Night Wanderer

The tense atmosphere lasted only a few minutes. People judged the proximity of danger by the sound of artillery fire, concluded it was a false alarm, and soon dismissed it from their minds.

The hotel lobby regained its order as foreign guests transferred from the Astor House Hotel checked in one after another. The lady who had been sitting on the sofa mocking Zong Ying finally picked up her delicate porcelain cup and took a sip of coffee in peace.

Outside, the thunder of artillery rumbled, while inside, an air of tranquility prevailed.

A rich, sweet aroma floated in the air as the waiter serving coffee approached Zong Ying and politely asked her to leave.

Zong Ying, who had kept her head lowered all this time, finally looked up and said, "I'm waiting for someone."

The lady beside her, sipping coffee, set down her cup and curled her lips meaningfully. "It's been over ten minutes, and no one's come yet," she remarked.

Zong Ying clenched her hands tightly, elbows pressing into her knees, and repeated, "I'm waiting for someone."

The waiter asked, "Then, miss, which guest are you waiting for?"

Zong Ying had no intention of answering. She hunched her back, lowered her head, and fell silent. In her line of sight were only two pairs of shoes—one bloodstained sneaker and one polished leather shoe—seemingly from different worlds.

When she didn’t respond, the waiter dropped his polite tone. Just as he stiffened his expression to shoo her away, Sheng Qingrang strode over, bent down, and whispered to her, "Sorry to keep you waiting," before offering his hand.

He didn’t say more, nor did he scold the waiter for his rudeness. Seeing that Zong Ying didn’t react, he simply helped her up himself.

Having witnessed the horrors of war in the outskirts the day before, he had clearly accepted its cruelty and indifference, now displaying nothing but composure.

He noticed Zong Ying’s hands were ice-cold, but once inside the elevator, he still let go and cautiously asked, "Miss Zong, are you alright?"

Zong Ying didn’t answer, but her pallid face spoke volumes.

The elevator doors opened, and Sheng Qingrang led her out, where they encountered a couple with a very young girl.

The little girl, Xiao Nan, wore a snow-white dress, her cheeks rosy and adorable. Unconcerned with others’ disheveled states, she tilted her head up and gave Zong Ying a bright smile.

Walking down the long corridor, Sheng Qingrang took out his key and unlocked the guest room. Standing at the door, he explained, "Many guests have been relocated from the north bank of Suzhou Creek today. The hotel is nearly full—this is the only room left. Let’s rest here for now."

Glancing at her shoes, he opened the cabinet and handed her a pair of slippers.

Without a word, Zong Ying changed out of her sneakers and carried them into the bathroom.

Closing the door and turning on the light, dim illumination washed over her. She twisted the faucet forcefully, and water gushed out in a torrent. Cupping her hands, she splashed her face repeatedly—after several attempts, the icy water finally forced a faint flush onto her deathly pale skin.

Next, she removed her trousers and scrubbed the legs vigorously under the running water. Blood swirled down the pristine white basin. Each rub darkened the water, only to lighten before deepening again, as if it would never wash clean.

Then came her socks, and finally her shoes. Zong Ying scrubbed for a long time while the sporadic artillery fire continued outside. By the time she finished bathing, the shelling over the Huangpu River had ceased.

With no spare clothes to change into, Zong Ying emerged in a bathrobe.Sheng Qingrang heard the noise and tucked the documents back into his briefcase. Turning around, he saw Zong Ying and froze momentarily before quickly heading to the bathroom.

The room had only one large bed, and the balcony window was half-open, rattling loudly from the typhoon winds.

Zong Ying stepped forward to close the window tightly and drew the curtains before lying down on the sofa against the wall.

With the doors and windows shut, the sound of artillery fire ceased. Closing her eyes, she could only hear the running water from the bathroom.

By the time the water stopped, Zong Ying had already fallen asleep on the sofa.

The sofa was narrow, forcing her into a curled-up position—uncomfortable and cramped.

Sheng Qingrang approached the sofa with a blanket, intending to cover her, but couldn't bear to leave her sleeping so uncomfortably. He bent down, straightened up, bent down again, then straightened up once more—hesitating for a long while, his fingers always retracting just as they brushed against her robe.

Suddenly, Zong Ying furrowed her brows more tightly, prompting him to finally bend down and carefully lift her from the sofa.

Her forehead rested against his neck, her breathing uneven, her jaw seemingly clenched.

Just as he took a step forward, Zong Ying opened her eyes.

Lifting her gaze, she saw only his neck, his Adam’s apple, his jawline. Her voice was hoarse as she spoke: "Mr. Sheng."

Sheng Qingrang’s shoulders tensed abruptly. He looked down at her, their breaths mingling in the awkward proximity. The situation was uncomfortable—letting go wasn’t right, but neither was holding on.

After a few seconds of hesitation, he steadied himself, avoiding her gaze, and resolved to follow through—carrying her to the bed before releasing her and stepping aside to explain, "That sofa is too small. It’s better for you to sleep on the bed, Miss Zong."

Zong Ying watched him finish speaking, then saw him turn toward the sofa. Suddenly, she spoke up: "If the sofa is too narrow for me, how can it be suitable for you?" Then she asked, "Mr. Sheng, did you bring your medicine?"

"I did."

"Then after taking it—" Zong Ying glanced at the right side of the bed, her tone calm, "come sleep here."

With that, she lay down, pulling the thin, soft blanket over herself and closing her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep quickly. But contrary to her wishes, every sound in the room became unnervingly clear—the pouring of water, the puncturing of the foil on a blister pack of pills, even the sound of swallowing, and finally the clink of the cup being set down.

For a long while, there was no movement. Sheng Qingrang stood by the coffee table, lost in thought, before finally taking a blanket and lying down on the bed.

Scattered voices drifted in from the hallway outside. Zong Ying opened her eyes and asked, her back still turned to him, "What brings you to the International Settlement so early?"

Sheng Qingrang kept his voice low: "The Sheng family’s factory in Yangshupu needs to sign a transfer agreement with the Germans. My elder brother arranged to meet them here, and I need to be present."

"What time was the meeting?"

"Originally 7:30 in the morning, but I called the reception desk to confirm—my brother changed it to 4:30 in the afternoon."

Morning changed to afternoon—why wait here instead of going home?

Zong Ying barely formed the question before dismissing it. Tens of thousands of people had flooded into the concession, making the situation outside chaotic and transportation unreliable. Returning to their home in the French Concession only to come back in the afternoon would be too troublesome and unsafe.

Besides, they were both exhausted.

Zong Ying thought of the eldest Sheng brother smoking, of the stifling reception room in the Sheng residence, and then of the smoke-filled house in Hongkou. She asked, "Mr. Sheng, do you dislike it when others smoke?"Sheng Qingrang remained silent for a moment before speaking in a calm, measured tone: "When I was a child, the house was always filled with smoke."

"Which house?"

"My uncle's."

Zong Ying could guess some of it—he belonged to the Sheng family, yet he didn't truly belong. It was a life of dependence, one that sharpened his instincts for reading people and honed a sensitive, introspective nature.

"You grew up in your uncle's house?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"Fortunately, I received a scholarship to study in France. I spent several years in Paris."

"How old were you then?"

"Eighteen."

Staying in an unwelcoming environment breeds the deepest longing for escape—something Zong Ying understood all too well. She didn’t press further.

But then Sheng Qingrang asked, "Miss Zong, did that news report cause you any trouble?" He was referring to the media exposure of her connection to Xinxi.

Zong Ying didn’t answer directly. She curled her legs up and sighed, saying simply, "Let’s sleep."

One had traveled through the night, the other had endured hours of wailing songs, and both had suffered through the morning’s ordeal. Physically and mentally exhausted, the sound of breathing in the room gradually replaced their intermittent conversation. Outside, the sky remained dark and overcast, a dull expanse of gray.

They woke up past 4 p.m. to the sound of explosions over the Huangpu River. Both sat up amid the artillery fire, having missed lunch entirely.

Sheng Qingrang checked the time and asked the staff to bring some food. He then went into the bathroom to freshen up, planning to head downstairs for his appointment after eating.

Zong Ying touched the trousers draped over the chair—still damp, but wearable. Seizing the moment when Sheng Qingrang stepped into the bedroom, she quickly changed.

She poured herself a glass of cold water and sat on the sofa, sipping slowly. Restless, she stood up again, picked up the cigarette case from the table, and turned it over in her hands. Finally, she grabbed a box of matches, intending to step out onto the balcony for a smoke.

Sheng Qingrang seemed to anticipate her move. He opened the balcony door himself and stepped outside, turning back to say, "Miss Zong, please make yourself at home."

His gesture only strengthened her resolve to suppress the urge to smoke. She decided to drink another glass of water instead.

But before she could take a step, Sheng Qingrang suddenly rushed in from the balcony and, in an instant, lunged at her, pressing her to the floor.

A deafening explosion shook the entire building. Seconds later, another blast followed, so close it felt like it was right beside them.

Plaster crumbled from the ceiling, and the overhead light swayed precariously. After a minute, the shelling outside ceased. Zong Ying stayed silent as Sheng Qingrang shielded her tightly, murmuring repeatedly by her ear, "Miss Zong, it's alright now. It's alright."

Zong Ying coughed violently in the dust-filled air. Sheng Qingrang released her and looked around for water, but the room was in disarray.

After a brief silence, the massive building erupted into panicked cries and wails—survivors stumbled downstairs in confusion, desperate to understand what had happened and where they could go to avoid such danger again.The stairwell was littered with shattered clothes and shoes, growing increasingly gruesome the further down they went. Severed limbs lay haphazardly on the floor, covered in thick white dust. The air was thick with the mingled scents of blood and the acrid stench of gunpowder. When they reached the first floor, Zong Ying saw the body of a child flattened by the blast pressure, pressed tightly against the wall. The once snow-white dress was now stained with blood, the face unrecognizable—

It was Xiao Nan, the little girl she had met at the elevator that morning, the first person who had smiled at her that day.

Sheng Qingrang stepped into the even more devastated lobby when a hand reached out from the rubble and grabbed his ankle: "Third Brother, quick—help me!"

Author's Note:

Regarding the question of why Mr. Sheng doesn’t take things like the sofa he’s sitting on, the bed he’s sleeping in, or the car he’s riding in when he time-travels—I’ve given it some thought. I believe Mr. Sheng can only take things that are in direct contact with him and that he can physically carry. Anything beyond his carrying capacity likely can’t be transported.

So if Zong Ying were heavier, Mr. Sheng might not be able to lift her, and thus couldn’t take her along.

Therefore, Zong Ying is slender.

———

Historical Note:

The Sassoon House (Peace Hotel) was bombed at 4:27 PM on August 14, 1937, along with the Palace Hotel. Two bombs were dropped, though neither was originally intended for these buildings—they simply missed their targets.

In the era of aerial warfare, nowhere was ever truly safe.