Love's Ambition

It was almost dark, and the lights in the room were off. I stood in front of the fluorescent display panel, waiting for the music to emerge from the column speakers. In the past, I would have walked away after inserting the disc—maybe to brew tea or make coffee. But now, I stood there, waiting for the music to start. Was I worried the record was damaged, or that the machine had malfunctioned? I couldn’t say for sure. It was just a vague unease, a fear that the music might never play again.

The music started. I turned on the light. Coco’s paintbrushes were scattered on the sofa, and a giraffe head was wedged upside-down between the cushions. I picked up the brushes and pulled the giraffe out, tucking it under my arm. Xing Lei walked over, bypassed me, and opened the top drawer of the low cabinet. I asked her what she was looking for. She said she’d cut her hand while handling the fish. I told her to leave it for Sister Chen to deal with.

“Can you go downstairs and buy some sugar? The fish is still flapping,” she asked.

“They can have some drinks first. Eating at seven isn’t too late.”

“Da Qi has something to do. He needs to leave early.”

“Wasn’t he the one complaining about having nowhere to spend Mid-Autumn Festival?”

“And cooking wine. Sugar and cooking wine.”

She walked past me again. Lately, we hardly spoke. She always seemed distracted, or maybe she was upset with me. It wasn’t something I could fix by doing anything—and I wasn’t planning to try. We were long past the stage of trying to please each other. After a certain number of years, marriage becomes like a ship without a captain. Neither party bothers to steer, letting it drift wherever the currents take it.

After leaving the convenience store, I lit a cigarette and sat on a bench in the courtyard. A few boys, around seven or eight years old, were crouched under a tree not far away, playing. The one in the blue hoodie looked like he’d fought with Coco before. A dirty white cat slinked past them and disappeared into the bushes. A delivery guy walked by and asked where Building 9 was. The plastic container in his hand seemed to hold skewers—probably a good match for ice-cold beer. After a while, the boys’ mothers came and called them away. Under the tree, a pile of branches remained, haphazardly stacked, as if someone had been planning to start a bonfire.

Bonfire. The faint warmth still clinging to the wood proved it had only recently been extinguished. Luna circled it once before sitting down beside it. It had rained just yesterday, so finding dry wood like this wasn’t easy. She untied her backpack, pulled out a few boiled chestnuts, and began eating. Then she unfolded her map and marked the route she’d taken yesterday with a pencil. The map was drawn based on the memory of a blind blacksmith, so it was likely unreliable. But if she got there, she knew she’d recognize the place. Even if the house was gone, the rice fields were gone, the mango grove was gone—she’d still know.She still ate chestnuts the way she did as a child—biting a small opening and using her pinky to scoop out the flesh, leaving the shell almost intact. Her mother used a bamboo skewer to make an even smaller hole, clean out the meat, then paint the dried shells in bright colors and string them into necklaces for the neighbors. Pink was the hardest to find. In spring, they would gather oleander petals, crush them in a stone bowl. All through that season, her mother took her up and down the hills searching for oleanders. Time was something they had plenty of. Luna never imagined leaving that little village; the wildest dream she ever had was marrying the tailor’s son at the edge of town.

My phone rang. Xing Lei asked where I was, saying Deng Feifei had already arrived. I stubbed out my cigarette—the fifth one—and stood up from the bench. There was an unread message on my phone. I opened it:

"Let Luna go, okay? I’m begging you."

I opened the door to find Deng Feifei sitting at the dining table flipping through a home decor magazine. She seemed heavier, or maybe it was just her new short haircut. Her round face was dotted with seven or eight tiny transparent bandages.

"I got some moles removed yesterday," she said.

"That many?" I asked.

"I kept two. The master said they’re lucky ones." She pointed to a square box on the table. "Where’s Keke? I brought her some chocolate."

I told her Keke was at her grandma’s—Xing Lei’s cousin had returned from America. Deng Feifei immediately asked if it was the cousin with the mixed-race twins, saying she’d seen photos of their happy family. I didn’t comment. At least Xing Lei hadn’t made me join them for Mid-Autumn Festival, which I was grateful for. I opened a bottle of champagne and poured her a glass. The last time we met was during her theater performance. She’d worn a Victorian-era dress, her hair tousled, with thick black eyeshadow smudged around her eyes. I’d forgotten everything else about that night except the heavy rain.

"Keep the chocolate refrigerated, and don’t let Keke eat too much at once," Deng Feifei said, studying me. "Are you sick?"

"Working on a script deadline."

"A new one?"

"The same one."

"What’s it about again?"

"Fantasy, an animated film. But not for kids." I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to clarify.

"Impressive. The kind where people live for thousands of years and know all sorts of magic?"

"Probably not that long." It had been a while since I’d had a conversation, and I was struggling. I suggested she try the wine.

"Thank goodness for you guys," she said, setting down her glass. "Taking me and Daqi in during the holidays."

"Hardly ‘taking in,’ right?"

"I got divorced last month. Xing Lei didn’t tell you?"

Her eyes brimmed with the urge to confide, waiting for my questions, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember her ex-husband’s name.

I’d actually met him many times. Just a year ago, the couple had sat at this very table, debating passionately with Xing Lei about whether to have children. I’d listened with interest, mainly because Xing Lei fascinated me—she always regretted having Keke, yet whenever women asked for her advice, she’d insist they must have a child to feel complete. She sounded so sincere it made me believe the disappointment she carried was a rare kind of misfortune in this world.I had a feeling the whole evening might descend into emotional discussions. Best not to let Deng Feifei start that. I stood up and went into the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I stared at the small cluster of green plants in the vase by the sink.

When night fell, Luna lit a bonfire. The bushes rustled a few times before falling silent again. She peered carefully into the darkness and spotted a pair of eyes watching her from the thicket. Just as the figure tried to flee, she leapt up and grabbed his clothes. He turned his head in fright, revealing a clown's face painted with vibrant colors. Through the diamond-shaped greasepaint on his eyelids, she could see childish eyes. The clown explained that he had started the bonfire, gone out to find food, and returned to find Luna sitting beside it.

The clown skewered a plump wild rabbit over the fire and invited Luna to share it with him. He told her mysteriously that the volcano would erupt in a few days, flattening everything here. The only way to survive was to leave on a Klein spaceship. That's why he'd escaped from the circus—to search for the ship. He was puzzled that Luna already knew this secret, so why was she heading toward the volcano? Luna said she'd lived in a village near there as a child. After war and plague, everyone had left. She wanted to see it once more before the eruption. The clown asked, "See what? There's no one left." Luna replied, "I don't know. But I keep dreaming about it, so I want to say goodbye."

Before parting ways the next day, Luna gave the clown her ticket for the Klein spaceship. She reassured him, "I'm a Flame Bearer. I can board without a ticket." The clown hugged her and cried, tying his yellow magician's handkerchief around her wrist. He asked Luna what the spaceship looked like. "A round metal door," she said, "like the moon."

I hoped dinner would end by nine so I could return to my desk and continue writing this story. Back in the living room, the table was set with shredded lettuce salad, century egg with tofu, and poached chicken. Xing Lei emerged carrying a plate of braised pork with arrowhead tubers: "Can someone call Daqi?"

"I'll do it," I said. Xing Lei glanced at me, neither encouraging nor objecting. I found his number and dialed. Daqi answered, saying someone from a New York gallery had unexpectedly visited his studio, and he'd come over after seeing them off.

"Looks like Daqi's luck is turning. Maybe they want to invite him to exhibit in the U.S.!" Deng Feifei said.

"Let's drink to that." I raised my glass toward Xing Lei.

Daqi was a photographer, though he probably preferred calling himself a visual artist to distinguish himself from commercial photographers. But to me, their biggest difference was that commercial photographers made things look beautiful, while Daqi went out of his way to make them ugly. His most famous photo showed three Miao grandmothers holding up their bound feet, grinning toothless smiles. If you asked me, whatever acclaim he'd earned was entirely thanks to the dirt and disorder of China's remote regions. I'd voiced this opinion once when drunk, resulting in a fight with Xing Lei.

Now Xing Lei didn't seem in a hurry to start dinner. Only when I suggested we eat while waiting did she slowly get up to fetch the bowls and chopsticks."I can't eat shrimp, it'll make the wounds on my face flare up," Deng Feifei said.

"Don't drink either," Xing Lei said, reaching to take her glass, but she quickly blocked it with her hand.

"Oh, one glass won't hurt. It's not like I have any rehearsals coming up anyway!"

Xing Lei studied her face. "Are all those moles bad luck?"

Deng Feifei pointed to the small adhesive patches one by one, explaining to us: "This one attracts petty people, this one leads to money leaks, this one increases the risk of traffic accidents, and this one means you lack a backbone..."

"So if you remove this mole, will you grow a backbone?" I asked.

"It'll grow a little."

"I actually think the mole by your eyebrow is quite pretty," Xing Lei said.

"That's the divorce mole! It's a bit big—it might grow back in a while. If it does, I'll have to get it removed again. Anyway, the master said my true love won't come until the year after next."

"If you can't eat shrimp, have some more meat then," Xing Lei said, placing two pieces of braised pork in her bowl.

"Did Sister Chen cook all this?" Deng Feifei asked between chews.

Sister Chen happened to walk out just then and smiled at Deng Feifei. She placed a steamed mandarin fish in the center of the table, its pale eyes staring blankly, its gaping mouth stuffed with shredded ginger, steam rising from the bed of green scallions.

"Sister Chen, you should head home now. You can clean up tomorrow," Xing Lei said, escorting her to the door. "About the hospital appointment, I'll ask again at work tomorrow. Listen to me, don't overthink it, okay?" Xing Lei's tone carried a practiced professionalism, but the gentle glow in her lashes was enough to soften any clinical coldness. Her beautiful, wise eyes always brimmed with understanding and compassion for the world. Those eyes alone made her perfect for her job—she was an outstanding psychologist.

"Who's sick?" Deng Feifei asked after Sister Chen left.

At first, when Sister Chen said her husband was ill and she needed to return to her hometown, I thought she just didn’t want to work for us anymore. Can’t blame me—the two previous housekeepers had left under bizarre excuses: one claimed her nephew had run someone over with a tractor, the other said her mother-in-law had run away from home. But they were later spotted at the domestic service center, interviewing with new employers. So after Sister Chen left, I suggested finding a new housekeeper. Xing Lei, however, believed Sister Chen was telling the truth. When I asked her why, she said it was intuition. I couldn’t help feeling a little resentful—after all, I was the one dragging myself out of bed at seven every morning to take Keke to the school bus stop. Over a month later, Sister Chen actually returned, saying her husband had lung cancer and wanted to see a doctor in Beijing. Xing Lei helped arrange an appointment with a specialist, but the diagnosis was the same as the local hospital’s. Her husband stayed in Beijing for a few days before going back, while Sister Chen continued working for us. I always felt she’d grown colder toward me—maybe Xing Lei had told her about my earlier suspicions. I never asked how her husband was doing after that. Now, listening to Xing Lei explain to Deng Feifei that his condition had suddenly worsened and Sister Chen wanted help finding another specialist.

"She knows another consultation won’t change anything, but she still wants to do her part—can’t let her in-laws talk behind her back," Xing Lei said.

"Any kids?" Deng Feifei asked.

"Two," Xing Lei replied, pushing aside the scallions to pick up a piece of fish. "Still a bit overcooked. I told her to turn off the heat after eight minutes."

Deng Feifei took a bite and thought it tasted just fine."Where is your housekeeper from? You could teach her too," Xing Lei said.

Deng Feifei replied that she had let the housekeeper go because her parents were coming to stay, and they didn’t like having someone constantly hovering around. They would take full control of her life—someone to do the laundry and cook, someone to handle car repairs and traffic tickets, and of course, someone to nag her if she came home too late.

"I feel like I’m regressing, like I’ve gone back to high school," she said, tossing her hair. "What do you think of this student haircut?"

"Weren’t you supposed to have bright red hair back then, smoking outside the pool hall?"

"Haha, exactly! Have you seen Run Lola Run ? I was just like the heroine in that movie! And I was a long-distance runner too!" Deng Feifei lit a cigarette and started boasting about her glory days in school, how she had won first place in citywide sports meets, how her photo holding a trophy had been displayed on the school’s bulletin board... I thought back to that rainy night, waiting for a ride outside the theater, when I saw a poster for that day’s play in the window across the street. She played Lady Macbeth, her image on the far left, raindrops rolling down the glass like a hand reaching into her voluminous skirt to shake her body.

"If I’d kept at it, maybe I could’ve been a decent athlete. Too bad life isn’t like the movies—you can’t just rewind and try again." Deng Feifei poured herself another drink.

"Slow down, high schooler," Xing Lei said.

Deng Feifei pointed at me. "What was he like in high school? Just as brooding?"

"Him? He was really good at riding a bike one-handed."

"Showing off?"

"His arm was broken in a fight, so he rode around in a cast for three months. After that, he couldn’t stand riding without holding something in his other hand."

"The other guy had it worse—broken nose, two surgeries," I added.

"Didn’t see that coming. So you fell for him because he could fight?" Deng Feifei asked Xing Lei.

"I was also pretty good at music," I chimed in.

Xing Lei snorted. "You mean playing the grass whistle?"

A phone buzzed on the table.

Deng Feifei said, "That’s gotta be Daqi. If that American gallery signs him, tell him to bring back a good bottle of wine!"

"Not him," I said, picking up my phone and stepping away.

The producer on the other end kept calling my name, asking if I’d seen his texts.

"What’s going on with you? Luna’s arc wrapped up ages ago—just have her board the Klein spaceship and leave. You should be focusing on the final showdown now. Prince Sol is the protagonist of this story!" Because I was way past deadline, they’d made me switch to a live-updating document so they could track my progress in real time. A lighter clicked in the background as the producer paused to light a cigarette, steadying his temper.

"Dayu, I get it—writers get attached to their characters. But this isn’t a novel where you can just wing it. Tell me, who cares about Luna’s childhood? Once a character’s served their purpose, they exit stage left. Why do you keep trapping her in this story?"

He gave me two more days, made me promise to wrap up Luna’s story by tonight, then hung up.I changed the record and stood in front of the fluorescent frame, waiting for the music to start. Could we consider this waiting time as part of the music? Every art form has its blank spaces—it cannot and does not need to present the complete picture. A story—though I certainly wouldn’t call this script art—cannot encompass an entire lifetime. Even if we claim to have breathed soul into a character, it can only ever be a fragment of a soul. The soul, that thing said to weigh 21 grams, is as vast as the universe.

The rain began in the afternoon. Luna received a message from the Klein spacecraft, informing her that a volcanic alert had been issued and instructing her to stay put—they would come for her. When the rain stopped, she climbed up the hillside and saw a fading rainbow in the distant canyon. As a child, during dry spells, she and the neighborhood kids would make their own rainbows with garden hoses under the sunlight. Humans always want more than nature provides. She decided to keep moving forward. By evening, she had left the forest and arrived at a wide river. A gut feeling told her the village from before lay on the other side. Unable to swim, she plucked a leaf from a tree and began playing a grass flute, hoping a distant boat might hear. It was a melody her uncle had taught her as a child—one she thought she’d long forgotten. Her lips brushed the damp leaf as lively notes danced through the twilight, settling onto the calm river’s surface… Then the ground beneath her trembled, mud splashing as she turned to look—elephants, not one but a whole herd, were striding toward her…

I returned to the dining table and served myself a bowl of fish ball soup. The two women had fallen silent simultaneously, as if my presence had interrupted their conversation.

“Should I leave?” I asked.

“No,” Deng Feifei said. “I’ve moved past it. I can talk about those things calmly now.” Xing Lei placed a hand over hers, and as if encouraged, Deng puffed her cheeks and exhaled:

“After performing Macbeth , I shut myself indoors every day, pacing barefoot across the floor, turning on the faucet to wash my hands over and over, lighting candles as soon as it got dark. Xu Hong was filming in Shanghai at the time but came back for a few days. One night, he got up to use the bathroom and saw me wandering around the living room, muttering things he couldn’t understand. He barely managed to wake me, and the moment I opened my eyes, I screamed, ran into the bedroom, and locked the door. For the rest of his stay, he slept on the couch in the living room. Every night, I’d wander out again—once even going onto the balcony and opening the window. Before Xu Hong returned to the set, he convinced me to go to the hospital with him. On the way, I suddenly refused and demanded he turn the car around immediately. When he wouldn’t, I yanked the door open and tried to jump out—we were still on the overpass… Do you have another cigarette?”

Now I remembered—her ex-husband’s name was Xu Hong. She took the cigarette and held it between her lips, rubbing her thumb repeatedly over the lighter’s wheel. The sudden flare nearly singed her bangs."I knew this couldn't go on, but I couldn't do anything about it... After about half a month passed, one afternoon Xing Lei called, saying she was passing by my place and asked if I wanted to have dinner together. I told her I didn't feel like going out and hung up. Not long after, the doorbell rang—Xing Lei was standing at the door. She stayed until evening before leaving, and then came to see me again within a couple of days. I really gave her a hard time during that period. I thought she would have told you about it."

I said, "She probably treated you as her patient. Confidentiality is part of her professional ethics."

Xing Lei narrowed her eyes at me.

"I was indeed her patient. Without her, I'd still be trapped in the role of Lady Macbeth..."

"You mean you were possessed by Lady Macbeth?"

"Not possessed," Xing Lei seemed offended, "Medically speaking, it's a normal manifestation of transference."

"In order to play that role well, I made myself think like her, be as wicked as her—my hands were stained with blood too... Yes, it was acting, no one actually died, but when I urged Macbeth to kill, the words I spoke were truly my thoughts at that moment. Even if that sword hadn’t been a prop, I would have watched it plunge into the actor playing Duncan... I wasn’t just reciting lines, you understand? I was commanding those words; I was their master. Xing Lei helped me find what I truly feared. She didn’t convince me I was innocent—she taught me how to face that guilt. She’s incredible, almost like she has magic. You watch her lips part and close, slowly getting hypnotized, and when you regain consciousness, you find your perspective on so many things has changed..."

"Da Yu doesn’t believe in this," Xing Lei said. "He thinks psychology is all a bunch of trickery."

"No, no, I deeply respect the work of psychiatrists—saving lives and healing the wounded, immeasurable virtue. I’m just saying I find Freud’s theories annoying when it comes to my own creative process."

Deng Feifei laughed. "I kind of pity you. Maybe Xing Lei already hypnotized you long ago, and you just don’t know it yet."

I smiled at her. Her eyes dimmed slightly.

"Lately, I’ve been thinking about changing careers. I don’t think I can keep acting. Children’s theater might still work—playing a tree or a clucking hen."

"Don’t think about that now. Take a break first," Xing Lei said. "Does anyone want some rice?"

"Is there any wine left?" Deng Feifei asked.

I took the last cigarette from the pack, planning to finish it and then return to my study to work.

The lead elephant stopped before Luna, bent its front legs, and knelt down, allowing her to climb onto its back. Then it strode into the river. The ancient river awoke from its dream, splashing water that kissed Luna’s feet.

She squinted, and the opposite shore gradually came into focus. The dense tree crowns shimmered with a golden sheen, slowly revealing oval outlines—clusters of heavy mangoes. Like trembling hearts bared to the hot wind, as if there were no more secrets left in this world.

At the shore, the elephant set her down, flicked its tail, and turned back into the river. Luna watched them disappear into the distance, then suddenly remembered something and picked up a leaf to blow into it. She used the melody to warn them of the danger ahead. The elephant herd flapped their ears and began to run. The churning splashes leaped like white flames in the night, vanishing bit by bit. The great river fell back asleep.

Luna turned and walked toward the shore. The scent of mud, the fragrance of fruit, the laughter of children long gone still lingered on the branches. She knew she had arrived. She would memorize every scene before her. In the days to come, she would have time—so much time—to bid them farewell. Farewell didn’t happen the moment she turned away; it was the dreams that multiplied afterward, the logs added one by one to the bonfire of memory.

"Da Yu?"

I looked up. Xing Lei stood beside me, holding a newly opened bottle of red wine.

"Are you still drinking? Don’t you have writing to do later?"

"It’s fine." I handed her my glass. "Should I call Da Qi again?"

"Don’t bother," she said.I dialed the number. The ringtone sounded three times before Daqi answered.

"Almost there, be there soon," he said loudly.

Xing Lei took an empty glass from the cabinet and placed it on the table. The transparent crystal gleamed, its rim catching the light. Perhaps I was examining that glass through Xing Lei's eyes—her face radiated a girlish aura. Though we'd known each other since we were sixteen, that quality still felt unfamiliar to me. It was as if she were another Xing Lei, one who had never met me. In moments like these, I felt ashamed for having become part of her life. Truthfully, I'd noticed her affection for Daqi long ago. What puzzled me was why she stopped at this ambiguous fondness and never took it further. Wouldn't unfinished emotions only bring her pain? For the longest time, I'd waited for her to make a move—to take the heart she'd claimed from me and entrust it to someone else, anyone. Would that pain me, or would it feel like liberation? All I knew was that it might make my wife seem more real to me.

Xing Lei brought out mooncakes and fruit. The pomegranates lay in the dish like crowned little figures grinning widely. That metaphor probably came from Luna's lips. She still wandered through that story, searching for the village of her childhood. I knew I had to release her—to let go and watch her drift into the sky like a hydrogen balloon. Just as I was about to rise from my seat, Deng Feifei pressed me down:

"Do you think I'm a good actress?"

"Of course," I said. But she wasn't satisfied, eyeing me with skepticism. She lowered her gaze and sighed:

"Macbeth might be my last play on stage. I poured too much emotion into that role... I really wish you could've seen it."

"We did see it," Xing Lei said. "Feifei, you were amazing. We're all so proud of you."

Deng Feifei bit her lip, her eyes reddening:

"I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't say this, but that night you didn't actually watch the whole play. You all left within twenty minutes of it starting..."

My head began to buzz. For a long time—though perhaps not long enough, just three months—I'd tried to forget that evening. The rain that night, the streets, the halo of candlelight, the scent of herbs in the air. I took a sip of wine to steady myself. So Xing Lei hadn't watched the play either that night? Where had she gone?

Deng Feifei continued: "Just before my entrance that night, I realized I'd forgotten to tell you about the celebration drinks afterward. The reservation was already made, but I worried it'd be too chaotic after the show, so I asked a colleague to relay the message. They got delayed backstage, and by the time they went down, Dayu's seat was empty, and you were already heading out. They chased you to the door, but your car had already started. They waved from behind, but you either didn't see or chose to hit the gas anyway. I'm not saying this to blame you—I just don't want things left unsaid... I really wish you'd been there that night. I gave my best performance in over a decade. Even during curtain call, I couldn't compose myself—the tears just kept flowing..."Xing Lei picked up the plate and dumped the fish bones into the trash bin by her feet. "Feifei, you've had too much to drink. Do you want to lie down on the sofa for a while?"

She began to cry. "I know I shouldn't say these things. You've all been so good to me..."

I couldn't sit still any longer and left my seat. Walking out to the balcony, I realized my body was swaying, so I steadied myself by holding onto the nearby telescope.

Ten minutes into the play, I received a message from Xiao Jing. She said she had quit her sedatives today and was now unbearably uncomfortable, lying in bed trembling all over. After hesitating for a moment, I replied: I'll come see you. Wait for me. I pocketed my phone and quietly told Xing Lei that the producer had called an impromptu meeting and I'd have to go. Xing Lei asked, "Are you driving?" I said, "No, I'll call a car. There's no signal here—I'll go outside to call one." Xing Lei said, "Alright, let me know when the meeting's over." I slipped out of my seat and left the theater. It was raining, and I stood under the eaves waiting for the car to arrive.

I stayed at Xiao Jing's place for over an hour, leaving at ten o'clock, then sent Xing Lei a message saying the meeting was over. We often went a whole day without contacting each other, but since she'd asked me to tell her when I was done, I did. She didn't reply. When I got home, she wasn't there. It wasn't until half past midnight that she returned. She said she'd run into some old friends at the theater and gone to a bar with them for a while. I asked her how the play was. "Too heavy-handed," she answered, tossing the car keys into the tray.

I stood on the balcony, gazing into the distance. There was a park out there, but from the 19th floor, all I could see was a blur of trees. I rubbed the dusty lens of the telescope. On the day it was first installed, Keke had been excited, clamoring to look at the amusement park in the park, to see if the kids on the pirate ship were screaming in fear. She pressed her face to the viewfinder for a while, then suddenly stood up and ran away. After that, she never went near the telescope again. No one knew what she had seen. I never asked. I have a rather pessimistic view—that everyone is exposed to their own fate, and no one can protect anyone else. I couldn't protect my little daughter from harm, couldn't protect anyone.That evening, I rang the doorbell for a while before Xiaojing finally opened the door. She was wearing a white nightgown, and there was a faint herbal scent in her hair. To calm her nerves, she had tucked a sachet filled with medicinal herbs under her pillow. I asked her to lie down while I pulled up a chair beside the bed. The room was dark, with only a candle burning on the nightstand. The lamp that usually stood there now lay on the floor—she said she had knocked it over while fumbling for the switch. The blue, teacup-shaped candle had already burned down halfway, its flame sunken in a pool of wax, casting a pale blue glow. "A blue candle—how unusual," I remarked. Xiaojing replied, "Red candles are for celebrations, white ones for mourning. Only blue candles are neither joyful nor sorrowful. They make the heart so still, as if time has stopped." Her Persian cat suddenly leaped onto the bed, settling between us, then calmly turned its head to lick its tail. "It's nice that you have it for company," I said. Truthfully, I disliked that cat. Every time I tried to hold it, it would struggle desperately to escape, even scratching my hands. It wouldn’t let anyone else touch it—only Xiaojing. I could feel its hostile gaze, as if willing me to leave quickly. I went to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, added lemon and honey, and brought it to Xiaojing. She smiled and asked, "How does it feel to be in love with a sick person?" I replied, "You’ll get better soon."

From the moment we met, I found her uniquely special, carrying a strange kind of quietness. Perhaps it had to do with her upbringing—she was Dai, raised in a mountain village in Xishuangbanna, and only moved to Kunming with her uncle when she started middle school. There was something raw and untamed about her, like a bird long extinct. Many nights, after escaping smoke-filled script meetings, I would drive dozens of kilometers just to spend a little time with her. That was the greatest reward for me. Only with her could I voice the frustration and resentment in my heart. I envied successful peers, despised snobbish investors, mocked foolish audiences... My once-burning ambition had turned into excess fat, and I stumbled along like a clumsy, overweight man, hunched over as I crawled through a narrow tunnel designed to mock me. I handed her the weakest, darkest version of myself, like a little boy who had lost a fight, gasping for breath in her arms. She would always pat my head gently and say, "It’s okay, it doesn’t matter." As if I still had all the time and strength in the world. "Will you leave me?" I asked her. She answered, "No, never."She had never studied film. After graduating from vocational college, she worked at a travel agency. A director discovered her natural talent while filming in Yunnan and introduced her to a film company. That's how she ended up in Beijing. We met at a script planning meeting. She had wheat-colored skin, a slender neck, and when she smiled, it was like a seagull skimming the horizon. Though she didn't speak much, her insights were unique and left a deep impression.

For a while after that, we often worked together. When I expressed my feelings for her, she started avoiding me. If we ran into each other in the break room, she'd panic, spill her tea, and flee. At the time, I almost gave up hope—but three months later, during the Hong Kong Film Festival, we unexpectedly met again on the Star Ferry from Central to Tsim Sha Tsui.

I had gone out that day to buy a toy for Coco, though why I suddenly decided to take the ferry remains a mystery to me. It was raining, and the boat was nearly empty. Sitting on the wooden bench, watching the lights flicker over Victoria Harbour, I took her hand and said, "Stop running. Fate is tying us together." She lowered her head and cried.

After we got together, she quit her job at the film company because I had collaborations with them, and she was afraid of office gossip. I teased her for taking us too seriously—these things were commonplace in the industry. But she was genuinely worried and refused to work anywhere else related to film. So I suggested we write scripts together, allowing her to work from home.

That suggestion wasn’t entirely for the sake of our relationship. After over a decade in this field, I could spot talent at a glance. Xiaojing was a gifted girl—she just lacked professional training. With a few years of polishing, she could become an excellent screenwriter. So I split the script work, assigning her certain sections.

When we took on this fantasy animation project, I handed her the character bios and asked, "Who do you want to write for?" She chose a girl named Luna. The description was just two lines: Luna, fifteen years old, one of the four Flame Bearers. Escorts the sacred sword to the prince, then departs Garland Kingdom aboard the Klein spacecraft with the other Bearers.

I asked why she picked her. She said, "I don’t know. She seems like a good girl." I kissed her cheek and said, "You're a good girl too."

She never made any demands of me. Never asked for more of my time, and certainly never expected me to leave my marriage.At that time, she was already ill, but I didn’t think it was serious. About six months into our relationship, she mentioned feeling extremely stressed and wanted to see a doctor for medication. I was a bit surprised because she seemed perfectly fine. When she returned from the hospital, she casually mentioned having mild depressive tendencies and started taking daily medication. I even suggested she get a second opinion, skeptical of trusting just one doctor. Truthfully, I didn’t put much faith in psychology—it always struck me as a fabricated theory, with doctors merely trying to make patients dependent on them. Xing Lei had several patients who had been seeing her for over a decade for depression. Some had taken their companies public, others had two children, yet every Friday afternoon, like clockwork, they’d sit in her clinic as if summoned by church bells. Their mental illness seemed like original sin; forgetting it would require confession. Xing Lei’s job was just talking to them—something I felt I could do too. Was convincing someone to live really harder than persuading a film producer to fund an art-house movie?

After taking the meds for a while, Xiaojing didn’t improve. In fact, her mental state worsened. She spoke less and less, and once during sex, she suddenly burst into tears. She said her bones ached, as if they were splitting apart. Then she added, “I know it’s not real pain—just my hallucination.” She spent a long time describing those hallucinations, and I began to realize things were more serious than I’d thought. Only then did she tell me she’d suffered from depression years ago, taking three or four years to recover. When I asked what had happened back then, her face twisted with fear, convincing me it must have been something terrible. I felt uneasy, but I’ll admit—there was also a flicker of relief. Her illness was a relapse, not something I’d caused.

Xiaojing started going to the hospital regularly, standing in line with other psychiatric patients, waiting for the doctor to hand her next week’s medication. Because she struggled to sleep, she took sedatives long-term, sometimes dozing for an entire day. She only agreed to meet me when her mood was stable, wearing makeup that made her look vibrant—but her eyes, dulled by the sedatives, clung to her beautiful face like two withered leaves. Each time, she’d update me on Luna’s story, how many words she’d written that day. If I said, “Just rest, let me handle the rest,” she’d frown and reply, “Hey, Luna and I will finish what we’ve been entrusted with!”That rainy night when I went to her place, she wasn’t wearing any makeup. Her face was pale, her eyes—ringed with dark circles—were bloodshot, as if on the verge of shattering. She said she hadn’t written a single word in a week, that she had to quit the sedatives, couldn’t keep sleeping her days away like this. I told her not to rush, to take it slow. She started crying, asking if I was telling her not to write anymore. I can’t even do this right, she said, shaking her head. I know you’ll leave me. I told her I’d stay with her. Always? Maybe I even said “forever.” But she kept crying, begging me over and over not to abandon her. I felt heavy, maybe even a little disappointed. When we first met, she had given me everything I wanted. We fell in love and worked together; life felt fluid, and I was no longer alone. But now, beside her, I felt profoundly lonely. Her illness had locked her away like a distant, precarious star, unable to receive or send signals. Looking back on our early days together now felt like another lifetime, and the beauty she had then seemed almost illusory, as if I’d imagined it. The her before me now was the real one. The conclusion depressed me, but I forced myself to sound confident, suggesting we take a trip once she felt better. That seemed to work. She asked where. I said Hong Kong, that we could ride the Star Ferry again. She said she didn’t like Hong Kong—everything there was artificial. Then she suggested Chiang Mai instead, said she wanted to ride an elephant. I asked why there. She said, I like the tropics, but not by the sea—just pure, unrelenting heat. As for elephants, I think I dreamed about them as a child, riding one to reach mangoes in a tree. Mangoes are strange fruit, don’t you think? I asked how. She said, They’re honest—the skin and the flesh are the same color. I said persimmons are like that too. But mangoes stay bright even when dried, she countered, persimmons don’t. Fine, I said, we could take the script to work on, stay there a while. She said, I wish we could bring Luna too. I said, We can have a girl named Luna in the next script, and in every script after that—you can keep writing her story. Really? She brightened. We talked more about the trip, growing more excited, as if we were leaving tomorrow. Her palms grew warm, but exhaustion was weighing her eyelids shut. I told her to sleep early, that I’d come see her tomorrow. As I left, I said, If you can’t sleep, take another sedative. No need, she said, I’ll just think about elephants. I patted her head, the way she used to pat mine.

After that night, I was dragged to the suburbs for a three-day script meeting and only managed to slip out on the afternoon of the third day. When I arrived at her place, the house was a mess. She told me she was cleaning up, getting rid of some old things, then she sat back down amidst a pile of cardboard boxes, flipping through a hardcover notebook. There were seven or eight similar notebooks stacked beside her. I asked what they were, and she said they were her old diaries. I asked, "Have you kept a diary since you were a kid?" She replied, "Only after moving to the city." Standing there alone, feeling awkward, I noticed the dismantled desk lamp still lying on the floor and decided to fix it. After fiddling with a screwdriver for a while, I still couldn’t get the drooping lampshade to stand straight. She remained engrossed in those diaries, showing no intention of talking to me. I was furious and wanted to tell her I’d driven an hour and a half to get here and would have to drive another hour and a half back. But I said nothing, sat for a while longer, and then left.

That night, she took sleeping pills and killed herself.

Before her suicide, she sent me an email with no content, only attaching an unfinished story about Luna in the attachment. For the first month, I didn’t even dare open that document. In fact, my mental state at the time couldn’t sustain me to finish the script, so I told the producer I was quitting. He reminded me to check the contract for the clauses on breach penalties. Besides, the actors’ schedules were already set, and backing out would cause huge losses for the film company—they’d blacklist me in the industry. "Buddy, I’m thinking about your reputation," he said. "And this film is the best opportunity you’ll ever get. You’re almost forty and desperately need a defining work." I replied, "To hell with defining works," and hung up. That night—like every night for the past month—I drank heavily but still couldn’t fall asleep. At three in the morning, I got up and went to the study to smoke. The computer was still on, its screensaver displaying colorful tropical fish swimming around. I smoked the rest of the cigarettes in the pack while staring at the screen, then opened the document. Luna’s story was twenty thousand words long, far exceeding the required length, yet it seemed only half-finished. From a professional screenwriter’s perspective, there was too much psychological description, and the dialogue was overly verbose. But if you overlooked the technical flaws, the story was deeply moving. More importantly, she had poured her soul into the character of Luna, making her live, think, weep, and laugh like a real person. When her companion lost his sword, she patted his head and said, "It’s okay, don’t worry." Sitting at the desk, tears streamed down my face. At dawn, I texted the producer, telling him I’d finish the script.

Xing Lei walked onto the balcony and stood on the other side of the telescope:

"Feifei fell asleep on the sofa."

"Is Daqi coming?"

"Probably not."The light from the balcony chandelier cast a soft apricot glow around her. Her hair fell smoothly over her shoulders, and her professional makeup was immaculate. Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t remember what she looked like without it. For years, by the time I woke up, she’d already left for work, and when she went to bed, I was still in my study. The version of her I saw was the same one her colleagues and patients saw—a standardized, emotionless facade. I didn’t know what troubled her, nor what had made her laugh recently. I assumed she didn’t know mine either. But now I realized she did. She knew exactly what had been gnawing at me, stealing my appetite and sleep for the past three months.

"Xing Lei," I heard my own hoarse voice, "you followed me that night, didn’t you?"

"I didn’t," she replied instantly, resting her hand on the telescope and wiping away a layer of dust.

"You went to see Xiaojing that night." I pointed at her injured hand. "The next morning, you had a band-aid on your hand—probably not from a cut by a glass. You held her cat, didn’t you? Because that would help you get closer to her."

She looked at me quietly, then after a pause, said softly,

"That’s not it. I like cats. I only gave mine away because of the pregnancy—you know that."

"She’s dead. Did you know that?" My voice cracked.

That night, after leaving Xiaojing’s alley, I stood under a streetlight smoking. The rain was still falling, countless threads piercing the darkness. A car in the distance had its lights off, and in the faint glow, I thought I saw its wipers swaying in the dark. Click. Click.

Xing Lei pushed the handle and closed the window. "I didn’t follow you. I already knew where she lived. During the Spring Festival, when we went to Europe, you wrote a few postcards in Prague and gave them to Keke to mail. But she saw a puppet shop, tossed the postcards into my hands, and ran inside. Each one had a recipient—'Zijun: Happy New Year, Dayu.' 'Limin: Happy New Year, Dayu.' Only one was blank at the top, just saying, 'Happy New Year, Dayu.' I figured it must be someone very close—if you’d written her name and then wished her a happy new year, it would’ve felt too formal. You can deny it, but maybe it was just my intuition. Just like that night when I followed you out of the theater—that was intuition too."

"Yeah, you know everything. I shouldn’t have hidden it from you. Maybe it’s too late now… Can you tell me what you said to her that night?"

I was practically begging her, yet terrified of hearing her answer:

"Xing Lei, I know you’re an excellent psychologist. You can control what patients think, make them listen to you… What did you say to her? Please tell me. That night, she was fine, her mood was stable…"

I stood there, waiting for her to part her tightly pressed lips. The sound of wipers swaying in the dark hammered against my eardrums. Click. Click.

After a long silence, she finally spoke: "Whatever I say is too late now. She could’ve lived, if you two had separated sooner."

My breath hitched. "Xing Lei, you can’t—""Do you want to keep her locked inside as your lover, as your ghostwriter? She sees no one, has almost no friends—have you ever imagined how she lives alone? At sixteen, she already had trauma that never fully healed. But you ignored all that, Dayu. You're too selfish."

"What happened when she was sixteen?" It suddenly struck me that Xiaojing chose to write about Luna perhaps because she was only fifteen. Fifteen comes before sixteen, before everything happened.

Xing Lei withdrew her hand from the telescope and tucked it into the pocket of her cardigan. Doctors always like to shove their hands into white coat pockets, as if to signal they can remain detached:

"She was willing to open up to me, which shows she trusts me deeply. I think I should keep her secrets. Let’s just respect her choice, okay?"

She’d probably rehearsed these words long ago. A sense of superiority, a secret shared only between women. She knew it would torment me for years to come.

"She’s not your patient," I said. "You have ulterior motives—you didn’t try to save her like you would with other patients."

"Dayu, what are your ulterior motives? Have you ever wished for her to disappear, just for a moment, so you could be completely free? Have you ever had that thought?"

I looked at her, at those eyes watching me through the rain-streaked car window. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d held each other’s gaze this long—maybe when we exchanged rings at our wedding.

"You think you understand everything, but you don’t, not even yourself." Exhausted, I turned my gaze away, looking into the distance. Standing here at this moment, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make out the blurry outlines of the trees, not even with the telescope. A telescope at night is like the eyes of the blind.

I could feel the air between us sinking, solidifying into a crystalline substance, emitting a faint blue glow. When I turned my head, I saw Xiaojing standing right behind us. She was dressed in summer clothes, a yellow handkerchief tied around her wrist, as if she’d walked a long way. Sweat trickled down her face, and her barely developed chest rose and fell with each breath. She was looking at me too, her eyes tinged with quiet sorrow, like she was examining an old childhood desk. When I glanced back at Xing Lei, I found her gripping the telescope sideways, mouth agape, her eyes filled with terror.

None of us moved, as if we were jointly supporting something on three points. Time froze. The air shimmered with a pale blue light, the vast emptiness around us broken only by the telescope between us, stubbornly fixed on the night sky.

The blue glow gradually fractured, fading bit by bit until it was nearly transparent. Then, Xiaojing lifted herself lightly, leaping upward into a deep black void. A round metal door slowly closed behind her.

...In that room with tightly drawn curtains, a shattered lamp lay on the floor. She sat amidst piles of pink and blue diaries, brushing dust off their covers. The stirred-up dust floated midair, gathering around her in layers, enveloping her. Something had captivated her deeply—she didn’t even look up when I left. Goodbye, I said, pulling the door shut behind me."Goodbye," I heard myself say again, as if teaching myself a language I would use to communicate with her for many years to come.

The metal door slowly rose upward, shrinking bit by bit like a bright, gleaming moon disappearing into the clouds.

Xing Lei wasn’t watching. She kept her head down, as if she had just woken from a nightmare, her hair disheveled, her eyelids smudged with mascara. She took two steps back, leaving the circle of light cast by the chandelier. The wind picked up, and the shadows of trees swayed outside the window. I walked over and turned off the balcony light.

"Dayu," she called from behind, stepping forward to grab my arm.

We stood there, listening to the wind outside, to the faint, hissing roar of glass rattling in its frame. Once I grew accustomed to that monotonous rhythm, I suddenly feared it might stop. What could be quieter than silence?

In the darkness, Xing Lei whispered, "Sister Chen just called. Her husband might not make it through the night. I want to give her two thousand."

"Okay," I said.