Zong Ying realized it was too late by the time she thought to intervene.
Sheng Qiushi blurted out, "She can't handle intense emotional stress right now. If there's something to discuss, why push her like this?" He wasn’t the type to lose his temper, but his fair complexion flushed red as he spoke without pausing for breath. Suppressing his agitation, he steadied his voice and added, "Besides, this is a hospital. What’s the point of making such a scene?"
Sheng Qiushi had always been mild-mannered. In all the time Aunt had known him, she had never heard him speak in such a tone. She froze for a moment but quickly retorted, "What condition does she have that she can’t be upset? Is she pregnant or suffering from heart disease?"
In his urgency, Sheng Qiushi nearly revealed Zong Ying’s medical condition, but she suddenly reached out to stop him, signaling for him not to interfere.
When he turned to look at her, he saw Zong Ying leaning against the anti-collision railing, her face paler than he had ever seen, her forehead damp with sweat.
Her breathing grew heavier as she lifted her gaze to Aunt, then glanced sideways at Zong Qinglin. Every word she spoke seemed to take effort: "I’ve already said everything I needed to say. Anything else would be pointless."
With that, she released the railing and turned to walk away.
Verbal confrontations were never Zong Ying’s forte. Even if she gained the upper hand, it would only be a fleeting victory, leaving her exhausted and disheveled in the process—hardly worth the effort.
Yan Man had once told her, "Only reason with those who can be reasoned with. If someone refuses to listen, no amount of reasoning will help." Zong Ying had taken this to heart, deliberately minimizing contact with that side of the family over the years. Unless absolutely necessary, she kept her distance. But now, with them forcing their way in, she felt a deep surge of irritation.
Zong Ying hadn’t gone far when Sheng Qiushi caught up, grabbing her arm. "Come with me," he said.
As he spoke, he glanced back. Aunt was still rambling, accusing Zong Ying of faking illness and being overly delicate, all while painting herself as the innocent party.
Disgust flickered across Sheng Qiushi’s face. He sighed helplessly before quickly leading Zong Ying into the consultation room and shutting the door.
Zong Ying was in no state to return to her grandmother’s ward just yet—she needed time to recover.
She sank into the sofa in the consultation room, accepting the water Sheng Qiushi handed her. Without bothering to check if it was hot or cold, she pulled out a pillbox from her pocket, measured out the day’s dose, and swallowed it with the water. After about thirty seconds, she looked up.
Sheng Qiushi stood before her, his expression a mix of anxiety, concern, and curiosity.
Zong Ying could tell now—he wasn’t just suspicious. He must have already seen her medical records.
At this point, there was no hiding it from him. Before he could ask, she spoke first: "If you’re going to ask about the tests, all I can say is, ‘I accept the facts and am treating it actively.’ Beyond that, dwelling on what-ifs is just a waste of energy."
She paused, then added, "Just let me stay here for a bit. Grandma’s blood pressure was unstable earlier—could you check on her? I’ll come as soon as I’ve pulled myself together."
Her words made it clear: no need for persuasion, no need for concern.
Sheng Qiushi studied her for a long moment, then refilled her water. "Alright," he said. "I’ll go first."The door opened and closed again. After about ten minutes, Zong Ying stood up and returned to the hallway.
Relatives, patients, and medical staff came and went, everything calm and peaceful as if nothing had just happened.
Pushing the door open to enter the ward, her grandmother also pretended nothing had happened and said to her, "You're back?"
Zong Ying responded with an "Mhm," sitting down nonchalantly. She picked up the food container from the bedside, opened the lid, and steam rose—the porridge was still warm.
She said, "I bought mixed-grain porridge. It might be a bit bland, but it's better for controlling your blood sugar."
Her grandmother asked, "Aren't you eating?"
Zong Ying fished out a disposable spoon from the plastic bag and handed it over, saying, "I'm not used to eating porridge. After you finish, I'll go downstairs for a proper meal."
Seeing that she could still crack a joke with a straight face, her grandmother felt slightly relieved and lowered her head to eat the porridge.
Sunlight flooded the hospital bed, making the room a bit stuffy. Zong Ying stood up to adjust the air conditioning. Noticing her grandmother was almost done, she stepped forward to clean up.
She took the empty container and put it back into the plastic bag, then asked, "Do you still remember Dr. Sun, who came for rounds yesterday?"
"Of course, of course." Her grandmother took the napkin Zong Ying handed her and wiped her mouth. "Did she say something was wrong with me?"
"Not exactly." Zong Ying straightened up. "Your legs have been bothering you often, right? She suggested getting a magnetic resonance angiography to see what's causing it."
"I don't want to do it," her grandmother replied decisively.
Zong Ying assumed she had concerns. "The procedure is quick and safe. There's no need to worry."
Her grandmother stayed silent. Zong Ying waited for a while, only to suddenly see her pull out a phone.
Putting on her reading glasses, her grandmother slowly scrolled through her contacts and dialed a number. The moment the call connected, she handed the phone to Zong Ying. "Let your uncle talk to you."
Puzzled, Zong Ying took the phone. "Uncle, it's me."
Her uncle's end was quiet, the kind of stillness unique to late nights. He said, "Ah, Ying. Is something wrong with Grandma?"
"Grandma accidentally fell yesterday. There's a small amount of bleeding in her skull, but I’ve seen the scans—nothing major overall. But her legs have been hurting frequently lately, and she’s been having trouble walking. The doctor recommended a magnetic resonance angiography to check for issues with her lower limb arteries."
Her uncle listened patiently before replying calmly, "I know what you're talking about—it's lower limb arteriosclerosis obliterans. Grandma has already had this test before. At the time, it didn’t meet the criteria for surgery, but her symptoms have worsened recently, so surgical intervention is needed."
Zong Ying pressed her lips together. "The surgery is quite routine here. If possible, I can arrange it right away."
"I know the technology in China is advanced," her uncle said unhurriedly. "But she’ll need someone to take care of her post-surgery. If it’s done in Shanghai, you’d be the only one available, and you have work to attend to—it’d be too much. Besides, her medical records and insurance are all here, so it’s more convenient. The doctor already scheduled a slot for us this month."
"This month?"
"Yes. Didn’t Grandma tell you? I’m coming to pick her up mid-month."
"Mid-month?"
"Flight on the 14th, in the evening. It was booked a long time ago."
September 14th—just a few days away.
Zong Ying glanced at her grandmother out of the corner of her eye, feeling it was all too sudden.She raised her hand to smooth her hair, digesting the arrangement, when her uncle asked, "Anything else?"
"Nothing," Zong Ying replied.
"Then pass the phone to Grandma."
Zong Ying handed it over as instructed. Grandma chatted with her uncle for a while until a nurse arrived with medication, prompting them to end the call.
Standing dazed in the morning light, Zong Ying was urged by Grandma after taking her pills: "Go have breakfast, then return to the apartment to rest. Don't spend all your time here with me."
The date her uncle had just mentioned lingered in her mind. "I don't feel like sleeping," she replied.
Grandma insisted, "Even if you don't sleep, go back to shower and change. Look how disheveled you are."
It was true—she hadn't showered or changed clothes in two nights. She wondered if Sheng Qingrang might be in worse shape.
Quickly snapping out of her thoughts, Zong Ying complied with Grandma's wishes and left the hospital for Apartment 699.
Opening the door, she found the house empty.
Entering the bathroom, she noticed the floor and sink were completely dry, showing no signs of recent use.
The door to the balcony was open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. The cabinet door of the bookcase reserved for Yan Man was slightly ajar.
Zong Ying hurried over to close it. As she did, she noticed the order of the notebooks had been disturbed—
This wasn't Sheng Qingrang's way of doing things. If it had been him, he would have put everything back exactly as it was. That left only Grandma as the culprit.
She pulled out the dated planner, flipping to the last recorded page before turning back to September 14th. Her finger lightly traced over the words "Zong Ying's birthday," covering them.
That day arrived swiftly.
The temperature in Shanghai dropped further, with dark clouds looming early in the morning. The weather forecast predicted scattered showers.
Zong Ying completed Grandma's discharge procedures and brought her back to the apartment to pack.
Originally, Zong Ying had offered to pack for her, but Grandma refused, saying, "My belongings should be packed by me. If you rummage through them, I'll lose track." Thus, they had to wait until departure day to start organizing.
The luggage in the suitcase hadn't been touched since their return from Nanjing. As Grandma folded each item, she suddenly shook out a freshly laundered shirt.
"Oh, isn't this that young man's shirt?" she remarked.
Zong Ying, squatting on the floor making a list, glanced up and recognized it as the shirt Sheng Qingrang had left behind in the hotel stairwell.
She had sent it for cleaning and nearly forgotten about it.
Grandma handed it to her, reminding, "Make sure to return it to him."
Zong Ying took the shirt and muttered, "I know."
The shirt was impeccably clean, stripped of any traces of the era's raging battles, replaced instead by the fresh scent of modern detergent.
Not a single mark remained, Zong Ying thought.
"Why hasn't he been around lately?"
"Busy."
"That sounds like an excuse to brush off an old lady," Grandma said knowingly. "I'm not senile, but I can't meddle too much. As long as you're happy and content, that's all that matters."
A faint pang of sadness suddenly struck Zong Ying.
Just then, the doorbell rang. "That must be your uncle," Grandma said. "He arrived last night."
Zong Ying immediately stood to answer the door. Her uncle stood outside. "Am I too early?"
"Not at all," Grandma replied. "We're almost done packing."
Her uncle checked his watch. "Shall we all go for lunch once you're ready?"Grandma said, "We bought groceries on our way back this morning. If we all pitch in, we’ll have dinner ready in no time."
Zong Ying added, "I’ve already rinsed the rice."
Little Uncle rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands as he entered the room. "It’s been a while since I last cooked. I might be a bit rusty—hope you won’t mind."
The old wall clock in the living room ticked steadily, while the kitchen filled with the sizzle of cooking oil. The window was half-open, letting in a cool, damp breeze. The apartment buzzed with conversation, footsteps, and the clatter of pots and pans—
For a fleeting moment, Zong Ying almost felt as if she had returned to years past.
But when the table was set, the sight of an empty place setting at one corner snapped her back to reality.
Grandma stared at the untouched bowl and chopsticks for a long time before finally murmuring, "Today is Xiaoman’s death anniversary. After dinner, let’s visit her grave."
Zong Ying averted her gaze and nodded. "Alright."
The drive from the apartment to the cemetery at the funeral home was a route Zong Ying knew all too well.
Her job required frequent visits to funeral homes, and every time she stepped out after work, she would see the lush greenery of the cemetery.
She knew Yan Man was buried there, but ashes were nothing more than inorganic matter now. No matter how much she mourned or missed her, they would never know.
So she always kept her distance, never once stepping closer.
It had been years since her last visit.
The sky was overcast, the tombstones dark and somber—only the photo of Yan Man on the gravestone remained as youthful and radiant as ever.
Brushing the dust off the tombstone, Grandma bent down to place the potted plant she had been cradling in front of it. "How have you been? I miss you so much."
Her voice carried restrained sorrow. Zong Ying’s eyes stung, and she tilted her head slightly upward.
In the distance, dark clouds churned, thunder rumbled dully—a storm was coming.
Zong Ying helped Grandma up and suddenly remembered the planner in Yan Man’s drawer. She finally asked, "Grandma, have you seen my mother’s notebook from her last year?"
Grandma sighed softly.
Zong Ying continued, "She had other plans scheduled after September 14th. How could it have been suicide?"
Grandma didn’t seem surprised. She turned to look at Zong Ying, her aged eyes filled with long-accumulated resignation. "Then what was the cause of death? Murder? Do you have proof?"
Zong Ying reined in her emotions and answered one by one, "I don’t know. I can’t be sure. I don’t have evidence."
Grandma sighed again but immediately grasped her hand.
Just as Zong Ying thought Grandma wouldn’t say more, she spoke. "If this matter troubles you, then go find the evidence and uncover the truth."
The sky darkened further, the downpour imminent. A staff member nearby gently urged, "If you delay any longer, the rain will catch you." Zong Ying tightened her grip on Grandma’s hand.
After leaving the cemetery, Zong Ying drove Grandma and Little Uncle to the airport. The journey was plagued by rain and traffic, and by the time they arrived, evening had fallen, the sky pitch-black.
Zong Ying parked and escorted them inside. The terminal was chilly and damp, the overhead fluorescent lights glaring. Due to the bad weather, the departure board showed multiple flight delays—all they could do was wait.
Grandma told her to head back, but Zong Ying demurred, "The rain’s too heavy—it’s not safe to drive. I’ll wait until the storm passes."
Her reasoning was sound, so Grandma let her stay.
People came and went in the terminal—some standing, some sitting. An hour and a half later, a couple took the seats beside Zong Ying.The girl lowered her head to browse financial news, and Zong Ying immediately caught sight of the words "Xinxi Pharmaceuticals" in the headline.
Noticing someone was looking at her screen, the girl quickly adjusted the angle of her phone.
Zong Ying turned her face away, pulled out her own phone from her pocket, opened the app, and scrolled to the same news article.
The headline read: "Lü Qianming Increases Stake in Xinxi Pharmaceuticals Again, Holdings May Surpass Top Shareholder Zong Qinglin."
The comments below were sparse, far less lively than those on social news, yet one thread had sparked a heated discussion.
The main comment read:
"Lü has been aggressively buying from the secondary market recently. His personal holdings have reached 5.03%, and his two companies hold 10.23% of Xinxi’s shares, totaling 15.26%. Zong currently holds around 15.3% through various channels. If Lü continues to increase his stake, Zong is indeed in a precarious position."
The reply that followed said: "But don’t forget, Zong’s wife is the sister of Xing Xueyi, who died in a car accident. That bachelor Xing held about 2.6% of the shares, and this inheritance can only go to Xing’s sister. Since she and Zong are acting in concert, their family still holds the advantage no matter what."
A heated argument ensued.
The last reply, posted ten minutes ago, read:
"Who knows if Xing’s sister is really on the same page as Zong Qinglin’s family?"
The tone was slightly mocking, as if the commenter knew insider details, and the last three words carried an eerie weight.
The girl next to Zong Ying had probably finished reading too and muttered, "What’s there to gossip about? Ridiculous."
Just then, the airport announcement for boarding sounded. Grandma squinted to check her boarding pass and leaned toward Zong Ying to ask, "Is this our flight?"
"Yes," Zong Ying replied, standing up immediately. Her uncle also rose to his feet.
Zong Ying steadied Grandma, while her uncle came over to carry the hand luggage.
She escorted them to the security checkpoint, then wrapped her arms around Grandma and said, "I hope the surgery goes well. I’ll miss you, Ms. Fang."
Grandma, however, comforted her instead. "The doctor said it’s just a stent placement—a minor procedure. Don’t worry about it. Oh, you’re squeezing me too tight, I can’t breathe!"
Zong Ying loosened her grip and let her go.
Grandma walked forward with slightly unsteady steps but suddenly turned back to look at her.
Zong Ying waved vigorously, and Grandma waved back.
Soon, that head of silver hair disappeared from view.
A fleeting sense of detachment settled in Zong Ying’s heart as she turned around and walked back, the path ahead feeling empty.
Outside, the rain had stopped, and the thunder had ceased. Her gaze drifted absently toward the restroom where Sheng Qingrang had vanished earlier, and for just a moment, a faint thread of connection tugged at her heart.
On this mid-September rainy night, the chill was just right. The car radio played a song, but Zong Ying didn’t catch a single word.
By the time she parked at Apartment 699, it was already past 10 p.m.
Zong Ying took a few steps back and looked up at the apartment windows—dark and lifeless.
She lowered her head, stepped in a puddle, stuffed her hands into her pockets, and walked toward the convenience store at No. 620.
Unexpectedly, the store was playing a melancholic tune, and the air conditioning was blasting as usual.
Zong Ying casually picked up two rice balls but then put them back. She walked to the instant noodles section and grabbed the most expensive cup noodle.
After paying, she tore open the packaging, poured in hot water, and sat by the window to wait.After days of exhaustion, she was on the verge of collapse. Even the rich aroma of food couldn’t rouse her dulled senses—only the cold sweat beading on her forehead offered any response.
She swallowed the pill, peeled back the lid of the takeout container, and picked up her chopsticks. Before she could even bring a bite of noodles to her lips, her phone buzzed violently.
Zong Ying quickly pulled it out and tapped open the message—
Sender: Xue Xuanqing. The content was just a single blurry photo.
Before she could enlarge the image, Xue Xuanqing sent a second message: "See it? Surveillance screenshot. We found him."
Zong Ying stared blankly at the screen when suddenly, someone tapped on the glass window in front of her.
He leaned down, lightly knocking. She looked up.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, a restrained smile surfaced on his still-healing face as he held out a watch box.
Printed on the box was Omega’s advertising slogan from the 1920s to the 1940s—
For life.
"Happy birthday, Miss Zong."
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