laces of sneakers—those thin, tangled strings it could flick around like living playthings. But this time, somehow, it had managed to tie all four of its paws together, and the shoe had gotten wedged under the cabinet, leaving it trapped. No matter how hard it struggled, it remained bound to that shoe beneath the cabinet.

Xiao Ju untangled the laces. The cat, exhausted, slowly padded over to the water bowl and drank noisily in big gulps. She had never felt much affection for the cat, but at that moment, her heart ached a little. If she hadn’t come by tonight, she wouldn’t have returned until the next afternoon. The cat would have kept struggling like that, surely driven to despair by then.

The incident with the cat gave Xiao Ju a perfect excuse. From then on, she came to the apartment every evening—taking showers, watching TV, sometimes even DVDs. Qiu Luo’s collection filled several boxes. Just the act of showering already made her feel life was much more enjoyable. The water pressure was strong, the hot water endless, and she could soak her sore legs and feet in the bathtub. Qiu Luo also had many books. Xiao Ju had always loved reading; when Qiu Luo was still around, she often gave her old magazines. But most of the books here were too profound, many beyond her understanding. Some of the books Qiu Luo had flipped through before leaving were still on the desk, not yet shelved. Several were written by a foreign woman named Woolf. Xiao Ju picked them up one by one but couldn’t get into them—long passages left her bewildered, unable to grasp what was happening. However, one book, titled A Room of One’s Own , struck a chord. It said a woman must have a room of her own. Reading this, Xiao Ju felt deeply moved. Now, with this apartment temporarily sheltering her, life truly felt different from before.

Yet she rarely stayed overnight—only twice, when horror movies left her too afraid to walk home in the dark. She had her own fastidiousness about beds, disliking the idea of others sleeping in hers, and she assumed Qiu Luo would feel the same. As for Deming, he replied to her text only a day later: "Do as you see fit." Xiao Ju thought to herself that she would indeed act according to her own wishes. She planned to go home sometime soon to have a proper talk with Deming about divorce.Half a month passed, and a very practical problem confronted her. With Qiu Luo and the master of the house gone, there was no one to pay her wages. That monthly salary of six hundred yuan accounted for a significant portion of her total income. Apart from Qiu Luo’s household, the other regular families she worked for only needed her once a week. Then there were the odd jobs—she’d go when called, but if there were no calls, she’d be idle. Now, without that six hundred yuan, most of her work hours were left empty. She had no choice but to swallow her pride and ask some clients to help spread the word, to see if any of their friends needed help. Finding work required patience, and she had to brace herself for several months of reduced income. So, she was torn—sometimes she desperately wished for Qiu Luo and the others to return soon so she could get paid. But if they came back, she would no longer be able to use this house. For her, this house meant freedom. She had always believed that having money must surely bring more freedom than having none, yet her current situation showed that having money might actually cost her that freedom.

However, the choice between money and freedom wasn’t in her hands. All Xiao Ju could do was resign herself to fate.

But heaven and fate had greater plans. De Ming’s ominous words had come true. Although the clouds of the entire nation hadn’t gathered over Sichuan, the energy deep within the earth’s crust erupted there. On the afternoon of the earthquake, Xiao Ju was working at another household when Sister Xia called to inform her. She tried calling De Ming and her parents’ home, but couldn’t get through. It wasn’t until she watched the news that evening that she realized the severity of the disaster. She dialed every relative’s number one by one, but none connected. She could only console herself by noting that the disaster zones reported on the news were still some distance from their area.

Sitting on Qiu Luo’s sofa, facing the television, she clutched the phone, pressing redial over and over. Sister Xia called again to check on her, offering some comfort before sighing:

“With something so terrible happening, you’re surprisingly calm.”

“What else can I do?” Xiao Ju replied.

She had already learned the harshness of natural and man-made disasters. Her mother had been killed by a falling electric pole during the floods of ’98. She still remembered how she and her brother had clung to each other in the hospital corridor, crying until the world seemed to collapse. The so-called strength she had now was forged from the tears of that summer. Xiao Ju stayed glued to the television, waiting for the latest updates from Sichuan. She was starving and found a shriveled apple in Qiu Luo’s fridge to eat. With inexplicable courage, she even opened a bottle of red wine and gulped it down. Not long after finishing it, the phone miraculously connected. When De Ming’s voice called out to her from the other end, she thought it was the alcohol playing tricks on her, as if she had summoned spirits, and she froze in fear for a long moment. De Ming and the child were unharmed, and the rest of the family was safe, but their newly built house had collapsed entirely. They had temporarily moved to an earthquake shelter set up outdoors.

For the next week, the news was filled with search and rescue updates. Xiao Ju spent every moment she wasn’t working in front of the television. Many had died in villages very close to their own. De Ming often called to reassure her, but he always ended up mentioning someone they knew who had lost relatives.Sometimes, after hanging up the phone and turning off the TV, Xiaoju would stare blankly at the scene before her. The cat slept obliviously on the recliner, the breeze gently teasing the sheer curtains. The gardenias on the windowsill had all bloomed, and the clock on the wall—lacking a second hand or markings—always made her think it had stopped. She couldn’t tell whether everything felt too quiet or too cold.

Sister Xia asked her why she was still here instead of going back to Sichuan. Xiaoju replied, "The house collapsed. Building a new one costs money—how would I earn any if I went back?" Sister Xia thought she had a point. But Xiaoju herself felt lost. These days in Beijing, she hadn’t made much money either. If Sister Xia hadn’t asked, she might have almost forgotten that she came to Beijing to earn money. And now was truly the time when money was needed. Deming had even lent money to his cousin to build a house, and now that house had collapsed too. The debt they owed would probably never be repaid. Just thinking about it made Xiaoju angry.

A few days later, Deming’s sister in Mianyang took their parents in. That left only Deming alone with the child, caught off guard. He called to ask Xiaoju what she thought.

"You should go to Mianyang and stay with your sister too," Xiaoju said coldly.

"With so many mouths to feed, how could we impose on them? Mianyang is chaotic right now—there’s no work to be found," Deming said.

"Then what do you mean to do?"

"I was thinking of leaving Lanlan with them for now. School isn’t in session anyway, and my parents can look after her."

"And you?"

"I think... I’ll come to Beijing to find you," Deming answered weakly, his next words even quieter. "There’s nothing left here anymore."

Xiaoju was silent for a long time before saying, "Let me think about it." After hanging up, she suddenly realized there was nothing to think about—this was the only way. Yet, inexplicably, a faint sense of joy flickered within her, as if she believed, for no reason, that Deming had become a little better.

On the day Deming took the train to Beijing, the male landlord sent a letter. "To Qiu Luo." Seeing the familiar name, Xiaoju felt an unexpected pang of longing.

Luo Luo,

I’m writing this letter from Mianyang. After leaving home, I wandered around aimlessly, as if I could never find a place to stay. I originally planned to go to the northwest to work as a rural teacher, but when I heard about the earthquake, I thought maybe I should go to Sichuan instead. A few days ago, I went to help in one of the hardest-hit towns. The words I hear most every day are "signs of life." That phrase always excites me, as if I’ve grasped the meaning of existence. It’s funny, really—I’m not much help, but being here, rushing around every day, always ready to lend a hand, makes me feel full of energy.When I mentioned becoming a rural teacher and coming here as a volunteer, you'd probably laugh at me. Neither of us are the type to be filled with passionate idealism, nor do we have overflowing compassion. At first, I didn't understand it myself. Then I remembered a book I'd read before about the mentality of certain fanatics—people who selflessly devote themselves to charity and public service because they're complete failures in their own lives. They do this to escape the constant sense of defeat they experience. Helping others gives them fulfillment, and it's the only work that doesn't invite criticism or rejection. Kindness becomes their last refuge. There are as many volunteers here as locusts, and I don't know if they've come with the same self-salvation purpose as I have.

I have to head to another county town soon, so I can't write any more. Oh, I just remembered—Xiao Ju, who works at our house, is from Sichuan. I wonder if her family is safe. Send her my regards.

Jing Yu

When she read the last line, Xiao Ju's tears fell, though she still didn't understand why Jing Yu had gone to Sichuan. She turned on the TV to watch the disaster relief coverage, hoping to spot Jing Yu among the vast crowds.

She looked for a long time but didn't see Jingyu. Suddenly, among the volunteer medical rescue teams, she spotted someone who looked remarkably like Qiu Luo. Xiao Ju thought this must be a figment of her imagination. Having forgotten what Jingyu looked like, her search had somehow transformed into looking for Qiu Luo instead. Yet when that woman moved out of frame, she clearly saw the retreating figure dragging a suitcase behind. Later, Xiao Ju often recalled this strange moment from the television that afternoon, growing increasingly convinced that person had indeed been Qiu Luo. She told herself, if they could both run away from home on the same day, why couldn't they both have gone to Sichuan as volunteers?

At the same time, Deming followed her instructions, gathering the family's valuables into plastic woven bags before hurrying to the train station. The television never showed footage of their village, yet Xiao Ju seemed to see him emerging from the rubble of collapsed walls. As he walked away, he turned back for one last, lingering look.

In the days before Deming came to Beijing, Xiao Ju had wavered about whether to tell him about the empty apartment. But while waiting for his arrival, she found herself unconsciously changing the bedsheets in that apartment's bedroom. The freshly washed sheets carried the lemony fragrance of laundry detergent as she spread them out smoothly, with the reverence of facing a brand-new life. She realized how desperately she wanted Deming to arrive quickly. Yet that anticipation was filled with shyness and unease, as if she were embarking on something terribly risky. Happily lost in the moment, she felt she wasn't simply waiting for her man in a strange room, but rather waiting in her own home for a stranger to ring the doorbell.