Night Wanderer

After this sentence, there was a vast blank space on the paper. Zong Ying bent down and quickly flipped through the following pages—all blank with ruled lines, not a single word written.

Her hand paused mid-air as she heard Sheng Qingrang say, "I've checked the rest. There's nothing there. It seems this workbook was abandoned starting from that day."

Swallowing one's conscience, abandoning the workbook—

Combined with the clues revealed in the previous anonymous email, it was enough to rule out the possibility of Yan Man's suicide and almost certain that Xing Xueyi had been present at the scene of the accident.

What motive had kept him silent? Why did he feel guilty? Were there others at the scene?

The conjectures gradually became clearer, but evidence was still lacking.

Zong Ying set down the workbook and straightened up to look at the television screen again.

The evening news was coming to an end, replaced by a shampoo commercial. Sheng Qingrang remained seated on the sofa, looking up at her back as he said, "If Xing Xueyi's villa was set on fire deliberately, there's only one possibility—they didn't find what they were looking for. Out of guilt, they simply burned everything down."

The crucial evidence had either turned to ashes or was never there to begin with.

Zong Ying frowned, then heard him continue, "Uncovering the truth from years ago is already difficult progress. Obstacles are to be expected—don't be too troubled. I'll help you search. For now, what's important is to rest well."

As he spoke, Sheng Qingrang stood up, took a carton of milk from the fridge, poured a cup, heated it in the microwave, and placed it on the coffee table. "Drink this and get some sleep early."

He withdrew his hand. Zong Ying's gaze shifted from his bandaged hand to his face, and she replied softly, "Alright."

Receiving her response, Sheng Qingrang turned away, pausing for a few seconds before finally heading upstairs alone.

Closing the door behind him, he opened his briefcase to sort through documents. Downstairs, he heard footsteps, the sound of running water as a cup was washed, the click of lights turning off, the shutting of a door… until finally, silence.

The small lamp on the desk glowed quietly. Outside the north-facing window, broad plane tree leaves rustled gently—a peaceful night, a brief respite.

The next morning in 1937, rain fell over Shanghai again.

Sheng Qingrang busied himself with work in the apartment's study, while Zong Ying examined A Jiu in the living room. Sheng Qinghui and A Lai were in the kitchen, cooking porridge.

As she worked, Qinghui asked, "Where have you been these past couple of days, Miss Zong? I thought you weren't coming back."

Zong Ying removed her stethoscope and replied, "I went to meet a friend and handle some matters. I came back once I was done."

Half an hour earlier, Sheng Qingrang had come downstairs intending to leave the apartment, only to find Zong Ying already packed and waiting for him in the living room.

Her reason was sound—she had diagnosed and treated A Jiu's pneumonia. Having started the process, she ought to see it through to the end.

And so, they returned to 1937 without issue.

At 6:39 a.m., the rhythmic clatter of a typewriter came from the study. Qinghui asked Zong Ying again, "So, do you plan to stay in Shanghai now, or will you go abroad?"

Zong Ying placed the child back into the cradle and straightened up. "It's still uncertain."

Qinghui didn’t press further, handing the washed dishes to A Lai to set the table.

Once the table was set, Qinghui carried the pot of porridge over and called toward the study, "Third Brother, breakfast is ready."

The response from the study was, "You go ahead. Don’t wait for me."Qinghui invited Zong Ying to sit down together, thanking her for the bag of rice and canned food she had brought: "A Jiu is sick, and we were running out of food at home. If it weren't for your help, I would have been at a complete loss. This is truly timely assistance—thank you, Miss Zong."

Zong Ying replied, "Don’t thank me. It was Mr. Sheng who prepared it."

Hearing this, Qinghui glanced toward the study and lowered her voice: "The family factory is confirmed to be relocated, so Third Brother has been even busier. He hasn’t come home at night, and I don’t know if he’s been resting properly. With such heavy rain today, perhaps he can take a break at home."

Zong Ying responded with a quiet "Let’s hope so" and said no more.

Bowls and chopsticks clinked on the dining table while torrential rain poured outside.

As summer turned to autumn, the lingering wind and endless rain persisted. The war in Shanghai continued, though the roar of warplanes overhead had temporarily ceased—thick clouds and heavy rain made flying unfavorable.

This day was unusually quiet. A Jiu drank milk and fell peacefully asleep, while Qinghui and A Lai busied themselves with household chores. The door to the balcony was left open, and the morning wind carried rain that teased the curtains. The room was thick with dampness, and the long-unused gramophone played that old Shanghai melody again: "Comparing Suzhou and Hangzhou to paradise—but now they seem ordinary, while Shanghai stands even higher in the heavens..."

A faint birdcall or two rose from the desolate courtyard. Downstairs, a certain lady loudly complained about her family wasting gas. In the distance, the windows of a hotel still glowed dimly with light. Cars sped down the road, sending sheets of water splashing in their wake.

The air, thoroughly scrubbed by the rain, had lost even the faintest trace of gunpowder.

Amid the rain, all routines seemed as peaceful as before the war.

After washing the dishes, Qinghui reheated the leftover porridge in the pot and handed a bowl to Zong Ying, along with a meaningful glance.

Understanding, Zong Ying took the bowl and carried it to the study.

Sheng Qingrang had not yet finished his work. When she set the bowl beside him, he looked up and said, "Thank you," then added, "If you're tired, you should rest for a while."

Zong Ying replied, "I’m not tired."

He turned and gestured to the rattan chair by the bookshelf. "Then make yourself comfortable."

Zong Ying glanced at the chair but didn’t sit. Instead, she walked to the bookshelf, searching for something to read.

Nearly all the books were legal texts. Only after scanning row after row did she spot, tucked in a corner, a copy of Das Kapital translated by Wu Bannong, published by the Commercial Press in Shanghai.

She remembered the proposal for increased relocation funding she had seen in Sheng Qingrang’s hands days earlier—the Commercial Press was also on the relocation list.

If she recalled correctly, this publishing house, marking the dawn of China’s modern publishing industry, weathered its own storms during the war. It wouldn’t return to Shanghai until 1946, yet now it was only 1937.

What plans did Sheng Qingrang have for the turbulent years ahead?

The sound of the typewriter finally ceased. As Sheng Qingrang organized his documents, Zong Ying flipped through an old issue of Shanghai Bar Association Report , where an article titled "Interim Fee Regulations for Shanghai Lawyers" capped maximum charges—consultation fees, document review fees, court appearance fees for different types of cases, and so on. Just as she reached the line stating, "For litigation claims exceeding 50,000, the first and second trial fees shall be three percent of the claim amount..." Sheng Qingrang placed the files into his briefcase. A soft click echoed in the room—the clasp had fastened.Sheng Qingrang turned his head to look at her. Under his gaze, Zong Ying closed the report and slid it back onto the shelf.

She suddenly realized how little she actually knew about Sheng Qingrang. He knew her birthday, the challenges she faced, even her mother's past... Yet her understanding of him remained hazy at best.

All Zong Ying knew was that his background was unfortunate, his family relations strained, and that he now spent most of his days working on factory relocations. As for his attitude toward his current life or his plans for the future—she knew nothing.

He had never volunteered the information, and she had never asked.

The rain outside grew louder. Almost involuntarily, Zong Ying asked, "Before the war, were you this busy all the time too?"

"I was busy, but with different things." Sheng Qingrang didn't seem to mind her probing; in fact, he seemed willing to share. "Back then, there were many social obligations in academic and business circles, and plenty of work. Now, with the national crisis, unnecessary engagements have dwindled, and business has plummeted. These past two months, apart from Municipal Council meetings, I've only been occupied with the Relocation Committee."

"And after?" Zong Ying pressed. "Once the relocations are settled, what are your plans?"

Both knew the unspoken truth: by November, Shanghai would fall, and the foreign concessions would become isolated islands. Where to go then would be a pressing question—

Stay in Shanghai, or leave?

Her question hung in the air, answered only by the rain.

Pale daylight spilled through the window, illuminating the bowl of congee on the desk, now gone cold.

After a long silence, Zong Ying took a shallow breath and asked, "Mr. Sheng, have you ever wondered what causes you to travel between these two timelines every day?"

Sheng Qingrang had clearly given this serious thought. He pressed his lips together, thinking for a few seconds before answering, "July 12th was my first day in your era. That day was no different from any other, except for one thing."

"What was it?"

"The hallway light was broken. I replaced it."

"The hallway light?"

"Yes."

Zong Ying recalled that light. She had recognized it the first time she arrived at the 699 apartment in 1937. Back then, Sheng Qingrang had told her, "This light illuminates my path, and yours as well, Miss Zong. It's a rare kind of fate."

So was this hallway light—the one that had lit both their paths, endured the passage of time, had its bulbs replaced countless times yet remained steadfastly hanging—the key to the mystery?

"Are you saying that light is what causes you to travel between the two eras?"

"I'm not certain."

"What's the origin of that light?"

"I bought it from a Jewish shop. I don't know its exact history."

"What if you replaced it?" Zong Ying's nerves tightened further.

"I've tried." His voice was calm. "But nothing changed. I still arrived in your era."

The tension in Zong Ying's chest abruptly eased.

She paced to the doorway, looked outside, then walked back. A dramatic bolt of lightning split the sky outside, followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

When the noise subsided, Zong Ying turned to Sheng Qingrang again and asked slowly, "Even if we can't pinpoint why it started, have you ever thought about the possibility that one day, this traveling might just... stop?"

No more shuttling between timelines, no more connection to the future—stranded forever in 1937, moving forward along the path history had laid out.

Sheng Qingrang had thought about it. But he had no answer.Suddenly, the phone rang loudly. Qinghui, holding the child, called from outside, "Third Brother, it must be for you."

Sheng Qingrang hurriedly stood up to answer the call, and their conversation came to an abrupt halt.

When he returned to the study after the call, he only said his goodbyes: "I need to go to the factory to check some accounts. Please rest assured, I will definitely be back by ten." He picked up his briefcase and even thoughtfully added, "If you find the books in this cabinet dull, you can take some from that one—they're more interesting."

Zong Ying hadn't fully snapped out of the previous topic yet. Faced with his departure, she said nothing, only pulling a few pieces of dark chocolate wrapped in foil from her pocket. She stepped forward, opened his briefcase, and tucked them inside.

As Sheng Qingrang stepped out, the rain grew heavier.

Dark clouds rolled menacingly across the sky, drenching all of Shanghai in the downpour.

Four hours later, Qinghui received a call—it was from the eldest sister-in-law at the Sheng residence.

Amidst the turmoil sweeping through the city, the eldest sister-in-law had returned to Shanghai from their hometown in Jiangsu to care for her husband, who had lost both legs in a bombing, and to hold the family together.

She was also worried about Qinghui, hence the call, urging her to bring the child and come home.

Qinghui argued over the phone, "Second Sister won’t allow me to return."

The eldest sister-in-law replied calmly, "Of course she opposes such a major decision made so hastily—she’s afraid you can’t bear the responsibility. She’s impulsive, and if you stubbornly clash with her, you’ll only make things worse. Qinghui, running away isn’t the solution."

Qinghui faltered, "B-but what else can I do? She’s so stubborn! She said she’d cut ties, so there’s no choice but to cut ties!"

The eldest sister-in-law spoke gently, "With the nation in crisis, should our family remain divided like this? Is that right?"

Qinghui had no answer. The eldest sister-in-law continued, "I’ve already sent the driver to pick you up. Pack your things and bring the child home. I’ll speak to your Third Brother tonight, and as for your Second Sister—don’t worry. Trust me, my word still carries weight in this family."

The eldest sister-in-law had always spoken with steady composure. Qinghui, deflated, could only bow her head and agree, "Alright."

Hanging up, she turned to Zong Ying. "Miss Zong, I might have to go home."

Zong Ying was slightly surprised, but after hearing Qinghui recount the eldest sister-in-law’s words, she understood the situation.

If the eldest sister-in-law truly had influence in the family, then Qinghui’s return was undoubtedly the safer choice—given her own financial and living circumstances, she simply couldn’t raise two children alone.

This was a mess Zong Ying had brought upon her, so she couldn’t just walk away.

Zong Ying asked first, "Do you want to go back?"

Qinghui bit her lip, frowning in thought. Her biggest concern had always been Second Sister’s opposition. If the eldest sister-in-law approved, she wasn’t against returning home.

Seeing her nod, Zong Ying bent down to help gather the clothes from the sofa. "Good. I’ll go back with you."

Traveling in the rain was inconvenient, and the car arrived late.

A Lai led the way, Qinghui followed closely with A Jiu in her arms, and Zong Ying carried two wicker suitcases at the rear.

Mr. Ye from the service office held an umbrella, escorting them one by one into the car.The rain and mist were hazy, with intermittent thunder and lightning. Qinghui's thin face pressed against the car window as she absentmindedly patted the child in her arms, her gaze drifting outside.

Beneath the awnings of roadside shops, refugees huddled together to escape the rain—the weather had already turned cold, yet the children still wore thin clothes, staring longingly through the curtain of rain, waiting for it to end, though no one knew how long it would last.

Qinghui suddenly felt an unprecedented discomfort. The early autumn of Shanghai in her memory had never been this cold before.

By the time they arrived at the Sheng residence, it was already afternoon.

The family had just finished lunch, and aside from the children, no one had gone for a nap.

Outside the small building, the dense green shade of the trees was relentlessly battered by the rain, inevitably showing signs of wear. The entrance was damp, the carpet covered in messy footprints that hadn’t yet been cleaned. A few umbrellas leaned against the door, a puddle of water pooling beneath them.

The dim light of the overcast sky cast the living room in gloom. Everyone sat on the sofa, waiting for Qinghui’s return, the atmosphere unusually silent.

Zong Ying carried the wicker suitcase to the door but noticed Qinghui hesitating to step inside. It wasn’t until a servant called out, “Fifth Miss is back,” that she finally crossed the threshold.

The moment Qinghui entered, A Jiu in her arms suddenly burst into loud cries. Second Sister, seated on the sofa, was the first to frown. Second Sister's Husband sat indifferently, while Eldest Brother coughed in his wheelchair. Only Eldest Sister-in-law stood up, instructing the nanny nearby, “Zhang Ma, take the child to rest first. We have matters to discuss.”

The nanny hurried forward, trying to take the child from Qinghui’s arms. After hesitating for a long while and hearing the nanny repeatedly reassure her, “Fifth Miss, don’t worry. I raised you myself, didn’t I?” Qinghui finally handed the child over.

Eldest Sister-in-law then glanced at Zong Ying outside the door and politely inquired, “And you are?”

Before Zong Ying could answer, Second Sister spoke first, “The doctor who amputated Eldest Brother’s leg.”

Eldest Sister-in-law paused slightly but quickly said, “It’s raining outside—too damp. Please, come in.”

Zong Ying entered, and a servant immediately stepped forward to take the wicker suitcase from her. Eldest Sister also invited her to sit.

But Zong Ying stood by Qinghui’s side, subtly squeezing her hand. Qinghui gathered her courage and said, “Running away from home without warning was my fault. But I’m an adult now, and I have the right to make my own decisions. Forcing me out without discussion, even insulting two innocent children—that was wrong.”

Second Sister, hearing the accusation directed at her, immediately pointed at Qinghui and snapped, “You’re pushing it—”

“Sheng Qing Ping.” Eldest Sister-in-law only said this name, and Second Sister immediately fell silent, swallowing her anger and clasping her hands, her elbows resting on the armrest of the sofa.

Clearly, before Qinghui’s arrival, Eldest Sister-in-law had already persuaded Second Sister. No matter how dissatisfied she was, she had to hold it in.

Still, Eldest Sister-in-law reprimanded Qinghui, giving Second Sister a way to save face: “Adopting two children is no small matter. With your current means, you can’t support them. Leaving this home to go to your Third Brother isn’t independence—you’re still relying on others, aren’t you?”

Qinghui lowered her head slightly and admitted, “Yes.”

“From now on, discuss things properly. Don’t let momentary anger lead to such extremes. A family should act like a family.” Eldest Sister-in-law then turned to Second Sister. “And don’t be too harsh on Third Brother. If his sincerity is always met with coldness, it will eventually fade.”The second sister turned her face away, her pride still somewhat bruised, but her arrogance was nothing like before. Caring for her sick son had left her with a gaunt face that, in the dim light, looked quite haggard.

As the eldest sister-in-law finished speaking, the rain outside continued to pour relentlessly.

Just then, a servant rushed downstairs in a panic, her voice unusually urgent: "Young Master A Hui has suddenly developed a fever!"

Counting the days, it had been six since the illness began. After A Hui was sent to the cholera hospital, the second sister, fearing he might contract something worse there, had insisted on bringing him home as soon as he showed signs of improvement, despite objections.

This morning, he had seemed nearly recovered—yet now, the sudden fever struck. The second sister was frantic and immediately stood up to go upstairs. But as she passed Zong Ying, she pleaded, "Dr. Zong, could you come up and take a look?"

Qinghui strongly disliked this kind of behavior from her, but with a life at stake, she couldn’t interfere. She could only warn Zong Ying, "Miss Zong, be careful."

Without a word, Zong Ying went upstairs. She asked about A Hui’s temperature and his recovery over the past few days, conducted a brief examination, then stepped out to wash her hands.

By then, nearly the entire family had gathered upstairs, watching as Zong Ying bent over the sink, silently and meticulously scrubbing her hands.

The second sister asked anxiously, "Why aren’t you saying anything?"

Zong Ying reached out to turn off the faucet and replied calmly, "Cholera patients, especially children, go through a reactive phase before full recovery. A fever is normal—it will subside on its own within one to three days. There’s no need to worry."

The second sister pressed, "Are you sure?"

Zong Ying turned to face her. "I’m certain."

The second sister exhaled sharply in relief and immediately turned back toward the room. But at the doorway, she suddenly paused, hesitated for a long moment, and then awkwardly said to Zong Ying, "Thank you."

Zong Ying, still holding her hands up out of habit, let the water trickle from her wrists to her elbows, dripping onto the floor. She didn’t have time to respond.

Just then, the eldest sister-in-law approached and handed her a towel.

Professional habit made Zong Ying reluctant to dry her hands with a towel, but she took it anyway.

The eldest sister-in-law waited until she had dried her hands before speaking. "My husband has always been proud, and losing his legs is hard for him to accept. But I understand—this is already the best possible outcome. If he has been rude to you, please forgive him. And thank you, for saving his life."

Zong Ying wanted to respond, but she was terrible at these kinds of exchanges.

Suddenly, a servant came clattering up the stairs, her voice frantic: "Madam, the factory called! They said the factory in Zhabei was bombed—the office building behind the main plant has completely collapsed!"

The eldest sister-in-law instinctively clenched her fists but kept her voice steady. "Third Brother went to the factory today, didn’t he?"

The servant nodded desperately. "They said the Third Young Master was in that building!"

A bolt of lightning flashed through the hall, illuminating it for an instant before plunging it back into darkness.

Even the usually composed eldest sister-in-law suddenly sounded urgent. "Quick, tell Uncle Yao to go to the factory!"

No sooner had she spoken than Zong Ying rushed downstairs.