Chapter 11

The snow crushed the aluminum alloy rack on the fifth floor used for flowerpots. Half the screws were loose, and four or five large pots lined up, falling one after another and smashing the clothes drying rack on the fourth floor. They broke the awning at Tu Qin’s place, and finally the whole mess tumbled down onto the car below.

The car let out a piercing screech and then died on the spot.

The neighborhood chat group buzzed as if it were a Spring Festival Gala. More than half the buildings in their community were multi-story, and there was no rule banning the installation of racks on exterior walls. Many buildings had the same problem as theirs. Mo City hadn’t seen such heavy snowfall in years, and this time, many storage racks buckled under the weight. Car alarms blared repeatedly in the neighborhood below. The chat group was already full of discussions on how insurance would cover this kind of damage.

Then someone mentioned the electric bike shed in the center of the community had also collapsed.

Someone else shared a news report from Mo City: a heavy snowstorm had turned New Year’s Eve into a night filled with traffic accidents, falling objects from high places, slips and falls, burst water pipes, and countless other disasters—both natural and manmade.

Tu Qin held her phone, hesitating for a long time before deciding to go downstairs and check on her car.

Mo City hadn’t had such heavy snow in years, and she had no experience dealing with it. She first looked up on the internet what to do when parking a car outdoors during snowfall. Among the many precautions, she picked out what she could do herself. Fully dressed and armed, with a handful of dry towels to wrap around the headlights, she headed downstairs.

Her parking spot was a bit far from Building Five, away from the building and without trees overhead, so there was no risk of falling debris. It was just a difficult walk through the snow.

Near midnight, the streets of the community were silent except for the muffled thuds of snow sliding off roofs and the occasional crackle of firecrackers. It was so quiet she could even hear the sound of snowflakes falling on her waterproof jacket.

The snow had piled thickly on the ground, some of it muddied and compressed into icy puddles by chaotic footprints and tire tracks, cold and slippery to the touch.

Tu Qin carefully avoided the puddles, stepping on the clean, soft snow with focused attention.

She was a little nervous.

Mainly afraid of slipping and getting dirty—water was cut off in the community, and she didn’t want to spend New Year’s Day filthy.

The snow she could walk on was scattered unevenly across the road, and suddenly she found a rhythm hopping from one pavement brick to another. Though she’d never liked snow, in this quiet night, with scattered steps, she inexplicably felt a touch of joy.

So when, on her next leap, she unexpectedly landed in front of a man and looked up to see his face, a single word flashed through her mind:

Fate.

And it was fate, accompanied by a quickened heartbeat and swirling snowflakes, with an especially atmospheric feeling.

At that very moment, a few beautiful fireworks exploded in the sky.

As an author who never wrote romance novels, Tu Qin felt that not saying “Happy New Year” here would be a disservice to the setting and atmosphere.

But in the next second, she saw the man furrow his brow and gently pull her aside.

A large chunk of snow, along with a broken tree branch, crashed down where they had just been standing—and now they were standing in a puddle.

Tu Qin: “...”

She had bought snow boots two or three years ago but never worn them—and they weren’t waterproof.

The cold rapidly spread through her soles, snapping her out of the momentary sense of fate. She steadied herself on a clean pile of snow, stamped the snow off her foot, and said thanks to the man.

“In weather like this, try to walk in the middle of the road. The sides are more likely to have things fall,” he said, nodding to her before turning to leave.

He didn’t tell her it was best not to go out in this weather; he assumed anyone out in such conditions must have pressing matters.

Nor did he ask what such urgent matter could be, since everyone’s definition of urgency differs.

This considerate, non-intrusive communication made Tu Qin feel comfortable, so she called out to him, “Hey.”

He turned back.

Actually, he looked somewhat disheveled, with a bruise on his cheek and damp hair hanging over his forehead. His black wool coat wasn’t really meant for this weather, and under the streetlights and snow, it shimmered with a fuzzy reflection.

But his complexion was better than the two other times she had seen him—at least he didn’t seem feverish.

On a New Year’s Eve night, both of them looked far from the image of people with normal family lives—her jumping around holding towels in the community streets at midnight, and him like this.

“Um…” Tu Qin pointed toward Building Five. “Are you going there?”

He was indeed headed in that direction.

“Yeah,” he answered, standing naturally beneath the heavy snow, patiently waiting for her to speak again.

“The water’s cut off in the community,” Tu Qin said. “You should buy some drinking water before going up.”

She recalled the unfinished apartment she had glimpsed that day, unsure if the other two units were also bare. He looked like someone who just wanted a place to shower and crash for the night.

On New Year’s Eve, no less.

And without water.

That was really unfortunate.

The man clearly hesitated, his expression blank for a moment.

Truly unfortunate.

“Go out the east gate. Across the street there’s a budget hotel,” Tu Qin offered. “It’s new this year, fairly clean—good enough for one night.”

It was also unfortunate, but at least the hotel had hot water.

His expression remained blank: “I don’t have my ID.”

Tu Qin: “...Oh.”

Nearby, something else broke under the weight of the snow—a creak followed by a muffled crash hitting the ground.

Then the quiet world seemed to switch on a new setting. The entire sky brightened with sudden fireworks blooming; snowflakes spun and drifted down, settling on their heads.

It was midnight.

They had seen off a snowstorm-ravaged New Year’s Eve and welcomed a New Year’s Day still blanketed in heavy snow.

The two looked at each other in the firelight and smoke. The man stepped forward, extending his left hand.

“Xie Zhailing. Zhailing as in the study, and ling as in a boat.”

Tu Qin, who had just been researching Song Dynasty ships for her last novel, quickly understood the meaning of his name.

Zhailing, like a study ship, referred to a large boat with windows.

Why would someone be named after a large boat?

“Tu Qin,” she replied, extending her right hand. “Qin as in the herb.”

Their hands were cold as they shook politely.

***

By normal social standards, they should have exchanged names the very first time they met.

More introverted people would have done so by the third time they realized they were neighbors.

But here they were at this moment—between the old year and the new—both looking so out of place in the world, and Xie Zhailing took the initiative to introduce himself.

It was abrupt.

Yet not awkward.

Quite remarkable.

Tu Qin watched Xie Zhailing crouch to fix the car’s headlight cover and help her raise the windshield strip. After taking care of the car, she naturally followed him to the nearby 24-hour convenience store. They both bought water; he also picked up two bags of dumplings, a small pot, and a stack of bowls and chopsticks.

Tu Qin glanced at the dumplings, then turned to pick up a bag of dumplings and two bags of rice cakes for herself.

Though southern people didn’t have to eat dumplings for New Year, Mo City didn’t seem to have other festive foods that made the holiday feel special. She had plenty of other food at home and just wanted the rice cakes as a token.

Xie Zhailing glanced at the rice cakes, then turned to grab a bag of rice cakes and a bag of glutinous rice balls for himself.

Tu Qin: “...”

She nearly smiled, hiding it by pressing her lips together and curling the corners slightly.

Truly pitiful.

Two people without family for New Year’s Eve, buying festive food only by sneaking peeks at each other’s shopping baskets.

Xie Zhailing smiled too, but not discreetly. He bent his mouth corners as he picked up a box of iodine cotton balls at the checkout.

They paid separately and walked out of the store together.

The snow continued, shifting from heavy flakes to fine grains. After midnight, fewer people set off fireworks, and a thin new layer of snow began to cover the ground, making it even more slippery.

Xie Zhailing let Tu Qin walk behind him, treading on untouched snow beside the road, while she stepped in his footprints.

“Did you move in?” Tu Qin asked. “I’ve seen the lights on upstairs these past few days.”

A strange harmony filled the air, as natural as when they had pretended to be acquainted in front of the driver. She asked the question casually, and Xie Zhailing showed little reaction.

He nodded. “I’m staying temporarily for a few days, in 201. That unit was a finished apartment before purchase and livable.”

That meant he lived right next door.

Passing the guard post at the community entrance, Tu Qin asked, “Have you joined the neighborhood chat group?”

This time, Xie Zhailing didn’t answer immediately. A few steps past the post, he said, “Not yet.”

Tu Qin hummed softly, saying nothing more.

“I probably won’t stay here long,” he added.

Buying this entire floor was his obsession, but living here meant facing the ginkgo tree outside the window—a reminder of memories he didn’t want to revisit for long.

If not to avoid the Liu family pestering him, he wouldn’t have moved here.

Tu Qin nodded again, not pursuing the topic.

She was curious why he owned three apartments but neither planned to live in, sell, nor rent them out. Mo City’s real estate had grown a lot in value recently—owning three properties was a substantial investment.

She hadn’t expected pottery to be so lucrative.

But these were not questions to ask; she had no habit of prying into others’ privacy.

In the quiet, Tu Qin realized the snow was truly excessive. The snow grains were dry; the community’s greenery was nothing but white under the streetlights, sparkling faintly.

It was said the city center had the least snow, while the suburbs and mountains were buried under blizzard conditions.

The production crew filming her “divine descent” drama would have to wait until the snow melted before resuming outdoor shoots—probably not before the Lantern Festival.

Lost in these thoughts, she followed Xie Zhailing into the building and upstairs.

He stopped at the door of 201 but didn’t go in immediately.

Tu Qin thought for a moment, wished him a Happy New Year, and pressed her fingerprint to unlock the door.

“Miss Tu,” Xie Zhailing called after her.

She turned.

“Can I add you on WeChat?” he asked.

No explanation for why he wanted to add her.

Tu Qin hesitated briefly, then pulled out her phone, displayed her QR code, and handed it to him.

He added her, returned her phone, and also said Happy New Year.

They each entered their own homes.

Tu Qin took all the slippers piled in her shoe cabinet and lined them up neatly by the entrance—all hers, scented with her perfume.

Knowing she wasn’t the only occupant on the second floor anymore, she realized she was starting to get a bit territorial again. She had already ordered several shoe cabinets to place in the hallway.

Her desire to claim space was resurfacing.

But this time it wasn’t severe. After all, 201 was separated from her unit by a hallway; even the balconies didn’t adjoin. Once inside, they didn’t share a single wall.

Besides, Xie Zhailing wasn’t unpleasant.

Just a little...

Tilting her head, Tu Qin opened his WeChat profile. As expected, his Moments were filled with photos of pottery—mostly vases. They looked expensive, though not the kind of glass bottles that would make her eyes light up, but thickly colored ceramic pots.

His WeChat name was a capital “S,” and his profile picture was a cartoon poop—a black pile tied down with many white threads.

Zooming in, she saw the word “shit” written on the black pile.

Tu Qin: “...”

Truly fitting for his eccentric persona.