Night Wanderer

Grandma noticed the rare anxiety in Zong Ying's expression. Though she didn't understand the reason, this anxiety at least proved their relationship was far from ordinary.

Since Zong Ying was as tight-lipped as a fortress, Grandma had to find another way in—and this mild-mannered, old-fashioned young man before her seemed the perfect target.

Turning back with sudden realization, Grandma smiled at Sheng Qingrang and said, "So the clothes Zong Ying bought yesterday were for you! That means you two know each other. I think I saw you in the lobby the day before yesterday?"

The elderly woman's memory was astonishingly sharp, making it impossible to fool her. Before either could respond, she pressed on, "What time did you arrive yesterday?"

Her pointed questions aimed to expose the truth. Sheng Qingrang, desperate to escape yet needing to remain composed, found himself at an impasse—until Zong Ying stepped in.

As Sheng Qingrang scrambled for an appropriate response, Zong Ying suddenly strode out, wrapping an arm around him and clasping his hand with deliberate intimacy. She quickly turned to Grandma and said, "I need to talk to him about something. Wait for me, Grandma."

Without letting go, she tightened her hold around Sheng Qingrang's waist and hurried forward, whispering urgently, "There's no time—you have to leave now. What was this place over seventy years ago?"

Sheng Qingrang bent slightly to match her height and answered swiftly, "Also a hotel, but only seven stories tall."

Zong Ying glanced up at the elevator indicator—stuck stubbornly on the 21st floor—and frowned. Without hesitation, she pushed open the emergency stairwell door and pulled Sheng Qingrang into a rapid descent.

Only when they reached a black-and-gold "7F" sign did she abruptly stop. The sound of the paper bag scraping against the stairwell corner tore through the silence, and the clothes tumbled out.

As Sheng Qingrang moved to pick them up, Zong Ying checked the time and said, "Leave it, Mr. Sheng." She met his gaze. "Five seconds left."

What could be done in five seconds?

Her breaths came fast; his were just as ragged. One heart pounded ten times, the other eleven—not even enough for a full sentence. The moment their hands parted, it was goodbye.

The stairwell held only Zong Ying's breathing now, a torn paper bag, and a discarded shirt.

Sheng Qingrang, vanished in an instant, reappeared on the rooftop of a grand hotel in 1937 Nanjing. Gone were Zong Ying and the dim stairwell—replaced by Nanjing's hazy skyline, dark clouds churning ominously, the air so damp it felt like water could be wrung from it.

6:01 PM. Two different eras, two nearly inaudible sighs echoing almost simultaneously.

One hurried to leave the rooftop before the storm broke; the other bent to pick up the fallen shirt, steadied her breathing, and climbed back upstairs.

When Zong Ying returned, Grandma stood waiting at the door, smiling knowingly. "Where's that young man? Why are you alone?"

"He had an emergency," Zong Ying deflected. "A friend called him away."

Grandma probed further, "He seems quite nice. How long have you known him?"

"A while," Zong Ying replied.

"Then why pretend not to know each other that night?"

Cornered, Zong Ying could only muster a dry response: "He's shy."Zong Ying's words only piqued her grandmother's interest further, but the older woman knew she wouldn’t get any more answers. She ended her probing with just one more request: "Invite him to join us for a meal when he has time."

Zong Ying gave a vague acknowledgment, then retreated to her room to stuff the dirty shirt into a laundry bag and quickly fill out the laundry slip. Changing the subject to lighten the mood, she even deliberately switched to a more formal address: "Ms. Fang, where would you like to go today?"

Her grandmother sat down, put on her reading glasses, and pulled out a travel brochure. Suddenly, she pointed to the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall and said, "Take me here. My eldest brother was only six in 1937 when Aunt brought him to Nanjing to visit relatives. He never made it back, and we never found out where he was buried."

Her wrinkled hand slowly traced the photograph, a melancholy gesture as memories resurfaced.

The atmosphere grew even heavier. Without a word, Zong Ying changed clothes, took her grandmother downstairs for breakfast, and then set off for the memorial.

The eternal flame beneath the memorial plaque burned in the morning breeze, the cross starkly marked with the dates: December 13, 1937 – January 1938.

December 13—that day was fast approaching for Sheng Qingrang. And before that day arrived, Shanghai would already have fallen.

Staring at the dates etched into the wall, Zong Ying wondered: What would become of the people she knew?

A sense of powerlessness, as if sealed by history, suddenly overwhelmed her. Even after leaving the memorial, she remained visibly dispirited. Sensing her granddaughter’s low mood, her grandmother suggested a visit to Confucius Temple, where the bustling crowds finally infused some vitality back into the day.

Their trip to Nanjing was supposed to end here.

Originally, they planned to check out tomorrow before returning to Shanghai, but Zong Ying decided to send Sheng Qingrang back tonight and return by high-speed train tomorrow morning to pick up her grandmother.

After dinner, she first canceled Sheng Qingrang’s room reservation, then confessed to her grandmother: "I need to go back to Shanghai tonight for something. I’ll take the morning train to pick you up tomorrow, okay?"

"If you’re leaving, why not go together?" her grandmother asked, looking up. "Making an extra trip is too much trouble."

"But you need to rest tonight."

"I can rest in the car. Besides, I don’t like the idea of you driving alone on the highway at night."

Her grandmother countered every argument, leaving Zong Ying no choice but to admit, "There’ll be someone else in the car. You don’t need to worry."

This only made her grandmother more insistent on not staying behind alone. "Is it that young man from this morning? Is he going back to Shanghai with you?"

Zong Ying knew there was no avoiding it. "Yes."

Her grandmother immediately stood up. "Then I’ll pack now. Go and check us out."

The old woman was resolute, and Zong Ying had no way to dissuade her. "Take a shower first. It’s still early—he won’t be here until ten."

Though puzzled, her grandmother didn’t question it further. She followed Zong Ying’s suggestion, showered, packed leisurely, and then waited downstairs with her.

The hotel lobby buzzed with activity, but as the night deepened, the crowd thinned. Her grandmother kept her eyes on the wall clock. The moment the hands struck ten, she grew anxious. "Why isn’t he here yet? Did you confirm with him? Should you call to check?"

Zong Ying pulled out her phone but had no number to dial. Maybe she should give him a phone—it would make contact easier, she thought.By nearly eleven o'clock, Grandma began to feel drowsy. Zong Ying kept her head lowered in silence. Just as she rose in frustration, intending to book a hotel room again, Sheng Qingrang arrived belatedly.

He seemed to have traveled a great distance to keep this appointment, appearing thoroughly travel-worn.

Despite his disheveled state, Zong Ying secretly sighed in relief and bent down to wake her dozing grandmother. Grandma wearily lifted her eyelids, but the moment she saw Sheng Qingrang, her spirits instantly revived: "You've finally arrived! Zong Ying has been waiting for hours."

Sheng Qingrang repeatedly apologized, and Grandma, satisfied with his politeness, turned to Zong Ying and said, "Then let's set off quickly. No more delays."

Once settled in the car, she unscrewed her thermos and took a sip of warm water before beginning her interrogation of Sheng Qingrang.

With a journey of nearly three hundred kilometers ahead, there was plenty of time for probing.

"I still don’t know your name. What should I call you?"

"Sheng Qingrang."

"It sounds somewhat familiar, but I can’t quite recall. Where are you from?"

"Shanghai."

"Ah, also from Shanghai? Do you still live there now? Which district?"

Before Sheng Qingrang could answer, Zong Ying cut in: "Jing'an District."

Grandma exclaimed in surprise, "Jing'an as well? Then the two families must be quite close. What do you do for work?"

Sheng Qingrang replied, "I work in the legal field."

"A lawyer?"

"Yes."

"That’s very good." Grandma hesitated briefly before finally addressing the wound on his face: "Does that injury have anything to do with your profession? Did someone retaliate against you?"

"Yes, Grandma," Zong Ying interjected again.

Grandma sighed, "You must be careful. These days, no profession is easy."

Zong Ying responded, "Grandma, why don’t you rest for a while?"

This was a clear attempt to halt her inquiries. Grandma caught the hint and said, "Then I’ll take a nap." She then reached out and lightly patted Sheng Qingrang’s left shoulder.

Sheng Qingrang turned abruptly, and Grandma lowered her voice: "This trip will take about four hours. Zong Ying will be exhausted—switch with her halfway so she can rest too."

Embarrassment instantly washed over Sheng Qingrang’s face. "I don’t know how to drive."

The answer took Grandma by surprise, but she quickly smoothed things over to ease his discomfort: "Neither do I. It’s fine."

With that, Grandma curled up in the back seat and fell asleep. Sheng Qingrang turned to ensure she was covered with a blanket before straightening up and looking at Zong Ying. "I’ve really troubled you."

Zong Ying ignored him, her profile tense as she focused intently on driving.

Sheng Qingrang gazed out the window. The night scenery rushed past, monotonous and dull, with only the reflective road signs glowing in the dark—so tranquil it was almost nostalgic.

Much later, the sound of Grandma’s weary snoring rose from the back seat. Only then did Zong Ying’s tense expression soften slightly. She spoke quietly to Sheng Qingrang: "We should reach Shanghai around three. Should I drop you off in the French Concession or the International Settlement?"

"The French Concession."

"Are you returning to your apartment?"

"Yes, I need to check on Qinghui and the children."

Zong Ying was slightly taken aback.

Sheng Qingrang explained, "Second Sister disapproves of Qinghui adopting those two children, so Qinghui has been staying at the apartment temporarily. I’ve been away from Shanghai lately and could only ask Mr. Ye to look after them. I don’t know how they’re doing."

Zong Ying asked, "How is Shanghai now?"

Sheng Qingrang briefly closed his eyes, recalling the events of the past few days. After a pause, he could only manage two words: "Not good."Zong Ying quickly glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. For some reason, the feeling that he might "leave and never return" intensified in that instant.

Time ticked steadily forward as the car sped silently along the highway, as if it could drive on forever. Even without conversation, the peaceful quiet between them was something to cherish.

Suddenly, Zong Ying’s phone buzzed violently, the screen lighting up with the caller ID: "Zong Qinglin."

She didn’t answer, but the calls kept coming, one after another, as if determined to force her to pick up.

Spotting a service area sign in her peripheral vision, Zong Ying pulled in and parked. The moment the car stopped, she answered the call. Before she could even utter a greeting, her father’s furious accusations poured out: "Are you so desperate for cash that you’re rushing to sell your shares? Why are you suddenly offloading your stake?"

Faced with his interrogation, Zong Ying closed her eyes, gritting her teeth silently, but her voice remained calm. "No particular reason. I just want to reduce my holdings."

Zong Qinglin was clearly furious. "Where are you? Come home immediately."

Zong Ying opened her eyes. "Not possible. I’m on the highway with Grandma."

As she spoke, she abruptly pushed open the car door. The night wind rushed generously against her face as she stepped a few meters away to continue the call.

Inside the car, Grandma woke up, blinking to find the driver’s seat empty. Looking outside, she saw Zong Ying standing about seven or eight meters away, smoking. The ember of her cigarette flickered between her fingers, her other hand tucked in her pocket, her face lonely in the haze of smoke.

Grandma felt a pang of melancholy and heartache but couldn’t show too much emotion. Instead, she said to Sheng Qingrang, "You should advise Zong Ying to smoke less in the future."

Sheng Qingrang recalled what the lawyer surnamed Zhang had said about her handling assets and drafting a will, then remembered the barely restrained frustration in her voice just now. His brow furrowed in concern.

Just as he was about to step out of the car, Zong Ying strode back inside.

She casually slotted her phone into the holder, fastened her seatbelt, and prepared to set off again—

But the car wouldn’t start.