Chapter Fourteen

Page 1/3

Tu Qin hadn’t initially planned to go downstairs. She and Xie Zhailing weren’t close enough, and to be honest, his behavior now was somewhat frightening. She had been serializing horror stories recently, and Xie Zhailing, standing by the ginkgo tree as if nailed there, resembled one of the earth-bound spirits she wrote about—souls entangled in endless karmic ties, unable to break free.

Besides, the community had property management patrolling, though with the New Year and snow disaster, staffing was severely short. Tu Qin just held her cup of water, staring at the man beneath the ginkgo tree. She watched his hand trace the tree’s trunk inch by inch, as if searching for the grain, occasionally pausing to caress the rough, cracked bark.

The dim streetlights of the neighborhood, reflected on the snow and obscured by branches, cast a faint, shadowy glow on Xie Zhailing. Unaccountably, Tu Qin recalled the first time she saw him—then, too, his body was segmented by patches of light and shadow like a jigsaw puzzle, marking the first time she saw a tangible fracture in a living person.

Xie Zhailing was unlike most people.

Most in this world, including Tu Qin herself, kept moving forward, unaware of what lay ahead, but no one stopped. Therefore, most eyes held either curiosity or hope—glimmers collectively called vitality.

But Xie Zhailing’s eyes lacked this. In every meeting, his gaze was a deep, dark void; although his words and actions seemed normal, there was no light in his eyes. No curiosity, no hope, no life.

He carried a story.

As someone who made a living from telling stories, Tu Qin was deeply curious about him. So she held her cup until the hot tea inside cooled, watching as Xie Zhailing turned, leaned against the tree trunk, and slowly slid down to sit. Then, he stopped moving.

Tu Qin: “...”

It was almost four in the morning. Their community’s property fees were low, and during the Spring Festival, only four rotating security guards were on duty, clearly not patrolling in such weather at this hour. The temperature was definitely below freezing; recent days had seen icy roads and low-temperature warnings. This pre-dawn hour was the coldest.

Yet Xie Zhailing sat carelessly on the snowy ground by the tree, elbows resting on knees, motionless, like a monk in deep meditation.

Tu Qin thought that in such cold, sitting in meditation for half an hour might well lead to instant enlightenment or transcendence.

Not going downstairs to meddle in cold weather was one thing; watching someone sit there to die was another.

Tu Qin pulled out her phone and sent a question mark to the contact named “S” on WeChat but got no response. She sighed, went inside to change into a set of house clothes suitable for going out, put on the thickest and longest down jacket at home, and headed downstairs.

After the New Year’s Eve, Tu Qin hadn’t gone out except to take out the trash. When she opened the stairwell door and dashed out, the expensive yet leaking snow boots instantly reminded her of the piercing cold that day.

...

These boots were absurd—just a few steps and they would soak through.

The closing door made Xie Zhailing sitting by the tree lift his head. Seeing Tu Qin running over in an oversized white down jacket, he instinctively wanted to check the time on his phone—but his pockets were empty; he hadn’t brought it.

Was it dawn or dusk?

Was she habitually an early riser, or simply not sleeping?

She came closer, bent down, stared at him for a while, then raised her phone, screen glowing with the dial interface for emergency services, and asked, “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

The screen showed 120, but the call hadn’t been made.

Xie Zhailing blinked.

He wasn’t okay. After taking medicine and falling asleep, he had been trapped in nightmares filled with noisy voices: the child telling him, “I’m leaving,” the old master saying, “Pottery requires patience; you have a better temperament and are more suited than him,” and many indistinct faces saying, “Your surname isn’t Liu; you’re just an abandoned child. You shouldn’t learn these things. You’re an interloper, scheming, driving him away. You tore apart a good family and should take responsibility. The Liu family’s downfall is your fault.”

Ungrateful wretch, an orphan is just an orphan, fate is sealed from birth. The old master shouldn’t have taken in this child and brought misfortune upon the whole family.

These words echoed in his mind, repeating endlessly. Some he had heard for years and thought he had become numb to, but they had instead become a curse he couldn’t escape. Others were things he never dared to think about but never forgot.

Finally, in the darkness, he saw the ginkgo tree again, the child being punished by the old master to copy books, sneaking downstairs to laze under the tree, while he sat obediently by the attic window, helping copy.

“I hid a secret on the tree trunk,” the child said. “If I ever disappear, you have to help me erase that secret so no one else sees it.”

Page 2/3

Suddenly, Xie Zhailing jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. The child had been designated heir to the family craft at a young age, living under great pressure. He had a lively, playful personality and disliked quietly making pottery. Thus, in his memories, the child had hidden many small secrets in various odd places—typical for a child under ten, containing emotional outlets and hiding spots for favorite toys.

Xie Zhailing had searched many such secret places and found fragmented clues related to the child’s disappearance, but all were inconclusive.

He had indeed forgotten about the ginkgo tree.

The instant he recalled it, his entire body stiffened.

Perhaps that was the last clue—maybe the child truly left a mark on the tree trunk indicating where he went.

He knew this was a delusion. Twenty years had passed; even the sharp letters he carved with a small knife had faded. The marks carved by the child with a key were unlikely to be found.

Yet he couldn’t help but get up and search the tree trunk inch by inch.

There was definitely nothing.

Exhausted, he slid down, too tired to even move a finger or want to.

He knew he still had a fever and that sitting here in such cold and dampness could cause serious trouble, but he still didn’t want to move. The voices in his head would not leave him.

For so many years, whether awake or asleep, those voices were always there; he couldn’t stop them or escape.

He was very tired, especially under this tree.

“Dust settled, completely giving up”—those eight words felt like a tangible weight, pinning him down.

Until Tu Qin ran over, shaking her phone with the 120 dial-up screen, asking, “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

It seemed that when they first met, Jin Kui had said she wanted to call an ambulance for him.

He looked into her eyes.

They were clear, her emotions unmasked. She didn’t understand why he was just sitting there under the tree, but she was worried.

This emotion pulled him back to reality. This was no longer the childhood ginkgo tree hiding secrets. This was Happiness Community. The person bending over to look at him was his neighbor, living in unit 203, where his attic had been.

The voices around him vanished for a moment, giving him a brief chance to relax and breathe.

“If I go to the hospital, things will get worse,” he smiled faintly. “I’m fine. The water hasn’t been cut off today either.”

“Uh?” Tu Qin didn’t understand.

“My pants are wet; I can shower when I get back,” Xie Zhailing explained.

“…Ah.” Tu Qin couldn’t grasp that humor but tugged up the corner of her mouth in a smile.

The atmosphere eased somewhat. Still half a stranger, she straightened up and asked, “Can you stand up by yourself?”

Or would he wait until his pants were completely soaked before getting up?

Xie Zhailing steadied himself on his knees, leaned on the tree trunk, and stood.

Tu Qin breathed a sigh of relief.

Her breath hadn’t fully settled when a question arose: what now?

Normally, they would go upstairs, return to their own homes, and he would thank her again.

But she had changed clothes and come downstairs with a splashy entrance—and her snow boots were leaking.

Were those boots meant to be indoor shoes?

“I…” Tu Qin wanted to say she’d go to the 24-hour supermarket to buy something. She had at least put on proper clothes and would next go out on the eighth day of the New Year to get some fresh vegetables.

“You…” Xie Zhailing also started to speak but stopped when Tu Qin opened her mouth.

They both stopped.

An elderly man pushing a bicycle passed by, ringing the bike bell as they caught sight of the two standing under the tree.

It felt strange and unclear whether he wanted to warn them of something or was just startled to see two young people standing outside before dawn.

Page 3/3

“I’m going to buy something at the gate,” Tu Qin decided. She would walk one last round in these boots and then throw them away.

“I…” Xie Zhailing hesitated before saying, “I’m going home to take a shower.”

Tu Qin waved and went ahead.

As she turned the corner, she glanced back and saw Xie Zhailing still standing under the tree, watching her.

She didn’t look back again. Wearing those cursed boots, she hopped to the supermarket, bought several packs of pre-washed vegetables and two cans of milk. Seeing steaming buns on the counter, she bought two of those too and, with her down jacket stuffed, hopped out of the convenience store.

Xie Zhailing stood at the entrance.

Tu Qin was startled and widened her eyes.

“I…” Xie Zhailing was unaccustomed to such conversations and hesitated before saying, “It’s too dark outside; it’s not safe for you alone.”

Tu Qin: “...Oh.”

In fact, she often finished typing late at night and came here for a midnight snack; their oden was quite good.

But saying the place was safe now felt inappropriate.

After all, he had a fever, wet pants, and had walked so far with her through the community.

“I know you probably don’t need company,” Xie Zhailing, walking beside her but keeping some distance, suddenly said again.

Tu Qin was taken aback and looked at him once more.

Had his fever granted him telepathy?

Ah, she couldn’t write supernatural novels anymore; if she did, she might start thinking anyone who walked fast was flying.

“I mainly want to walk by myself too,” Xie Zhailing said after waiting for her silence. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“No, no problem,” Tu Qin waved her hand.

Though cold at dawn, the air was fresh. Tu Qin took a deep breath, stomped her feet, and inhaled again.

“Are your feet cold?” Xie Zhailing asked after they passed a bend, seeming less awkward. When Tu Qin stomped again, he asked.

“These boots leak,” Tu Qin stomped harder. “This squeezes the water out.”

Xie Zhailing fell silent.

While stomping, Tu Qin rummaged through the plastic bag and suddenly remembered the steaming buns in her jacket. She pulled one out. “Want a bun? Red bean paste.”

Xie Zhailing looked at her.

Tu Qin stomped again.

He took a paper-wrapped bun, smiled softly, took a bite, and as steam rose, said, “Thank you.”

Stomping, Tu Qin took a bite too, saying nothing about thanks.

The buns were disappointing—huge, but only two bites revealed a faint taste of red bean paste. Still, they were warm.

Next to her, the plastic bag rustled continuously, lively despite her silence.

The voices in his head persisted; his fevered head throbbed like hammered, and the thick coating on his tongue dulled the sweetness of the red bean paste.

Yet he could smell fresh air, the scent of red bean paste, and the lively sound of someone pressing water from boots.

He looked at Tu Qin and tried to speak again.

“Don’t thank me,” she said, glaring while chewing.

Xie Zhailing smiled.

This place was dangerous, harboring too many memories he dared not confront. Living here gave him frequent nightmares and fevers.

But this was Happiness Community, a large local developer’s estate, where Tu Qin lived.

Such a contrast between past and present gave him a faint sense of relief.

Though the relief was soon overwhelmed by suffocating guilt.

Yet, all in all, it was quite good.