Night Wanderer

At ten o'clock in the evening, there was still time to spare.

Zong Ying set down the letter and returned to the sofa, picking up the cigarette Xue Xuanqing had given her. She rummaged through the odds-and-ends box for a lighter and lit it in the morning sunlight flooding the room.

From the bicycle shed downstairs came the crisp ring of a bell, followed by the sound of a door opening, the security guard speaking, and then the screech of a bus braking sharply on the road.

Zong Ying sat silently on the sofa, smoking.

Amid the swirling smoke, she suddenly lifted her sleeve to sniff it, then bent her head to smell her collar.

The polyester uniform shirt didn’t breathe well, so it carried the unavoidable trace of sweat, a hint of blood from the scene, and the common scent of disinfectant.

She didn’t find it particularly unpleasant.

After finishing the cigarette, Zong Ying removed the police badge and insignia from her clothes and headed to the bathroom for a shower, tossing everything into the washing machine.

She turned on the shower, and the sound of cascading water instantly drowned out the rumble of the spinning drum.

Steam rose as the little girl next door practiced "Donna Donna" on the piano over and over. By the time she paused, Zong Ying turned off the shower, and the world fell silent for a moment—until the washing machine began its high-speed spin cycle.

She grabbed a towel to dry off, changed into a clean T-shirt and loungewear, then went to the kitchen for the first-aid kit to tend to the wound on her hand. After that, she entered the bedroom and plugged in her phone. A logo lit up on the dark screen.

It’s charging, Zong Ying thought. She lay down and closed her eyes to catch up on sleep.

Her spine and muscles, finally given a chance to relax, seized every second to rest. The living room clock tirelessly pushed time forward—tick-tock, tick-tock—until the sun dipped below the horizon.

Zong Ying woke to the sound of her phone ringing—an unfamiliar local number. She didn’t answer, letting it ring until it stopped on its own.

She lay in bed. It was already dark outside, the curtains left open. The city’s nightscape was sliced into fragments by the narrow sixteen-pane window, casting dim, interlaced light into the room.

Zong Ying turned over and picked up her phone again. The battery indicator in the top-right corner read 100%—fully charged.

If a phone’s battery can go from zero back to full, what about a person?

Having gone nearly the entire day without eating, hunger was inevitable. She called for takeout, and while waiting for the food to arrive, she looked up the unfamiliar number.

From the search results, it appeared to belong to a troublesome journalist. Zong Ying blocked him.

The food arrived quickly—one of the conveniences of city life.

A steaming set meal, overly generous in portion. Zong Ying couldn’t finish half of it before tossing the whole box into the trash.

Eight o’clock sharp. Two hours left.

She got up to hang the laundry, brushed her teeth, and turned on the TV, watching aimlessly.

A documentary about Lapland in May. The aerial shot swept over herds of reindeer in full sprint. The narrator said, "After an eight-month-long white winter, Lapland finally welcomes spring."

Such a long winter—a clean, crisp place. Zong Ying liked winter.

With twenty minutes left until ten, Zong Ying turned off the TV and arranged the evidence bags one by one on the coffee table, placing a chair opposite them.

She left only the hallway light by the entrance on, switching off all the others.

The room darkened again. She lit another cigarette and sat by the stairs, waiting.

The clock in the living room chimed ten times. The cigarette in Zong Ying’s hand burned to its end.She heard the faint sound of a door opening, but it came from upstairs. Then came the steady, composed footsteps descending—light but deliberate.

Her drooping eyelids suddenly snapped open. Just as the other person reached out to touch her shoulder, she seized his right arm, disrupted his balance, and sent him tumbling down the stairs.

Before he could react, Zong Ying had already restrained his hands behind his back with a disposable zip tie.

"Miss Zong, we can sit down and talk," the man spoke with difficulty, pleading for her to loosen the restraint.

"You can speak now," Zong Ying replied, showing no intention of stopping the lesson. Keeping him pinned, she closed her eyes and enunciated each word: "Name, age, place of origin, address."

"Sheng Qingrang, thirty-two, Shanghainese, address—" He paused briefly, his tone strained but polite. "Right here."

"Here?"

"Here."

Utterly absurd. But before Zong Ying could voice her disbelief, her grip suddenly slackened.

Pain struck like a bomb, her head splitting apart.

Her breathing grew ragged, veins bulging at her temples. Zong Ying was nearly out of control, and Sheng Qingrang finally seized the chance to rise, forcefully breaking free from the restraint.

Yet in the next moment, he leaned down and asked, "Miss Zong, tell me what you need."

Zong Ying was in so much pain she could barely see, her fingertips pressing hard against her scalp, teeth clenched to the point of shattering. Her muscles were too tense to even speak. He asked again, "Painkillers?"

Receiving no response, he quickly stepped back, grabbed a blanket from the sofa, draped it over her shoulders, and carried her back to the couch.

He remembered a first-aid kit in the kitchen and hurried to retrieve it. Flipping it open, he found painkillers and handed them to her along with a glass of water from the coffee table.

Zong Ying didn’t even take the water—she snatched the pills from his hand and swallowed them dry.

In the heat of July, her trembling fingers brushed against his palm, and he was startled by how cold they felt.

So he fetched a coat from the recliner and draped it over her, then left her undisturbed.

The weather had turned.

Night winds slammed against the windows with loud bangs.

Sheng Qingrang walked over and had just shut the window when a bolt of lightning flashed outside.

After a deafening clap of thunder, the room was left with only the ticking of the clock and Zong Ying’s labored breathing. Then rain pelted the glass in a relentless downpour, blurring the nightscape in an instant.

Sheng Qingrang closed the curtains and turned on an overhead light.

A long bookshelf by the window held medical textbooks, certificates, and trophies—all belonging to the same person: Zong Ying.

Beside the shelf stood a large, old photo frame filled with pictures.

Apart from a few from childhood, Zong Ying in every subsequent photo pressed her lips into a tight line, not a trace of a smile.

A massive whiteboard against the wall was covered in newspaper clippings, pathological anatomy images, and reports. In the corner stood a skeletal model, its gaunt form exuding an eerie aura.

The first time he saw these, he had assumed the homeowner was a thin, cold, rigidly stubborn person.

Suddenly, he leaned closer to the bookshelf and spotted a tiny badge tucked in the corner behind the glass. The center read "CESA," with a line of English below it: "Extreme Sports Association."

A new discovery.

He returned to the kitchen, filled a kettle under the tap, and plugged it in. Soon, the water bubbled noisily—a lively sound.He suddenly caught a whiff of something sour. Looking down, he spotted an open takeout box in the trash bin by his feet—the food inside had already begun to spoil. After cleaning the trash bin and washing the cups, he tidied everything up just as the sudden downpour outside came to a stop.

When Zong Ying woke up again on the sofa, it was already 5:40 in the morning.

She had dreamed of riding a sled across the vast white snowfields of Lapland. The reindeer ran so fast that the sled came loose, leaving her stranded in the snow with no sense of direction—as if she had frozen to death.

Not a bad way to go, she thought.

Sitting up, she saw Sheng Qingrang seated across the coffee table reading a book under the dim glow of an overhead decorative light.

Her gaze shifted to the coffee table. Besides the "evidence" she had laid out earlier, there was now a briefcase, a leather suitcase, and a thermos cup.

Leaning forward, she picked up the cup, unscrewed the lid, and saw faint steam rise—the water was still warm.

Sheng Qingrang set down his book and waited for her to finish drinking before speaking. "If you're feeling well enough, perhaps we can now have a calm discussion."

The soft light cast a gentle glow on his face. Zong Ying suppressed her irritation, folded the blanket over her knees, and gestured for him to continue.

Sheng Qingrang opened his briefcase and took out a folded document, unfolding it in front of Zong Ying.

On the far right, written in traditional Chinese characters, were the words "Lease Agreement." To the left were smaller characters forming the body of the contract, specifying the duplex apartment in Building 699 as the subject property. The date of the agreement read—July 12, Year 21 of the Republic of China.

Year 21 of the Republic of China—1932.

Since its completion in 1931, this apartment had seen a constant flow of tenants coming and going. This expired contract held little more than historical and collectible value.

Zong Ying scrutinized it carefully and stated plainly, "It's the year 2015 now. The laws of the Republic of China no longer apply in today's China. Mr. Sheng, this contract is invalid."

"To you, Miss Zong, it may be invalid. But to me, it is still in effect." Sheng Qingrang retrieved another document. "This is a meeting record from the Shanghai Municipal Council of the International Settlement dated yesterday."

He turned the document toward her, pointing to the date—July 23, Year 26 of the Republic of China.

Then he looked up at her.

Zong Ying lowered her eyelids. "Am I to understand—" She slowed her words, seeking confirmation. "That you came from July 23, Year 26 of the Republic of China?"

"Indeed, it was yesterday for me," he confirmed without hesitation.

Zong Ying, who had been leaning slightly forward, now reclined slightly.

Sheng Qingrang glanced at his watch, confirming he still had time, and continued, "Before 10 p.m., I was still working in my own apartment. But after 10, everything around me changed." He looked around. "Into this."

Zong Ying remained silent.

"I find it equally unbelievable, but there seems to be no explanation for it yet."

"When did it start?"

"July 12."

That was the day Zong Ying had stayed at her dormitory for over ten days due to back-to-back major cases, never returning home during that time.

"If that's the case, and you arrive here every night at 10 p.m., then—" Zong Ying quickly pieced together the timeline. "Why were you in a taxi in the early hours of July 23?"Facing her "interrogation," he answered methodically: "At night, I'm usually at the apartment, though occasionally elsewhere. But no matter where I am, I always arrive punctually in the era where Miss Zong resides. That night, I was handling business in the suburbs, and at exactly ten o'clock, I came here again. The location seemed quite far from the apartment, walking would have been too slow, so I needed transportation. Hailing a cab wasn’t easy, and after walking a long distance, I nearly spent all the cash I had before finally getting a ride."

So it was the same taxi she had taken yesterday.

Zong Ying asked, "How much did you pay?"

"Two hundred and fifty yuan exactly," he replied. "I’ve recorded it in the notebook. Didn’t Miss Zong see it?"

Of course, she had seen it—she was just verifying.

The thin booklet tucked with the letter was densely filled with meticulous records.

She remembered the first entry: "Borrowed one copy of Xinhua Dictionary from the bookshelf, returned the same day."

The latest entry read: "Borrowed 250 yuan from Miss Zong to pay for the taxi fare, not yet repaid."

All written in simplified Chinese—he was accommodating the homeowner’s habits.

So there had been no need for her to thank him yesterday. After all, the money used for the fare was hers, and he was the one who had taken it without permission.

Sheng Qingrang then said, "I did act improperly by taking the homeowner’s belongings without permission, and I sincerely apologize to Miss Zong. If that’s not enough, I’m willing to compensate."

But Zong Ying wasn’t in a hurry to press the matter. Instead, she asked, "Two hundred and fifty—how long was the ride?"

"About twenty minutes. Cars nowadays are quite fast."

"You should have asked him to use the meter." Zong Ying lowered her gaze and set the thermos cup back on the coffee table. "Do you know what 250 yuan can buy?"

"There’s an all-night convenience store downstairs with marked prices. I’ve been there once," he answered logically. "Comparing the prices of daily necessities, I can roughly gauge the purchasing power of the current currency." He then took a receipt from the document folder and handed it to Zong Ying—it was for a box of milk costing 3.8 yuan.

He continued, "The fare of 250 yuan might not be reasonable in terms of distance, but at that late hour, there was no other choice."

His reasoning was sound. Zong Ying fell silent before finally saying, "You also took my spare key."

"As a precaution. If I were locked out, I’d have nowhere to stay."

"Then why did you lock the upstairs room?" Zong Ying looked up at him.

"That’s exactly what I was about to explain." He finally picked up the leather case on the table, opened it, and turned it toward Zong Ying. Inside were neatly arranged gold bars, U.S. dollars, silver coins, and legal tender. "I assume silver coins and legal tender are no longer in circulation. U.S. dollars might still be usable, but gold remains a hard currency. At least one of these should suffice."

His request was equally straightforward: "This apartment is a cherished family heirloom for Miss Zong, so I don’t presume to ask you to sell it. The upstairs room seems to have been unused for a long time. I hope Miss Zong can temporarily rent it to me."

His words were earnest, and the look he gave Zong Ying was sincere and trustworthy.

In the dim light of dawn, their conversation in the room felt like a fragment of a dream.He continued, "It's understandable that you find me untrustworthy." He glanced at his watch again, unhurried. "But soon enough, the truth of my words will be proven."

The clock hand pointed to 5:59:40.

After neatly organizing his briefcase, he sat upright and looked up. "Every morning at six, I disappear from Miss Zong's time."

"Then what if this happens?" Zong Ying's gaze turned icy as she leaned forward and grasped his hand.

A chill passed between them, and the old wall clock in the room seemed to tick faster, growing restless.

For the first time, Sheng Qingrang's usually composed face flickered with anxiety. He sternly warned, "Three seconds left. Please let go."

Zong Ying didn't release her grip.

Author's note: Mr. Sheng: I haven't mastered pinyin input yet, but I should learn it soon.

——

A few clarifications:

Disposable restraint straps have relatively weak binding force. Generally, multiple straps should be used together, otherwise someone with a bit of strength can easily break free. However, they are convenient for police officers to carry, as single-officer handcuffs are limited in number and cannot be used indiscriminately.

The all-night convenience store Mr. Sheng mentioned is likely the FamilyMart at No. 620.