In Sheng Qingrang's eyes, Zong Ying was simple yet enigmatic.
She was remarkably decisive, direct in her actions with little scheming, and possessed an almost naive persistence. Yet, he knew little about her life, even though he had closely observed many of her personal belongings.
He knew her field of study and had a rough idea of her interests, but he couldn’t fathom why the girl in the photo frame stopped smiling in pictures after a certain point in time. Nor could he understand why someone her age would draft a will.
Perhaps his gaze held too much curiosity, because Zong Ying looked up at him for a moment and answered the question he hadn’t voiced—
Why draft a will?
“Better safe than sorry,” she said.
Her tone was calm, yet carried an unshakable resolve. It seemed she wasn’t some reckless fool—she had her own considerations and opinions, and had thought things through quite thoroughly.
After speaking, Zong Ying turned on her phone. The screen showed only 15% battery, no signal, and the time: 19:00 on August 16.
“There are three hours left. Please return to the apartment as soon as possible—it’s safer that way.” She powered off her phone and added, “The lock on the apartment has been changed. I left a spare key in the entryway cabinet. You can use it.”
She seemed to have already accepted the “trouble” Sheng Qingrang brought with surprising ease, consciously adapting to this life that defied all logic.
Sheng Qingrang watched as she pulled the last Black Devil cigarette from the crushed pack. The black-and-gold rolling paper was crumpled, and she lightly pinched both ends, slowly twisting it between her fingers—yet she never lit it.
Suddenly, he handed her a box of matches, then packed away the cigarettes, paper, and pen before standing to take his leave.
As he reached the door, Zong Ying picked up the matchbox and instinctively called out, “Sleep well tonight, Mr. Sheng.”
Sheng Qingrang’s heart, already racing from exhaustion, seemed to skip a beat for no reason—someone had noticed his fatigue and offered a kind wish. For him, this was an entirely new experience.
Unsure how to respond, he simply lowered his head and hurried out the door, making his way back to Apartment 699 as quickly as possible.
By 22:00, Sheng Qingrang had successfully retrieved the spare key Zong Ying left in the entryway cabinet and stepped outside.
Only traces of the day’s sweltering heat lingered in the breeze, leaving the night comfortably cool and serene. The brightly lit street lamps along the way were a testament to the ample electricity of peacetime; the plane trees swayed gently in the faint east wind, exuding tranquility; pedestrians and vehicles moved along their respective paths, and shops showed no fear of looting—scenes impossible during wartime.
Turning right into the hospital gates, Sheng Qingrang paused as an ambulance wailed past him. Then, a taxi pulled up steadily at the building’s entrance.
He recalled his first meeting with Zong Ying—also inside a taxi. His first visit to this hospital had been because of that chance encounter.
That day, after Zong Ying got out of the car, the taxi drove away from the hospital. Soon after, he too exited the vehicle and turned back toward the hospital, but he never saw her again. Just as he was about to return to the apartment, rain suddenly began to fall, so he opened the umbrella Zong Ying had left behind—emblazoned with “9.14” and a Möbius strip—and left the hospital.
He probably didn’t know that Zong Ying had seen him from upstairs.Snapping back to reality, Sheng Qingrang quickly stepped into the pharmacy. Under the cold white fluorescent lights, with the air conditioning blasting down, the store carried a faintly cool herbal scent. An elderly pharmacist in a white coat leaned against the counter reading a magazine. Hearing footsteps, he pushed his reading glasses down his nose and looked up at Sheng Qingrang over the rims. "What medicine do you need?"
Worried about making a mistake, Sheng Qingrang handed over the list Zong Ying had written.
The pharmacist adjusted his glasses again, squinting as he carefully examined the list before retrieving two boxes of medicine from behind the counter. "Just had a baby at home?"
Sheng Qingrang nodded and handed over his bank card.
The old pharmacist frowned. "Only a few dozen yuan and you're paying by card? Don’t you have any change?"
His wallet contained only old currency notes, so he could only reply, "Sorry, I don’t."
With a resigned sigh, the pharmacist called over a younger assistant to complete the transaction.
Tucking the medicine into his briefcase, Sheng Qingrang hurried out again, this time heading for the store that stayed open until midnight.
At the entrance stood neatly arranged fruit baskets. Inside, the shop was nearly empty, its shelves densely packed with goods—mostly hospital necessities. The westernmost section had an entire row dedicated to newborn supplies, fully stocked but with limited options, which at least spared him from indecision.
Standing under the lights, Sheng Qingrang scrutinized the formula details on the infant milk powder but found nothing conclusive, so he gave up.
Following the list, he gathered everything he needed and carried the basket to the checkout. Just then, Sheng Qiushi happened to walk in, buying a can of hot coffee before lining up behind him.
The cashier swiped his card and prompted him to enter his PIN, then handed him the receipt to sign, leaving the card on the counter.
At that moment, Sheng Qiushi, standing behind him, suddenly narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to examine the card on the counter. The front read "ZONGYING" in pinyin.
His gaze flicked to the POS receipt—the signature was a smooth, practiced "Zong Ying."
The name was uncommon, and the card looked all too familiar.
Unable to resist, Sheng Qiushi studied him more closely, watching as he packed item after item into plastic bags—almost all of them baby supplies.
Suspicion creased Sheng Qiushi’s brow, but just then, Sheng Qingrang abruptly turned and glanced back at him.
The look caught Sheng Qiushi off guard, leaving him momentarily stunned. Only when the cashier called out did he snap out of it. Hastily paying, he didn’t even wait for his change before rushing out the door—only to be met with the vast night, Sheng Qingrang already gone without a trace.
Returning to the apartment from the hospital, Sheng Qingrang checked the list—everything was ready except for one last item: a change of clothes.
Zong Ying’s clothes.
He hesitated. He had no idea where her clothes were kept or what she might need, regretting now that he hadn’t asked for specifics.
After washing his hands, he stood outside Zong Ying’s bedroom door for several seconds before finally pressing down the handle and pushing it open, flicking on the ceiling light with a soft click .
The warm yellow glow illuminated the room. An old sixteen-pane window came into view, a wooden bed pressed against the east wall, while two large chests of drawers stood side by side against the west wall—furniture sparse but practical.
He opened the rightmost chest and easily retrieved a shirt and a pair of trousers, though both were deeply wrinkled from being stored for so long and would need ironing.
Just as he was about to take them upstairs, Sheng Qingrang suddenly remembered something and turned back into the bedroom—but then hesitated, uncertain whether to keep searching.
Would she need undergarments?
Yes.He made his decision under the dim overhead light, then bent down to pull open the dresser drawer, rummaging through it to find a pair of clean cotton socks.
Next, he turned to the left dresser, opening the first drawer—no undergarments inside. The second drawer yielded nothing either, nor the third or fourth... In the very last drawer, only a single hardcover booklet, about the size of a briefcase, lay solitary.
Its black cover was pristine, fastened on the right side with an elastic strap, untouched by dust—a restrained aesthetic, like a black box guarding secrets.
Sheng Qingrang stared at it for a long moment before bending to retrieve the booklet. He undid the strap and solemnly turned to the first page.
At its center was a small black-and-white photo, trimmed with decorative edges by the studio. The subject was a young beauty, likely only seventeen or eighteen, with a slender neck, a short and spirited haircut, and sharp, penetrating eyes.
Zong Ying bore a striking resemblance to her.
Flipping further, he found sparse group photos—one of which Sheng Qingrang had seen before in Zong Ying’s bookcase: a graduation portrait.
This beauty had graduated in 1982 with a degree in pharmacology, later studying abroad in the United States on a government scholarship.
Shortly after returning, she married and soon had a child. After that, photographs became scarce, replaced by an assortment of clippings—newspaper articles, magazine interviews, academic papers—her life seemingly consumed by her career.
Page after page, Sheng Qingrang came across news of the founding of Xinxi Pharmaceuticals. In the grainy black-and-white photo on the yellowed newspaper, the founders’ faces were barely discernible—among them not only this beauty but also the man he had seen in the news before—Zong Ying’s father.
Following that was an interview, where she concluded with her ideals and determination for independent drug research.
Further on were several research papers. Sheng Qingrang read each one carefully as the grandfather clock in the living room chimed solemnly.
The night grew deeper, and the booklet neared its end, with only two pages remaining.
One featured news of Xinxi Pharmaceuticals’ independently developed drug nearing market release. The final page was also a news clipping, its headline reading: “Yan Man, Director of Xinxi Pharmaceuticals’ Chemical Research Lab, Dies in Fall; Suspected Depression Before Death.”
Now, Sheng Qingrang held only the hard cover in his hands—everything before it had been turned over. The back cover marked the end, the conclusion of this beauty’s life.
Sheng Qingrang read every word, retaining only one date—September 14th.
On this day, Zong Ying’s mother, Yan Man, fell to her death from a great height—in Xinxi’s soon-to-be-inaugurated new building.
Sheng Qingrang closed the back cover but suddenly noticed a gilded Möbius strip embossed at its center.
He had seen this symbol more than once in Zong Ying’s belongings. Within this loop, there was only one surface—starting from a point, it would eventually return to that same point. It was both the beginning and the end, like an unending cycle.
Meanwhile, at the hospital, Sheng Qiushi, on night duty, had just finished his rounds and returned to the downstairs clinic when his phone buzzed in his white coat.
He answered the call, greeted by his sister’s impatient voice: “I only found two, okay? I scanned them and sent them to you—check your email.” This was followed by a yawn-laden complaint: “Big brother, do you even consider time zones? It’s 4 a.m. here! I was up until 2 a.m. writing my thesis, and I wasn’t even fully awake before you dragged me out of bed to dig up old photos. Absolutely inhumane. I’m going back to sleep—goodbye!”
Before Sheng Qiushi could utter a word, the call ended abruptly.He ignored the beeping sound from the other end and quickly opened his phone's email app. The bottom displayed "Checking for mail..." but stubbornly refused to update.
The hospital's poor signal only heightened his impatience. Unable to wait any longer, he briskly made his way downstairs through the stairwell.
Emerging from the building under the dim glow of a streetlamp, his inbox finally refreshed with the notification: "Just updated - 1 unread message."
He hastily tapped the unread email. The body contained two grainy black-and-white photos from long ago.
In the faint light, he zoomed in on one group photo and finally spotted that familiar face - identical in every way - standing center-back row.
Author's Note:
Though Zong Ying lives a rather rough-around-the-edges life, she's actually a Virgo at heart.
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