Night Wanderer

The last day of peace, yet it sounded like an abstract unknown.

Those who had never experienced war could not imagine what Shanghai would look like after dawn tomorrow.

Zong Ying let the cigarette between her fingers burn out and extinguish itself. Suddenly, she turned sideways and reached out to touch his forehead.

Sheng Qingrang didn’t have time to avoid her hand, so he simply didn’t. Zong Ying withdrew her hand, her tone firm. "Mr. Sheng, you still have a fever."

"I know." His voice grew even quieter, like a candle flame drowning in the heavy darkness, nearly burned out, or like a battery at 1%, barely holding on.

Zong Ying watched as his head tilted slightly before unexpectedly leaning against the cold car window to his right. Twenty seconds later, she cautiously reached out, guiding his head to rest on her shoulder.

Her right shoulder sank slightly, the sweet scent of tobacco lingering in the enclosed space. Zong Ying pulled out her phone, which had been turned off all day, opened the music player, set the volume to the lowest, and played Looking with Cely . The soft sound of a harmonica began to play, and she closed her eyes.

The car moved slowly, jostling slightly as it navigated the pitch-dark streets of Shanghai before the storm, as if it could keep driving endlessly without pause.

But all roads must come to an end. When they arrived at Apartment 699, the driver parked and came around to open the door for Zong Ying.

Just as he was about to speak, she raised a finger to her lips in a gesture for silence, then turned her head slightly and called softly, "Mr. Sheng?"

Sheng Qingrang didn’t respond, so Zong Ying asked the driver for help, and together they carried him upstairs, settling him in the north-facing guest room.

After settling the fare with the driver and closing the door, Zong Ying reheated the congee from the morning, ate, changed clothes, and went upstairs to wait by the bedside for ten o’clock to arrive.

The night was silent, the second hand moving steadily in its rhythm. At some point, this waiting took on a mysterious and uncertain quality. Because of this apartment, two people from different eras had formed a subtle and inseparable connection. No one knew when this connection might be severed, but one thing Zong Ying was certain of—

Complete detachment was unrealistic.

As long as he kept coming here, as long as she continued living here, contact was inevitable. Being drawn into each other’s lives was only a matter of time.

Ten o’clock approached. She snapped out of her thoughts and took his hand. Unlike last time, when it had been warm and dry, his hand was now cold and slightly damp. Facing the coming war in such a physical state was a terrible thing. A thought suddenly occurred to Zong Ying. She closed her eyes, mulling it over, and when she heard the clock strike, she opened them again—back in the era she knew.

She stood up and turned on the wall lamp, scanning the room.

Since Sheng Qingrang had locked it, she had never entered this guest bedroom upstairs. Clearly, it was no longer as she remembered. It looked less like a guest room and more like a fully equipped small living space, complete with daily necessities, clothes, and office supplies—perhaps to minimize the use of her belongings.

Zong Ying didn’t have time to examine it further. She hurried downstairs, found fever medicine, and gave him another pill before closing the door and leaving.

She was gone for a long time, returning to the apartment well past midnight. After busying herself in the living room for a while, she slept briefly and left Apartment 699 before six.

Sheng Qingrang woke to the sound of the clock, his head still heavy. He opened his eyes to the ceiling—his guest room, his era.He wanted to raise his hand but suddenly realized something had been forced into his grip. Sitting up, he looked down to find a large nylon bag tied to his hand—clearly Zong Ying's doing.

Sheng Qingrang untied the nylon bag and faintly caught the scent of antiseptic. Unzipping it, he found it densely packed with medical supplies—medications, various dressings, antiseptics, even a surgical kit. Each item was labeled with a number, and on top lay an envelope. Sheng Qingrang pulled out a thick stack of notepaper containing instructions for each item—when and how to use them.

The handwriting was neat, meticulous, and methodical.

He could almost picture her bent over, carefully organizing each item and writing the instructions—a cold, focused intensity.

At the end of the instructions, Zong Ying had written, "In case of emergency, contact me," followed by her mobile number, home landline, and office landline. Next to the office number was a note: "I may be on leave soon. Avoid calling this number unless the others don’t work."

The letter concluded with, "Please take care. Zong Ying, 2015.8.13." No other words were added.

Sheng Qingrang took out a box of cold medicine, threw off the blanket, and got out of bed.

He went to the kitchen, intending to fill a kettle with water, but when he forcefully turned the tap, only a hollow echo from the empty pipes answered.

On this day in 1937, his morning began without water.

Zong Ying’s day, meanwhile, started with discussing her medical leave with her superiors.

Zong Ying was a woman of few words but decisive action. Normally quiet and reserved, her sudden request for medical leave surprised her superiors. The application was clear: she needed surgery, time to recover, and estimated her return would take at least three months.

By medical leave standards, three months was neither excessive nor insufficient—there was no reason to reject it.

The matter was settled quickly. After the formalities were completed, her supervisor wished her a speedy recovery and asked if she had anything else to add. After a moment’s thought, she made just one request: keep it confidential.

Her health was a private matter. There was no need for the whole world to know. Zong Ying disliked being the center of attention, the subject of gossip, or the recipient of pity. She had her own plans and her own pace.

Xue Xuanqing remained unaware. She even invited Zong Ying out for drinks that evening.

This was their usual routine during non-duty periods, and Zong Ying agreed. After work, she got into Xue Xuanqing’s car, with Xiao Zheng tagging along. As they drove out of the parking lot, Xiao Zheng suddenly asked, "Teacher Zong, I heard you’re taking leave?"

"Leave?" Xue Xuanqing, who had been out all day, was completely in the dark. She turned her head sharply, eyeing Zong Ying suspiciously.

Zong Ying sat in the passenger seat, unfazed. "Is it strange for me to take leave?"

"No one else would be, except you," Xue Xuanqing shot back, glancing at her. "In all your years here, you’ve never taken leave. Why the sudden decision?"

"I’m tired," Zong Ying admitted. "I need to get away for a while."

Xiao Zheng chimed in from the back, "Teacher Zong, where are you going?"

Zong Ying suddenly thought of Lapland—snow-covered landscapes, reindeer running freely. A good place. She replied, "Haven’t decided yet. I’ll figure it out."After speaking, she deliberately took out her phone, opened a travel website, found a travel consultant hotline, and under Xue Xuanqing’s highly skeptical gaze, directly dialed the number while turning on the speakerphone, broadcasting the call openly and unashamedly.

The phone rang three times before a pleasant male voice answered, "Hello."

"Hello, I’d like to inquire about something."

"May I ask for your surname, madam?"

"Zong."

"Very well, Ms. Zong. Which of our travel products are you interested in?"

"I want to go to Lapland."

There was a brief silence on the other end as the consultant confirmed they had no such product, then quickly said, "Ms. Zong, we can offer customized services. May I transfer you to a senior travel consultant?"

"Sure." "Please hold."

The call was transferred, and a pleasant female voice came through, "Hello, Ms. Zong, I’m your senior travel consultant, Xiao Zhou. My colleague mentioned you’re interested in visiting Lapland, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you planning to go now?" "Yes."

"Have you already obtained your passport?" "Yes."

"May I ask when your passport expires?"

Zong Ying suddenly remembered that her travel documents had been collected and stored by her workplace. She replied, "I’m not entirely sure, but it should expire next year."

"Your passport isn’t in your possession?" The consultant, seemingly experienced, followed up immediately, "Ms. Zong, are you a public servant?"

"Yes."

"Which department are you in?" "Public security."

The consultant clearly realized that traveling abroad would be difficult for her and fell silent for a few seconds before asking, "Ms. Zong, what aspects of Lapland interest you?"

Zong Ying gave eight words: "Snow, auroras, reindeer, and sleds."

Maintaining a polite tone, the consultant said, "If you want to see heavy snow and auroras, you’d need to wait until late October at the earliest. Right now, Lapland is in summer. How about I recommend some domestic travel routes for you instead?"

As the consultant began listing options, Zong Ying’s gaze drifted to the window. After a moment, she said, "No need, thank you," and hung up.

Xue Xuanqing, who had been driving, finally couldn’t hold back a laugh. "She actually managed to politely recommend other routes to you—probably rolling her eyes hard on the other end. Your inquiry had zero sincerity."

"But I really do want to go," Zong Ying murmured, her eyes still fixed outside. The bustling streets outside were a stark contrast to the world she had seen yesterday.

Today was August 13th, the first day of the Battle of Shanghai.

Her lips pressed tightly together, her breathing slow and heavy. As the night deepened, no one paid attention to her earlier words.

Xue Xuanqing took them to a traditional Chinese tavern. Small dishes and drinks were served, and Zong Ying ordered a pot of tea.

Watching her pour tea into a porcelain cup, Xue Xuanqing raised an eyebrow. "What, not drinking?"

Zong Ying lied without hesitation, "It’s that time of the month—not a good idea."

Xue Xuanqing muttered, "Your cycle’s off again?" and poured herself a full glass, downing it in one go.

She had always had a strong craving for alcohol, and Zong Ying never bothered to stop her. The tavern had a small stage where Suzhou pingtan was being performed. As the lyrics sang of "a shattered land beyond repair, gazing north with unquenched resentment," Zong Ying’s phone rang.

She stood up and walked outside to take the call.

It was a lawyer she knew. "I just saw your message. Why the sudden contact?"

Leaning against the doorframe, Zong Ying replied, "I have some assets that need handling."The other party clearly found it sudden: "Handling your assets? What's going on with you?"

Zong Ying replied, "Nothing much. I just think it's better to be prepared in advance."

The other party didn't press further and flipped through their schedule before saying, "Then let's set a time to discuss in detail. How about next Wednesday morning?"

"Alright."

After hanging up, Zong Ying returned to find Xue Xuanqing already a bit drunk. Xiao Zheng asked beside her, "Teacher Xue, I heard they extracted very clear fingerprints from the drug bags. Apart from Xing Xueyi's, there should be at least one other person's prints. Do you think it could belong to someone high up in Xinsi Pharmaceuticals?"

Xue Xuanqing shot him a glance: "Don't go prying or speculating." Then, swaying slightly, she propped her chin on her hand and looked at Zong Ying: "Let's move to the second round."

With her mind preoccupied, Zong Ying felt no sleepiness at all and accompanied them for another round.

Xiao Zheng found a karaoke place, and the three of them booked a private room. Zong Ying sat in a dimly lit corner, listening to their off-key singing.

From midnight until past four in the morning, Xue Xuanqing and Xiao Zheng were thoroughly drunk, each finding a spot on the sofa to crash. Zong Ying remained in her corner, faintly hearing the singing from the next room—heart-wrenching, whether in joy or sorrow.

She bent down to pick up a can of soda from the table, popped the tab, and a weak puff of cold air brushed against her fingers.

Bubbles rapidly formed and just as quickly burst.

Zong Ying downed the drink in one go and suddenly felt her phone vibrate.

At 4:21 a.m., she pulled out her phone to see an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen, the vibrations growing more intense.

The noise outside grew louder. Zong Ying answered the call and pressed the phone to her ear, hearing a familiar voice: "Miss Zong, this is Sheng Qingrang."

Author's Note:

Xiangsheng Taxi Driver: "What's that machine the lady was playing music on in the car?"

The worldly Mr. Sheng: "A phone."

Note: