Answer

Nan Changgeng opened her eyes and stared straight ahead. In the depths of her gaze was a dead, ashen blue; her features had gone empty and still.

Her head rested against the back of the seat. Her body felt limp, as if every last bit of oxygen in her had rushed to her heart. It hammered in her ears with a dull, heavy thud, battering her ribs over and over, as if it meant to break through her bones and burst out of her chest.

The girl’s account of the past had been so beautiful, but when Nan Changgeng tried to remember it, it was like standing in a fog and trying to paint a brilliant picture. Her vision stayed blurred and indistinct.

If she reached out to touch it, all she found was a hand smeared with melted paint. In that instant, she could see the painting clearly; moisture had already ruined it, distorting it beyond recognition.

What was the point of remembering so clearly? Could a person ever go back and live in the past?

She could not even play the violin anymore. She was no longer the soloist who needed a lighthouse to guide her.

The same memory, stored in Yu Mao’s mind, didn’t seem to have faded at all. It was vivid, as if it had been spoken only yesterday.

She remembered Yu Mao’s words again: Everything about you, I remember all of it.

Her breathing had grown so light it was almost suspended. Whether from shock or fear, it felt as if she had been suddenly swallowed by shadow and wrapped inside it; a shiver shot up her spine from her tailbone.

Yu Mao stared at her, her words gradually trailing off.

It was too quiet. The woman had stilled even the smallest movement; her eyelashes were motionless, her eyes motionless, even her breathing had tightened inward, as if she were a pale statue carved from limestone.

The greater the turmoil in one’s heart, the more complete the concealment had to be. Yu Mao could hear the raging waves beneath the surface of Nan Changgeng’s blood and meridians, hidden just below her faintly rising chest.

She saw the woman’s throat bob once, very shallowly; the tendons along the side of her slender white neck tightened slightly, restrained, buried, enduring, just like the hot blood surging beneath her serene, pale skin.

What was it? Nervousness? Fear? Sadness? Pain?

Yu Mao parted her lips, pressing the base of her tongue against her throat, and suddenly felt a bitter, suffocating ache.

Couldn’t the memories she gave make Changgeng happy?

She hurriedly searched her mind, trying to think of something more interesting to tell her, something that would drive away whatever that vague emotion was.

There were countless memories she could have kept talking about, but this short trip had already come to an end.

The car stopped. Outside the window, it was pitch black.

With a click, the door was opened. The woman turned her head to the right; her face slipped out of the light and disappeared into the darkness as she opened the door and got out.

Yu Mao watched her solitary back walk away, her steps steady and certain, without the slightest hesitation. The white knit sweater was swallowed deeper and deeper by the dark, like a sheet of paper dissolving into ink, inch by inch consumed.

A huge wave of panic and helplessness surged through Yu Mao’s heart, leaving her utterly defeated before she could even fight back. The hand holding the handkerchief trembled slightly, then clenched with all its strength.

She swallowed the soreness rising in her eyes; the quivering blur of tears stirred with tiny shards of cold light, obscuring the woman’s figure in her gaze.

The fruity scent Nan Changgeng had left on the seat had not yet faded. Yu Mao had lost so much strength that she leaned forward against it, turned her head to rest on her arm, and, dazed, let a few tears fall onto the leather seat.

The staff member who had driven them also got out of the car. She had stayed silent the entire way, unable to fit herself into the strange atmosphere between the two of them; only now was she forced to speak, knocking on the window in confusion.

“Hey, Yu Mao, why aren’t you getting out yet?”

Yu Mao did not answer. She bit her lower lip, almost able to see a long, thin thread stretched from her chest, reaching out through the car door to connect with Nan Changgeng, sending pain into her in an endless stream.

Think of a way; she had to think of a way to turn this rising emotion into happiness.

The few seconds that passed weren’t enough for her to come up with an answer, but they were enough for Nan Changgeng to return.

A soft, slightly cool hand covered the slender wrist bone resting on the edge of the seat.

The car lights had already gone out. From above came a voice that was hoarse and gentle, like lingering rain soaking into the thick dark.

“Do you think there’s any difference between me in your memory and me now?”

Yu Mao looked up. Her expression was like that of someone who had fallen and been helped back to her feet by an outstretched hand, carrying gratitude and a trace of blankness.

She could sense that there was deeper meaning in the question, but she would not have a second answer.

“Back then, you were happier.

“And what else... is there that I can do for you...”

She let out a faint sigh and tilted her head back. Her tear-filled eyes looked upward in reverence; the stretched line of her neck took on a pale shape in the darkness, like a swan awaiting slaughter exhaling its final, murky breath.

What should I do to make you stop sinking into sadness all the time? Everyone who should be gone is already gone, and yet it feels like you can never go back to who you were.

“Perhaps there is,” Nan Changgeng said after a moment.

She seemed to smile.

In the thick darkness, Yu Mao could only make out the blurred outline of the woman’s face, but she could feel the gentleness that had already softened around her, and her words carried a note of consideration.

“What is it?!” Yu Mao suddenly grew anxious, her spirits lifting as the remaining pain in her body was washed away in an instant.

She had been waiting for this answer for a very, very long time.

Nan Changgeng shook her head. Her tone was gentle. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll tell you once I’ve thought it through.”

Her thoughts drifted through time, countless and beyond its bounds. In her fear and unease, she had peeled herself back layer by layer, trying to accept a possibility and letting that desire push out a tiny edge of itself.

“Come on, why are you still sitting in the car? You still have rehearsals to do.”

Pretending not to notice the kitten’s dejection from a moment ago, she used a little force to pull her up.

Yu Mao obediently got to her feet. After being soaked through with tears, her dark catlike eyes shone even brighter; her pupils were round and black, flashing with a bright glimmer under the cover of night.

She got out of the car, and just before the woman’s hand completely left her wrist, she lightly caught one of her fingers and said earnestly, “I’ll wait for you.”

Nan Changgeng looked at her for a beat, then turned her head toward the direction they were headed, letting only the breeze carry back a single word:

“Okay.”

She did not pull free of that careful hand. Instead, she turned it over and held it, leading Yu Mao toward the venue.

A yellowed moon hung in the sky like an ancient sheet of paper, washed by years until it had gone damp and could cast almost no clear light.

The girl followed right behind her, small and short, like a little ghost in a cloak drifting through the night, obediently being led away by an adult.

The staff member came around the side, looking after them with a gloomy face. She sighed, lifted her arm, slapped the car door, and with a loud bang the wide-open door shut tight.

Then she strode after them, swinging the car keys in her hand.

...

The trip to the hospital took neither too long nor too short; by the time they got back, rehearsal was already nearing its end.

As soon as she entered the venue, she ran into the director waiting by the door to greet them.

The director handed Yu Mao a stack of red bills wrapped in paper. “This is Zhao Xuan’s compensation. He’s already left. If you’re still angry and want to do something about it, I won’t stop you, but it can’t affect filming.”

Yu Mao didn’t refuse. She took it directly, weighing the thickness in her hand; it was probably around ten thousand yuan.

She wasn’t short on money and didn’t take this little sum seriously, but there was no reason to turn down money delivered straight into her hands. She tucked it into her pants pocket with a backhanded motion.

“I want to take a half-day off the day after tomorrow. I have something to take care of.” She paused, then added, “If I get eliminated, just pretend I never said this.”

The director raised an eyebrow, her eyes carrying a trace of novelty, and nodded with a half-smile. “Sure, no problem.”

Silly girl; whoever gets eliminated, it definitely won’t be you.

“Go on in. Everyone’s waiting for you. Once rehearsal’s over, you can leave.”

The way she said it made it sound as if Yu Mao was only going in for appearances and then leaving. In truth, that was more or less exactly what it was.

The girl was like a machine running with precision; every time she sang, not a single note was off, and no matter how many times she rehearsed, it was always the same. The stage designer, who had wanted to add some flair to her performance, had long since given up and let her stand there in silence, singing a slow love song with that eerie stillness of hers.

It was strangely creepy, yet somehow it created an unexpected effect; it would just depend on whether the audience bought it then.

Rehearsal ended in a flash, and the contestants boarded the shuttle bus back.

This was a rare chance to be away from the cameras. Some of the contestants were more lively than usual, chattering nonstop; others fell silent, closing their eyes in exhaustion.

Tonight’s bus chatter was devoted to cursing Zhao Xuan from every angle.

Yuan Li was a bit like the dorm monitor back in school, with a protective streak toward the roommates in her room. After learning that Yu Mao had been pushed down and injured by Zhao Xuan and sent to the hospital, she had already flown into a rage and cursed him out once.

Now that Yu Mao was back and they had time on their hands, her anger flared up again, and together with the other contestants she launched into a full-blown Zhao Xuan condemnation session.

It was Zhao Xuan’s own fault; his reputation was so rotten that by the time everyone had worn themselves out cursing him on the way back, they still felt there were plenty of things they hadn’t even gotten around to complaining about.

One could only imagine what kind of backlash Zhao Xuan would be hit with across the entire internet once the news broke tomorrow.

As for the victim herself, Yu Mao sat by the window, looking out at the flowing night beyond it, saying nothing the entire way.

Right now, all she felt in her heart was anticipation.

Changgeng already had something she needed her to do; maybe very soon she would know.

But if she got eliminated tomorrow, she might have to wait until Changgeng left the show to get the answer. Then she would have to make sure she survived these next few months.

That shouldn’t be difficult, as long as Nan Changgeng stayed safe and nothing unexpected happened.

After returning to the dorm, in a very good mood, she made herself some milk and added twice the usual amount of milk powder.

Only after she finished drinking it and felt the heaviness in her stomach settle her down did that light, floating sensation in her chest finally feel grounded.

The wound on her head didn’t need to be redressed every day. Yu Mao was planning to wash up and go to sleep, but the moment she stepped into the bathroom, Yuan Li grabbed the back of her collar and hauled her right back out.

Because of the earlier incident where she had gotten the bandage on her hand wet, Yuan Li didn’t trust her to go wash her face directly. She felt that this child didn’t care at all about wounds that weren’t life-threatening.

“Wait a sec. I’ll wrap the bandaged part for you before you wash, so it won’t get wet.”

Yu Mao didn’t resist. She watched as Yuan Li somehow found some plastic wrap, angled it over her forehead, and made sure it was sealed tight before patting her shoulder and letting her go wash up.

“Thank you.”

She said the two words expressionlessly and walked into the bathroom.

Yuan Li couldn’t help laughing, thinking she was like a little artificial being whose politeness program had suddenly been activated.

By now, everyone had tacitly accepted that Yu Mao was a special kind of “abnormal person.” Most of them had little experience dealing with someone like her, and when they looked at her, it was with a sort of curious, almost observational gaze, rather than worrying too much about whether her behavior and manners met ordinary standards.

Maybe that way of treating her could hardly be called very polite, and there was even a faint sense of condescension to it; but that was the reality, and it couldn’t be avoided.