The low, hoarse voice upon waking carried a hint of exhaustion, and her breathing was slow and labored.
In the pitch-black darkness, Sheng Qingrang noticed that her hand felt cool, seemingly softer than usual. Only when the thin calluses on her fingertips pressed firmly against his palm did he sense the strength she always conveyed.
The living room was silent except for the ticking of the clock. Sheng Qingrang sat down, placing his briefcase on his knees, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly as he quietly kept her company.
They stayed like this until exactly ten o'clock, when the chime of the mantel clock signaled a sudden shift in everything.
The sound echoing in her ears was the ten o'clock chime of 2015. Even with her eyes closed, Zong Ying knew she had returned.
As the final chime faded, Zong Ying abruptly released his hand and sat up, pressing her palms to her forehead. "Mr. Sheng, could you turn on the light, please?"
Her sudden withdrawal left Sheng Qingrang momentarily dazed, but he quickly stood up to switch on the living room light before returning to the sofa. "Miss Zong, how are you feeling now?" he asked.
The room brightened instantly. Zong Ying lowered her hands and looked up. "Nothing serious," she murmured, her voice still subdued. "Just a slight fever and some upper respiratory inflammation—probably caught a chill last night. It's nothing."
As she spoke, she instinctively reached for the cigarette box on the coffee table, hooking a finger to pull one out. But after extracting only the filter, she abruptly shoved it back and stood up, heading to the storage room.
Sheng Qingrang watched as she wheeled out an IV stand, rummaged through the cabinet for an IV bag and a medical tray, then swiftly tore open the packaging of the infusion set. She inserted one end of the needle into the IV bag and hung it on the stand with practiced ease.
Leaning against the cabinet door, she tightened a tourniquet, methodically sterilized the area, expelled the air from the tubing, and under the overhead light, inserted the other end of the needle into the vein on the back of her hand.
She kept her head bowed throughout the process, only looking up at the Murphy drip once the needle was secured.
The transparent fluid dripped steadily as she pushed the IV stand into the kitchen to boil water.
The window had been left open all day, and dozens of tiny insects swarmed around the warm glow of the light bulb. A mosquito perched shamelessly on Zong Ying's bare forearm, feasting on her blood. By the time she noticed, it had already drunk its fill and fled at top speed.
Fever dulled her reflexes. Zong Ying ignored the rapidly swelling red bump on her skin and turned to look outside.
The cool breeze of late summer drifted in, and the dimly lit night carried a hint of solitude.
The sound of boiling water mingled with the long-absent chirping of insects outside—a sound Zong Ying remembered from childhood. Perhaps it had persisted over the years, but she had stopped noticing.
Lost in thought, she barely registered Sheng Qingrang approaching to close the sixteen-pane window.
The night had grown colder, the wind damp and chilly—hardly conducive to recovery. After shutting the window, he poured the boiled water into a glass to cool for her.
Zong Ying glanced at the glass, then pushed the IV stand back to the sofa and sat down. Picking up the remote, she turned on the TV and flipped to a random channel, where a stern-faced male anchor delivered the late-night news.
Sheng Qingrang set the glass of water in front of her. "Sit," Zong Ying said.
He took a seat beside her. As she opened a medicine box and popped two capsules from their foil blister, he assumed she was about to take them. Instead, she suddenly turned to him and commanded, "Open your mouth."He was taken aback but obediently opened his mouth. Zong Ying fed him two capsules and handed him a glass of water before explaining, "Antibiotics, just as a precaution." She added, "Oral cholera vaccines aren’t easy to get, but I think you might need one. I’ll try to get some when I have time."
Sheng Qingrang looked at her, swallowing the two capsules with the still-warm water.
She then peeled open another foil packet, popping two pills into her own mouth before taking the glass from him. She took a quick sip, frowned slightly at the heat, swallowed hastily, set the glass down, and closed her eyes.
The TV in the living room played at a moderate volume, the steady, articulate voice of a male newsreader filling the room. Gradually, Zong Ying’s breathing slowed.
Sheng Qingrang glanced up at the IV bag hanging from the stand, watching as the fluid quietly dripped into her veins. She sat upright against the sofa, her calm face betraying deep exhaustion.
For a fleeting moment, he had the sudden urge to gently pull her head onto his shoulder.
Startled by his own thought, Sheng Qingrang quickly rubbed his temples to clear his mind. But before he could even count to ten, his right shoulder suddenly bore a weight—Zong Ying’s head rested against him, her eyes shut tight, silent as if asleep.
Her hair was soft against his skin, carrying a faint scent of shampoo, while her clothes smelled of disinfectant.
His heart tensed momentarily before relaxing. He looked down at her—her long lashes lay perfectly still, her nostrils barely moving with each breath, her lips still pressed tightly together.
A sense of comfort and reassurance welled up inside him, and he selfishly wished time would slow down.
But the IV bag would eventually empty, and the news on TV reached its conclusion—it was time to wake her.
Before he could say anything, however, Zong Ying abruptly sat up, tore off the tape on her hand, pressed an alcohol swab to the spot, and deftly pulled out the needle.
After disposing of the waste, she turned and met Sheng Qingrang’s gaze. A second of awkwardness flickered before she masked it, casually remarking, "It’s late. Wash up and get some rest. A Jiu’s condition needs constant monitoring—wake me before you leave tomorrow morning."
With that, she avoided his eyes and headed to the bathroom.
She hadn’t been fully asleep earlier, hovering between consciousness and drowsiness, aware of her actions yet allowing herself to lean against him—an odd surrender to some subconscious impulse.
From their first meeting in July until now, such a short time wasn’t enough to truly know someone.
Yet, despite their limited time together, there were moments that moved him—though in their current circumstances, it was hard to say whether that was good or bad.
Seventy-odd years ago, in Shanghai, the disaster continued.
The bombings and battles in Zhabei grew fiercer. Crops ready for harvest lay wasted in the war-torn fields, foreshadowing a looming food crisis. Life for those still living in the area would only grow harder.
Three days later, on September 19th, 1937, the Mid-Autumn Festival arrived.
That morning, Qinghui went out early to buy rice but returned empty-handed, her neat short hair slightly disheveled. Unable to hide her frustration, she complained, "The rice was gone the moment it arrived—I couldn’t grab any. Someone even pulled my hair. Ridiculous!" Noticing Zong Ying checking on A Jiu, she steadied herself and asked, "How is A Jiu doing?"Zong Ying removed the stethoscope and said, "Gradual improvement, quite stable."
Qinghui let out a deep sigh of relief. "There's still half a bag of flour at home. If we ration it carefully, it should last us a while."
She placed the keys on the entryway cabinet and glanced up at the calendar, sighing again. "It's already Mid-Autumn Festival. School was supposed to start today, but I suppose it won’t happen now. On my way back, I ran into an old classmate from middle school. They said Fudan and Datong couldn’t start classes either—apparently, they’re planning a joint relocation inland… Ah, everything’s moving inland. Do you think the fighting will reach there?"
She turned to look at Zong Ying, but received no response. So she consoled herself, "It must just be a temporary measure. They’ll move back eventually, don’t you think, Miss Zong?"
Zong Ying neither agreed nor disagreed. After a moment’s hesitation, she only asked, "This war might not end soon. Qinghui, have you considered leaving Shanghai?"
Qinghui fell silent, clearly unwilling to answer. Her life had always been neatly arranged for her, and now, raising two children alone was already a bold act of rebellion. Leaving Shanghai? That seemed even more terrifying and unfamiliar than fleeing disaster.
After a long pause, she finally looked up and said, "Wherever Third Brother goes, I’ll go. I’ll follow Third Brother."
Deep down, she still relied on others—too young, lacking the experience and ability to face the world alone. It was a perfectly normal reaction.
Zong Ying didn’t press further.
Suddenly, Qinghui pulled a few tickets from her small bag. "Third Brother gave me these yesterday. He said the Municipal Orchestra is holding a charity concert tonight at the Nanjing Grand Theatre. I’ll stay home with the kids, so you and Third Brother should go."
She seemed eager to bring Zong Ying and Sheng Qingrang together and added, "It’s really a shame. In past years, Mid-Autumn Festival would’ve been so lively. But this year, so many events have been canceled. Otherwise, Third Brother might’ve taken you to see fireworks! Now, there are no fireworks—only gunfire."
Celebrations during wartime were merely symbolic, sparse and quiet, like flowers blooming in a desert.
Since Qinghui and the children weren’t going to the concert, only Sheng Qingrang and Zong Ying would attend. He finished his work and hurried home by evening. With taxis hard to find and time tight, he borrowed a bicycle from the service office.
One foot planted firmly on the ground, the other on the pedal, he gestured for Zong Ying to climb on.
She gave him a quick glance, then wordlessly took her seat on the back. The moment his foot left the ground and pressed down on the pedal, her right arm wrapped tightly around his waist.
The warmth through his shirt felt safer somehow.
The faint scent of gunpowder lingered in the air, and the quiet hum of the bicycle wheels was unusually clear on the empty road. As they rode out of the alley, a glance back revealed moonlight spilling over the entire lane.
A flickering light clung to the back of his shirt—Zong Ying looked closer and realized it was the last firefly of late summer, resting quietly, gathering its glow.
The concert hall was far from full. During holidays in such uncertain times, most people chose to stay home.
Still, the Municipal Orchestra gave their all to the performance, raising funds for charity.
Because of the curfew, the concert ended early, wrapping up shortly after nine. After exchanging quick farewells with acquaintances, everyone hurried out of the theatre and headed home.The crowd dispersed, and Zong Ying stood in a corner sipping on a bottle of soda. The recipe was over seventy years old, its taste slightly different from modern versions, but still sweet and effervescent, the bubbles delightfully fizzy.
She glanced at her watch—9:50 PM—and noticed Sheng Qingrang still engaged in casual conversation with a colleague from the Municipal Council not far away.
Another minute passed before Sheng Qingrang finally extricated himself and wheeled his bicycle toward her.
The streets had grown quiet, the distant echo of gunfire faintly audible—perhaps a minor skirmish.
Zong Ying climbed onto the bicycle, one arm wrapping around his waist, the other gripping the soda bottle tightly.
As they rode, the night shifted around them, dim and subdued due to power shortages, with only the moonlight offering any extravagance. Yet, as they pedaled on, the surroundings suddenly brightened, and even the city’s scent seemed to transform in an instant.
In the distance, the Oriental Pearl Tower glowed against the night sky. Unlike the full moon of 1937, tonight in 2015, the moon was but a slender crescent, nearly invisible amidst the city’s dazzling lights.
The world had changed in the blink of an eye.
The breeze was cool yet gentle. Cars streamed steadily along the motorway while they rode leisurely on the narrow path beside it, overtaking late-night strollers and occasionally being outpaced by a few speeding electric scooters.
Zong Ying’s gaze swept over a lit-up building in the distance, and she abruptly called for a stop.
Sheng Qingrang braked sharply, following her line of sight.
Atop a high-rise, a massive illuminated logo read—
“SINCERE New Hope Pharmaceuticals”
The bold English letters gleamed, each one radiant.
Sincere —a word embodying the founding principles and ethos of New Hope—now glaringly ironic in the wake of the exposed drug data fraud.
A shadow of sorrow flickered in Zong Ying’s eyes.
Author’s Note:
Xue Xuanqing: Ugh, so old-fashioned. Why ride a bicycle?
Republican-era boy: Bicycles were expensive and fashionable back then, don’t talk nonsense—
When Fudan University reopened at the time, very few students had returned, and the Ministry of Education soon ordered an inland relocation. Initially, four universities—Fudan, Datong, Daxia, and Guanghua—were slated to move, but Datong and Guanghua withdrew due to lack of funding, leaving only Fudan and Daxia to relocate.
As for the Municipal Council’s concert, attendance was still over half, though significantly lower than usual.
The Nanjing Grand Theatre mentioned here is now the Shanghai Concert Hall, very close to Apartment 699—just a 20-minute bike ride away.
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