Zhu Yun watched television for a while, but found it dull. When she was about to head upstairs, her mother reminded her that they had to stay up to see in the New Year tonight.
“We have to stay up?” Zhu Yun had no heart for any of that. She reached for an excuse. “I’m a little tired.”
“Nonsense.” Her mother shot her a sideways glance. “It’s barely even late. You can stay up all night reading any old book you pick up.”
Zhu Yun sat on the sofa as though on pins and needles.
By half past eleven, her mother was already nodding off.
Her father gave her mother a nudge and told her to get some rest. Her mother shuffled upstairs with a yawn, but not before calling back to remind Zhu Yun: “You absolutely must stay up until midnight — and go to the prayer room to make a wish at twelve.”
Zhu Yun did sit on the sofa until midnight. On television, the hosts stood in a row counting down the final seconds, and Zhu Yun rose to her feet.
The family’s prayer room occupied a storage space on the third floor, the north-facing one. Her grandmother was a devout Buddhist; her mother believed — on occasion.
The moment she stepped inside, the dim room was thick with the scent of sandalwood incense.
Zhu Yun settled onto the kneeling mat and checked the time. Exactly midnight. Following her mother’s long-standing instructions, she pressed her forehead to the floor three times before the Buddhist shrine, then prepared to make her wish.
As she bowed, the cross necklace at her collar slipped free and dangled down.
Zhu Yun stilled for a brief moment.
She had almost forgotten — in truth she did forget quite often — that she still wore this necklace.
It was old, having been around for many years, its style unremarkable, made from the cheapest sort of metal, and now the surface finish was flaking away.
Zhu Yun could no longer recall clearly what the girl who had given it to her looked like. Whenever she tried to remember, all she could summon was a blurry silhouette. That girl had been as proud as a peacock.
She tucked the necklace back inside her collar, and then realized she seemed to have forgotten to make her wish.
Never mind.
Midnight was peak fireworks hour. As Zhu Yun came out of the prayer room she called down toward the floor below, and her father’s voice drifted from the bedroom: “We’ve gone to bed. Get some rest too!”
Zhu Yun called back cheerfully: “Alright!”
The night could finally begin.
Zhu Yun returned to her room, locked the door behind her, and outside the window firecrackers popped and bloomed and the sky blazed with color.
She lay on her bed for a while, mind adrift, then went to the bathroom to shower. By the time she had washed and dried her hair and set everything in order and stepped back out, it was already one in the morning.
She tossed her towel carelessly on the floor. Barefoot, Zhu Yun padded to the wardrobe, rummaged through it, and finally drew out the white dress she had bought new just for this. She put it on, then leaned close to the mirror, dabbed on a light coat of foundation, and touched a little tinted gloss to her lips. She winked at her own reflection, then sat back down on the edge of the bed and waited quietly.
Waiting — the most unbearable thing in the world.
The noise from outside was positively deafening, yet somehow she could almost make out her own heartbeat through it. Her fingers twisted together, tight, and grew damp with sweat.
God, the thrill of it — she pressed her lips together. What an absolutely wicked thrill.
The minutes crept past. The noise outside gradually softened, until only the occasional crisp crack from somewhere in the distance reminded the world that this strange and singular night was not yet over.
Two o’clock.
Zhu Yun stood, picked up her bag, and slipped out of her room with care.
Her feet fell on the floor light as a fairy’s.
The house was perfectly still. Both her parents were sound sleepers and had not been disturbed in the least by all the fireworks. She made her way down to the ground floor and retrieved a pair of heeled boots from the shoe cabinet — but did not put them on yet.
She rose onto her toes, eased the front door open, and crept out along the wall.
Her feet met the icy stone steps and every pore on her body clenched with the cold. She did not dare breathe.
She stood frozen by the door for two full minutes. Only once she was satisfied that neither of her parents had woken did Zhu Yun pull on her boots.
She turned.
Snow and moonlight and blossoms in the night air across the way.
Zhu Yun drew a deep breath, leapt down from the steps, and walked on.
The street was empty now, but littered all over with the spent casings of fireworks. Walking over them felt strangely soft, like stepping through snow.
The white dress was genuinely not suited to deep winter, and Zhu Yun was cold. She had a spare jacket packed in her bag, but she had absolutely no intention of putting it on.
For just a moment, she understood the feeling Li Xun must have had that day he came to the art gallery.
The moment that thought crossed her mind, her pace quickened.
Faster and faster, until she was running.
Her hair and her skirt flew out behind her, swept up and scattered by the impulse surging through her chest.
The midnight bell had already struck. She was the only vessel sailing through this ocean night.
Lihua Street was only two streets from where Zhu Yun lived. It was a stretch of small guesthouses and restaurants, many of them open around the clock.
Zhu Yun knew where the Lihua Inn was. She ran there without stopping. In the lobby, a group of people had gathered to play cards.
She spotted that brilliantly gleaming golden head at once.
The project had reached a pause, and he was finally free of that grim, grudge-bearing air — he was even smiling.
A certain golden-haired figure was rolling up his sleeves, preparing to slap down his trump card with a smooth and practiced flourish, when a shout cut clean through the motion —
“Li Xun!”