Night Wanderer

Even with the dense foliage providing cover, scattered raindrops continued to fall relentlessly.

Zong Ying struggled to support the man leaning against her, her jaw clenched tight, molars trembling slightly as she called out, "Mr. Sheng?"

Sheng Qingrang showed no response, his chin resting heavily on her shoulder, eyelids shut tight.

Zong Ying tilted her head slightly, his damp hair brushing against her cheek, sending a faint chill through her.

A gust of wind swept through, shaking the leaves and sending rainwater cascading down in torrents. Zong Ying, already weakened and unable to muster much strength, was on the verge of collapsing under his weight when a security guard finally emerged.

"Goodness, what happened here?" the guard exclaimed. Zong Ying unclenched her teeth and managed, "Give me a hand."

The guard hurried over to assist, frowning and muttering under his breath, "How did he get drenched like this? Is he alright?"

Too exhausted to reply, Zong Ying freed one hand and pulled open the door to the building.

With the guard's help, she brought Sheng Qingrang up to the top floor. The guard unlocked the door for her, saying, "Call the duty room if you need anything," before heading back to the elevator.

Left alone, Zong Ying half-dragged Sheng Qingrang into the living room and unceremoniously dropped him onto the sofa. She exhaled in relief, stretched her stiff joints, and sat down beside him, pressing a hand to his forehead—

Burning hot.

Her fingers moved to his neck, checking his pulse, then she lifted his eyelids for a quick examination.

High fever and exhaustion—once the fever broke and he got some rest, he’d be fine. Nothing too serious.

But his clothes were completely soaked. Leaving him like this overnight would only make things worse.

Zong Ying stood and headed to a guest bedroom in the north wing, rummaging through the closet for an old set of loungewear her uncle had left behind, along with a thin blanket.

Returning to the living room, she bent down to change him out of his wet clothes. Tending to an unconscious patient was physically demanding and required skill. Though she hadn’t done it in years, her hands moved deftly—undoing cufflinks, unbuttoning the shirt, loosening the belt—all in one smooth motion.

Once he was properly changed, Zong Ying draped the blanket over him, tucking it snugly around his body. She then fetched the first-aid kit and a glass of water from the kitchen, crushed a fever-reducing pill, and carefully fed it to him.

Sitting beside him, she instinctively reached for the cigarettes in her pocket, but the moment her fingertips brushed the pack, she hesitated and withdrew her hand.

Instead, she leaned forward, picked up the laptop from the coffee table, and balanced it on her knees to read a research paper. Hours passed until the grandfather clock lazily chimed. Zong Ying closed the laptop, grabbed the remote, and turned on the TV, muting the sound.

A silent soccer match played out on the screen, players sprinting and scrambling across the field. But as she watched, exhaustion gradually overtook her.

She dozed off, her head resting against Sheng Qingrang.

When she woke, her body slumped slightly, sinking deeper into the plush sofa.

Her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. Zong Ying opened her eyes to find no television in front of her—just a large coffee table and a blank wall. Her hand was still resting on Sheng Qingrang’s forehead, and she could tell his fever had subsided somewhat.

Pulling out her phone, she silenced the alarm. It was just past six, the chimes of the clock having just faded.

No doubt about it—she was back in 1937. Which meant today was August 12.

The date sent a ripple of unease through her.

Sheng Qingrang was still fast asleep. Zong Ying stretched her stiff neck, carefully stood up, and walked straight to the kitchen.

She dug out a match, struck it with a sharp hiss, and the flame flared to life. Outside, the garden below erupted in chatter. Amid the distant voices, Zong Ying lit the gas stove and set a kettle of water to boil.While waiting for the water to boil, she opened the cupboard again and rummaged through it, only finding some rice. After rinsing a bowl of rice and pouring it into the pot, the water in the copper kettle finally began to bubble vigorously.

She poured herself a cup of hot water, waited for the rice to simmer, then turned off the heat. Walking to the entryway, she dug out the few dozen yuan she had left in the sideboard last time, pocketed it, and headed downstairs.

Perhaps it was still too early—the stairwell was nearly empty. But as she descended a few floors, she heard a clamorous commotion.

When Zong Ying reached the wide corridor on the first floor, she saw the same lady who had been smoking in the service office last time. The woman stood stiffly at the entrance, watching servants load luggage into the elevator with a displeased expression. As Zong Ying passed by, she overheard the woman gritting her teeth and complaining to Mr. Ye beside her, "Instead of staying in the countryside house, they insist on coming here to be a nuisance! Those without relatives in the concession have nowhere else to flee!"

Mr. Ye noticed Zong Ying then, his eyes lighting up with a smile. "Miss Zong, it's been a while since you last visited."

Zong Ying replied absentmindedly, "Yes, I've been busy." She was about to fetch the milk when Mr. Ye quickly followed up, "Ah, the milk hasn't been delivered yet today."

Zong Ying glanced over—the wooden box was indeed empty, not even a newspaper inside.

Before she could ask why, Mr. Ye eagerly explained, "It's chaos outside. People from the north side (north of Suzhou Creek) are flooding into the concession, making everything unsettled early in the morning. It might be delayed, but it should still arrive eventually."

Zong Ying turned slightly and asked, "I just returned to Shanghai—how bad is the situation now?"

Mr. Ye said, "Yesterday, twenty Japanese warships anchored at the docks near Little Tokyo (Hongkou), flaunting their might—it was a terrifying sight. The Nationalist troops also entered Shanghai last night, and they say war is truly imminent! Zhabei is in complete disarray now—people are either fleeing into the concession or escaping to the countryside. It's much worse than five years ago!"

Zong Ying understood he was referring to the January 28th Incident of 1932. He wasn’t wrong—the scale of the exodus was larger this time, and the coming war would be far more brutal than five years ago.

Yet he maintained a kind of reckless optimism, adding, "But it’s not too serious. The French Concession won’t just descend into fighting so easily."

Zong Ying offered a well-meaning suggestion, "Mr. Ye, it’s always safer to have an extra layer of preparation."

Mr. Ye shook his head helplessly. "What other preparations can be made? I no longer have a house in the countryside, and even if I wanted to leave Shanghai for somewhere else, my finances wouldn’t allow it. So, I can only stay in the concession."

Having said that much, Zong Ying didn’t press further. She merely glanced back at the empty milk box and walked out on her own.

Sheng Qingrang’s home had almost no food stored except for half a bag of rice—she needed to buy some ready-to-eat provisions.

As she walked, she passed several shops with their doors tightly shut. People carrying large and small bundles of luggage filled the streets, their eyes scanning the surroundings with a lost, uncertain expression.

After some effort, Zong Ying finally found a Western-style tea and pastry shop, but two-thirds of its display window was covered by curtains. The shelves, which should have been packed with goods, were mostly empty, and the door was closed. Zong Ying pressed the doorbell, and a foreign clerk peeked out before coming over to open it.

His face was cautious. After letting her in, he shut the door again and asked in broken Chinese, "Miss, what would you like to buy?"The shop was filled with the scent of cream and flavorings, but it was all cold, as if left overnight, lacking the fluffy freshness.

Zong Ying looked down at the glass display case; none of the pastries inside sparked her appetite. She asked, "Don't you have anything freshly made?"

"I'm sorry, miss, the oven hasn't been turned on today," the clerk replied. Zong Ying raised her head and glanced at the basket of baguettes. "Then, pack all the baguettes for me."

The clerk pulled out a paper bag and stuffed the remaining baguettes inside. After Zong Ying paid, he handed her the bag along with her change, adding, "Miss, please be careful on your way back." Zong Ying tilted her head to look outside—indeed, refugees were eyeing the shop with predatory intent.

She pushed open the door just as two patrolling officers passed by, so she followed them back to Apartment 699.

The lady was no longer at the entrance, likely because her relatives from Zhabei had already settled into her home.

Mr. Ye was still busy at the service desk. Seeing Zong Ying, he said, "Miss Zong, the newspapers just arrived, but the milk hasn't!" Zong Ying went to pick up the newspaper, and he added, "I just heard the milkman was robbed on the way. Not sure if it's true."

Zong Ying didn’t respond, hugging the baguettes and newspapers as she headed upstairs.

By then, Sheng Qingrang had already woken up. He sat up, first realizing he was at home, then noticing the door was ajar, and finally becoming aware of the unfamiliar blanket wrapped around him—his clothes weren’t his own either.

His fever had just broken, leaving him somewhat slow to react. By the time he heard footsteps, Zong Ying had already entered.

She placed the newspaper on the dining table, set the baguettes in the kitchen, finished the glass of water she had poured earlier, struck a match to relight the gas stove, and began cooking congee—

Effortless, as if she had settled into the situation with ease.

Sheng Qingrang watched, slightly dazed. Collecting himself, he tried to recall the events of the previous night.

He had been caught in the rain, exhausted, with nowhere to go, and ended up at Apartment 699. Everything after that was a blank.

Just then, Zong Ying placed a glass of warm water in front of him. "Mr. Sheng, you had a high fever last night."

She sat down in a rattan chair across from him as she spoke. Sheng Qingrang looked up at her, clasped his hands together, and the blanket slipped off.

He hurriedly grabbed it back, only to notice his bare feet—his shoes and socks were gone.

He tried to ask, but Zong Ying spoke first, candid and sincere: "Sorry, the clothes you changed out of are still at my place. You can pick them up tonight."

He had been unconscious last night, so naturally, he couldn’t have changed his own clothes. Sheng Qingrang briefly closed his eyes, his mind rapidly replaying the scenario. A wave of discomfort and embarrassment—the feeling of being "stripped bare"—rose swiftly, flushing his ears unnaturally.

The muscles in his throat tensed, but his face remained composed, and he mentally reassured himself—

Doctors see no gender. Miss Zong is a physician, so tending to a patient is the most routine thing for her. There’s no need for embarrassment.

This self-consolation finally eased the heat in his ears, but Zong Ying suddenly stood up and, as if it were the most natural thing, reached out to feel his forehead. Frowning, she said, "You still have a bit of a fever. I didn’t bring any medicine, so drink more water and rest a while longer."

Sheng Qingrang stiffened, leaning back slightly. Fortunately, the congee began boiling again, and Zong Ying turned back to the kitchen to turn off the gas, giving him a moment to exhale.But before his tense shoulders could relax, a sudden "ring-ring, ring-ring" erupted from the telephone inside the house.

Zong Ying naturally wouldn't rush to answer his call. She stood in the kitchen watching as he rose from the sofa, saw him sway slightly before straightening his back and walking unhurriedly to the phone.

She faintly heard urgent, loud voices from the other end of the line. Sheng Qingrang only responded with: "I understand, alright, I'll go today."

After hanging up, silence returned to the room.

Sheng Qingrang stood by the phone for a moment before heading toward the bedroom.

When he opened the door after changing clothes, Zong Ying was standing right there.

She looked up: "Mr. Sheng, are you going out?"

He replied: "Yes, there's urgent business I must attend to." Yet his face was deathly pale, his spirits low, his body slightly leaning toward the wall as if about to collapse against it. In such a state, he was in no condition to go out, let alone handle urgent matters.

Zong Ying wanted to advise him not to gamble with his health, but the words stuck in her throat.

Sheng Qingrang sidestepped past her, his steps unsteady as he moved toward the door. Suddenly, Zong Ying took a step forward and grabbed his arm from behind.

Author's note:

Zong Ying's sofa: Shouldn't I get the Best Supporting Prop award?

Mr. Sheng's sofa: What about me then?