Sheng Fang, the little one, considered becoming a police officer his most noble aspiration.
Not long ago, he had asked Little Yesi if she wanted to become a real "Yesi Madam," but she refused without hesitation. Yesi was indeed a child with dreams—once she decided to become a fashion model, she never wavered again...
Now, Sheng Fang posed the same question to Aunt Ping.
His tone was serious and resolute, brimming with enthusiasm: "Do you want to be 'Madam Ping'?"
Aunt Ping smiled kindly at the young master and said, "I don’t."
Little Fang looked puzzled.
Aunt Ping shook her head with a sigh.
"Not only would I have to learn how to scale walls and leap rooftops like a martial arts heroine, but I’d also have to investigate cases and go undercover," Aunt Ping said. "Young Master, your expectations for me are too high. These old bones of mine can barely catch their breath after a few steps—how could I chase after thieves?"
Fang pointed to his little head. "Solving cases relies on brains."
Aunt Ping chuckled helplessly. "Qingqing said I just need to take care of you, you little troublemaker."
The murder case at the theater had finally made progress. According to Zeng Yongshan, she had found the victim familiar. After searching through old materials, she finally recalled an article about a renowned Hong Kong director—the deceased was Zhou Yongsheng, the late director mentioned in that report.
Zhou Yongsheng was indeed well-known in the industry, but unlike actors, directors rarely appeared in public. Unless someone had a particularly distinctive appearance, most people would forget them after a glance. Fortunately, Zeng Yongshan was meticulous. Following her intuition, she managed to confirm the victim’s identity. Otherwise, the case might have remained unsolved for who knows how long. After all, the victim was already a "dead man." Even if he had been missing for ten or twenty years, his family wouldn’t have filed a report. This murder could have easily become another cold case.
Now that the victim’s identity was confirmed, it was a major breakthrough. A man who had already "died" once was now murdered—this case was becoming more and more perplexing. Seeing how late it was, Mo Zhenbang only asked nearby subordinates to return to the station to sort through clues. Those who couldn’t make it could come back the next morning. If Group A found out, they’d surely be envious—getting to choose whether to work overtime was unheard of.
"Aunt Ping, I’m heading back to the station. Take Fang upstairs first."
If anyone lived close to the police station, it was Zhu Qing. After parking her car, she handed Fang over to Aunt Ping and turned to leave for overtime work.
Under the streetlight, little Sheng Fang stood rooted in place, his lips pressed into a downturned arc, looking utterly dejected.
He had already been separated from Qingqing the entire night before. He had been looking forward to their "reunion" tonight, only to be disappointed again.
When Zhu Qing turned around, this was the sight that greeted her—
Her little uncle, standing alone under the lamplight, his small shadow stretching long behind him, gazing at her with reluctant longing. It tugged at her heartstrings.
"Qingqing hasn’t told me a story in so long," Sheng Fang said gloomily.
"Didn’t your eldest sister tell you one yesterday?"
"I ended up telling her one instead," Fang muttered.
As they spoke, Zhu Qing had already walked back to him.
Usually, Fang would strain his neck to look up at her, refusing to lower his head even when it ached. But today, his little head hung low, his shoulders slumped, looking utterly wilted.
He thought he’d have to say goodbye to Qingqing again.
But suddenly, a pair of warm hands pulled him into a tight embrace.
Zhu Qing crouched down, hugging him firmly and ruffling his hair. "Good boy."
Like fireworks bursting over Victoria Harbour, Fang’s scrunched-up face instantly brightened.
He was the easiest child to cheer up—a single hug from Qingqing was enough to make him forget all his grievances.
No longer upset or fussy, the little one kicked his feet in a lively, skipping rhythm, urging Aunt Ping to hurry home.
"Qingqing has to work overtime," Fang declared, raising a tiny fist, his eyes sparkling. "To catch the bad guys!"
...
The meeting room of the Serious Crimes Unit was sparsely populated at night.
Liang Qikai, Zeng Yongshan, and Hao Zai had arrived early. The table was strewn with old magazines, and the whiteboard was no longer bare.
Row after row of magazines, all from the same date, the same front page. The words "Lovers’ Suicide" blazed in bloody red across the layout, with director Zhou Yongsheng’s profile brutally juxtaposed against the tearful eyes of actress Gu Niman. The character for "love" pressed against the woman’s damp lashes, her gaze pure and sorrowful.
"Back then, every magazine fought for this headline."
"In 1985, renowned Hong Kong director Zhou Yongsheng and actress Gu Niman committed suicide on a private yacht," Zeng Yongshan read aloud. "They took poison, left suicide notes—even the contents of the notes were photographed."
The paparazzi of those days were even more ruthless than now. Coffin photos, suicide notes, and full views of the funeral hall—nothing was off-limits.
No one knew how they obtained such clear images of the original suicide notes.
The handwritten words of Zhou Yongsheng and Gu Niman overlapped on the notes—
"We will be together forever."
"Gu Niman, the innocent young star, was eighteen," Liang Qikai noted on the whiteboard. "Director Zhou Yongsheng was thirty-four at the time. That would make him forty-four now, ten years later."
"It happened three days after the film wrapped," he continued. "The entire crew claimed the director and lead actress were too immersed in their roles, lost in the world of the film, which led them to choose death together."
Zhu Qing looked up from the magazines. "What kind of movie was it?"
"'Lunar Eclipse.' The tagline says it all—'The parts that cannot be illuminated,'" Zeng Yongshan said, placing the movie poster on the table. "A tragic art film about forbidden love. It caused a sensation upon release, winning numerous awards domestically and internationally. People said the director reserved his most beautiful shots for her—that this wasn’t just a film, but art."
The poster featured Gu Niman’s silhouette.
The girl’s porcelain-white back, her figure so delicate it made hearts tremble—yet evoked no impure thoughts.
This time, Zeng Yongshan wasn’t moved by the media’s romanticized portrayal of "true love."
Instead, she frowned slightly, grieving for the lives lost.
"She had just turned eighteen when she died... meaning she wasn’t even of age when she was with Zhou Yongsheng."
"What could she have understood? A phenomenally talented actress, sacrificing herself for 'art'—only to end up sacrificing her bright, precious life."
"Those so-called international awards... who knows if they were earned by the film itself or the sensationalism of the director and star’s suicide."
The lovers’ suicide case of Zhou Yongsheng and Gu Niman was classified as an unnatural death, and the police had preserved the complete case files. However, the records were now stored in the archives center. Obtaining a retrieval order from headquarters was an extremely tedious process—certainly not something that could be done in one night.
At this moment, they began piecing together the truth from memories and magazine reports.
The magazine pages featured search-and-rescue news from back then.
"The two left suicide notes after taking poison, then jumped into the sea."
"Only the actress's body was found, along with the director's watch and suicide note. Given the limited maritime search capabilities at the time, Zhou Yongsheng was presumed dead even though his body wasn’t recovered."
"Searching for missing persons at sea was already incredibly difficult. Everyone assumed Zhou Yongsheng’s remains had been swept away by the waves."
"After all, the personal belongings and suicide note pointed to a lovers' suicide, and the crew confirmed the two had been 'unusually despondent.' The court later officially declared him dead."
"Look at these old reports—they really romanticized it, didn’t they?"
"‘Let love be frozen in its purest, most beautiful moment.’"
"So pure… that the actress died for love, while he survived?"
"If he truly loved her that much, even if he survived by chance, he should’ve found another way to end it—not hide away until getting murdered ten years later."
Mo Zhenbang picked up the deceased’s photo.
Ten years ago, he had long hair; now it was short, his face bearing the marks of time.
"Just photos aren’t enough for a definitive match. We’d need more rigorous verification."
"It’s him. During Lin Tingchao’s case, I spent a whole day in forensics. Compare Zhou Yongsheng’s photos from ten years apart—the ear contours are identical."
"Still, even if they were in love, was suicide necessary? What really happened back then?"
"What happened?" Mo Zhenbang scoffed, tossing a manila envelope onto the table.
Inside were marriage registration documents and hospital birth records.
"Director Zhou here was a married man with children," Mo Zhenbang said.
The office erupted in murmurs.
"So it was an affair?"
"And they made it sound like true love… I wonder if Zhou Yongsheng was ever this ‘romantic’ with his wife."
Zeng Yongshan gasped, whispering to Zhu Qing, "I knew something was off. So that’s the issue."
"My intuition’s getting sharper!"
...
The next morning, Fang Fang was roused by the rich aroma of chicken congee wafting through the house.
No doubt, Aunt Ping had put great care into preparing breakfast.
"Time for school," Zhu Qing said, sitting by his bed.
The sleepy child burrowed deeper into the blankets, his soft hair sticking up like antennae.
Zhu Qing cupped his little face, giving it playful squeezes to wake him up—their usual morning ritual.
Fang Fang blinked awake, taking a moment to remember where he was.
To him, home and the care facility weren’t so different. Anywhere with family was home. The only real perk was living closer to kindergarten, granting him twenty extra minutes of sleep.
Unlike before, getting Sheng Fang out of bed was no struggle now.
The boy dressed himself in under ten minutes, emerging neat and tidy, his cheeks damp, a fleck of toothpaste still at the corner of his mouth.
Zhu Qing wiped his face and led him to the table.
Aunt Ping’s breakfast was, as always, lavish and thoughtful.
Uncle and nephew sat side by side, their movements eerily synchronized as they lifted their spoons in unison.
"It’s been ages since we had breakfast together," Fang Fang said.
Zhu Qing blew on a steaming spoonful of congee.
True, it had been a while since they’d shared a quiet morning like this.
Aunt Ping chuckled. "What about the other day?"
Back then, she’d been staying at the care facility with Sheng Peirong, while the two returned home.
The little one puffed his cheeks, tattling: Zhu Qing had been dead asleep, so he’d yanked her awake. She’d sleepily shoved a bread roll into his hand and sent him off to the school bus.
"She definitely went straight back to bed," he declared, wagging a tiny finger. "She skipped breakfast!"
"Aunt Ping," he tugged her sleeve, "you should scold her."
Aunt Ping laughed.
In the past, she’d have demurred—who was she to interfere? But now, the careful boundaries had dissolved. With this pair who’d wholeheartedly welcomed her, such reservations no longer applied.
"I’ll tell her mother," Aunt Ping teased, drying her hands.
Zhu Qing nearly choked on her congee, stifling a laugh.
How novel—to have someone "tattle" on her as an adult, when no one could’ve done so in her childhood.
Aunt Ping set two dark-brown drinks before them.
"Water chestnut and sugarcane tea with tortoise jelly powder," she announced. "Just learned it. Try it!"
Nephew and uncle made identical faces of disgust.
"Look, a bird!" Fang Fang pointed outside.
As he spoke, his chubby hands stealthily tipped his cup toward Zhu Qing’s.
"It flew that way," Zhu Qing deadpanned, gesturing elsewhere—then calmly poured it back.
"Liar!" Fang Fang butted her arm with his head. "That’s the bathroom—no window there!"
"Done eating." Zhu Qing grabbed her jacket. "Work calls."
The boy tried to chase her, only to be hauled back by Aunt Ping.
"Young master, this herbal tea clears heat and dampness. Drink up."
The child clamped his nose, dunking his face into the cup. "Yuck—!"
...
In the meeting room, photos of Zhou Yongsheng from ten years ago and his corpse now lay side by side.
Time had etched lines into his face, but his slender frame remained unchanged. Even the mole on his neck matched the old photo perfectly in size and placement.
"Twins?" Hao Zai joked, crossing his legs. "Or did he pull a Kuang Xiaoyan and get surgery, like in Lin Tingchao’s case?"
Mo Zhenbang rapped the documents. "Dental records and microscopic analysis of the neck mole confirm it’s the same person."
"So he faked his death a decade ago."
"But why? No massive debts, no known enemies. Didn’t seem like he was running from anything—didn’t even have life insurance."
"Maybe he didn’t plan it. Survived by chance, then lost the nerve to try again?"
"Regardless, that actress was the real victim. Young, deceived by a director’s sweet talk, thinking she’d found love—only for this..."
"After the suicide news broke, his film premiered shortly after. The hype turned it into a classic. If he’d resurfaced alive, this ‘artistic tragedy’ would’ve been exposed as a publicity stunt."
Uncle Li sneered, "So he had to 'die' completely to make this film an eternal topic of discussion."
Footsteps approached from down the hallway outside the conference room.
Weng Zhaolin rapped his knuckles sharply against the glass door twice.
"The media has already jumped the gun with their reports," he said, tossing a newspaper onto the table and pointing to a corner of the page. "Headquarters just called—they want us to give them an explanation ASAP."
Mo Zhenbang frowned as he scanned the headline. "'Suicidal Director Rises from the Dead?' What kind of tabloid nonsense is this?"
He rubbed his temples irritably before asking, "Has the autopsy report come in yet?"
"Zhu Qing went to the forensics department," Zeng Yongshan replied.
Meanwhile, in the medical examiner's office, Zhu Qing sat across from Dr. Cheng Xinglang.
The doctor's slender fingers tapped lightly on the report. "The key findings are here."
"But there's a contradiction—the victim was severely nearsighted, yet no glasses were found at the scene."
Zhu Qing raised an eyebrow. "Contact lenses?"
"No residual material from contacts was found on the eyeballs."
Zhu Qing recalled how, back in school, some of her classmates with severe myopia could barely function without their glasses.
She frowned slightly. "So... the killer took the victim's glasses?"
"No marks from temple arms on the victim's temples." Dr. Cheng pointed to his own nose bridge. "No indentation or pressure marks on the nasal bone either. This means—"
Zhu Qing suddenly leaned forward, close enough to see the faint, nonexistent marks on his nose.
Cheng Xinglang's gaze paused for a split second.
"The victim hadn’t worn glasses regularly for at least two years," he continued.
Severely nearsighted, yet no glasses?
Lost in thought, Zhu Qing took the report.
Her eyes skimmed over the open anatomy textbook on the desk—a metal bookmark wedged between its pages.
Back in the conference room, the team huddled around the autopsy findings.
Hao Zai remarked, "Dr. Cheng’s been unusually efficient lately. He’s really in sync with our B team now."
"Gastric contents show he ate shrimp rice rolls three hours before death?" Mo Zhenbang flipped through the report. "Shrimp rice rolls... why does that sound familiar?"
"It’s from this issue of Gourmet Weekly," Zeng Yongshan said, pulling a worn magazine from a stack. "Right here—it mentions Zhou Yongsheng’s favorite dish was Fu Nian Café’s shrimp rice rolls with peanut sauce."
Mo Zhenbang tapped the whiteboard. "Uncle Li, take a team to Fu Nian Café with Zhou Yongsheng’s photo."
"Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale, go interview his wife and son."
"Liang Qikai and Yongshan, dig into this 'suicidal leading lady.'" He pointed at Gu Niman’s photo on the board. "Find out if their romance was ever real."
"And figure out how Zhou Yongsheng lived these past ten years. Disappearing for a decade? That takes skill."
...
Zhu Qing and Xu Jiale stood before an old Western-style house.
"This is the place," Xu Jiale said, stepping back to check the address. "Prime location, spacious—must’ve cost a fortune. Leaving it to his family was probably the only decent thing Zhou Yongsheng ever did."
They’d read the interviews—this house was bought with Zhou Yongsheng’s first big paycheck.
The walls bore peeling patches of paint, but the garden was meticulously tended, lush with thriving flowers and greenery.
Zhu Qing knocked three times on the wooden door.
With a creak, it opened just a crack.
A middle-aged woman in a linen dress stood there. After a brief silence, she seemed to guess their purpose.
"You’re the police, aren’t you?" She stepped aside. "Come in."
Ten years ago, after the filming of Eclipse wrapped, director Zhou Yongsheng and the female lead allegedly committed suicide on a private yacht.
He’d already been married for seven years—to the woman now facing them: Jiang Xiaowei.
The house, steeped in age, showed its years—the leather sofa’s armrests were worn dull, its sheen long gone.
On the coffee table lay magazines splashed with sensational headlines, the same ones giving Weng Zhaolin headaches. The media, tipped off by a morgue worker bribed by paparazzi, was now racing to break the story of Zhou Yongsheng’s "resurrection and second mysterious death."
Jiang Xiaowei had clearly seen the reports.
Her expression was strained, her eyes tinged with bitter amusement.
A forced smile played on her lips as she murmured, "I already said everything ten years ago."
The decor was dated but airy, sunlight highlighting nail marks on the walls where family photos once hung. Even after years, the traces remained vivid—testaments to a life erased after Zhou Yongsheng’s "romantic suicide."
"We met on set. I was an assistant in the art department, being bullied by an actor... I was about to cry when he stepped in."
"Later, I learned he was the director—so young."
"I never thought someone like him would notice me. My family was poor, I was just scraping by, ordinary and invisible... But Yongsheng remembered my name. He encouraged me. Back then, he was... kind."
Tears glimmered in Jiang Xiaowei’s eyes as she spoke of the past.
"We fell in love. Marriage came naturally."
"Set life was hard. After we married, he suggested I quit. Then I got pregnant, so I stayed home."
"He was the most responsible man I’d ever known."
"He never missed a single checkup, not even when work piled up. When Yifan was a baby, I couldn’t manage without him." She shook her head with a faint smile. "We were happy. I’d never even met that actress. I trusted him—in seven years, I hardly ever visited the set."
"We thought he was dead."
"Ten years to heal, and now this?" Her gaze turned lost. "That man in the cinema... was it really him?"
When the officers confirmed it, Jiang Xiaowei fell silent, clasping her hands on her knees.
Xu Jiale jotted notes, probing the victim’s debts and life insurance beneficiaries.
"You think this was insurance fraud? Impossible."
"There's a suicide exemption period in insurance policies. As long as it's past that period, even if it's suicide, the insurance company still has to pay out," Jiang Xiaowei said. "Back then, the insurance company ruled the love suicide as 'intentionally creating an insurance incident' and refused to pay a single cent."
"Originally, we were going to take them to court and fight it out. But in the end, the film company privately compensated us." Jiang Xiaowei's lips curled into a bitter smile. "After the news of the love suicide broke, they wanted to erase me and Yifan from existence. The person was already gone, but the film still had to be released—they needed the sensationalism of the 'love suicide.'"
"To the public..." Her voice grew quieter. "We, mother and son, became the ones who couldn’t see the light of day."
"Everyone talked about how the famous director and the actress had this dazzling, colorful love affair. Who would’ve known he had a wife and child at home?"
"Sometimes, I wish even the relatives and neighbors didn’t know about it. At least then, my child could walk to school with his head held high. You wouldn’t understand—those pitying looks hurt more than outright mockery."
Zhu Qing observed every subtle shift in her expression. "In these ten years, have you ever suspected that Zhou Yongsheng might still be alive?"
Jiang Xiaowei shook her head, then asked again, "Are you sure it's him?"
"The comparison results are here." Zhu Qing handed her the documents. "Please arrange to identify the body as soon as possible."
...
In the art room of Weston Kindergarten, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spilling across the paper-covered floor.
A dozen toddlers, clad in art smocks, were fully engrossed in their creations.
Little Sheng Fang knelt on the floor, smearing paint, his sleeves splashed with vibrant colors.
Here, paint could go on paper, walls, even on the children’s faces—and no one would stop them. It was this philosophy of free exploration that made admission to this kindergarten near impossible to secure.
At the moment, Fangfang looked like a little calico cat, his cheeks dotted with three colors of paint.
Oblivious to his own comical appearance, he pointed at Jin Bao and Little Yesi, now rainbow-stained, and giggled behind his hand.
There were thirty minutes left until dismissal.
Fangfang kept a close eye on the clock. After school, he had to pick up Qing at the police station, then visit his eldest sister at the rehabilitation center. Ever since she woke up, he’d been busier than ever—what Aunt Ping called "a full life!"
"Fangfang, don’t forget tennis class tonight," Jin Bao suddenly reminded him.
Fangfang froze—
Oh no!
A while back, he and Jin Bao had signed up for tennis lessons together. But with everything going on at home this week, Sheng Fang had completely forgotten about it.
He wrinkled his nose in distress. "But I promised my eldest sister I’d visit her tonight."
Juan sidled over. "You have an eldest sister?"
Ever since the two of them had "flown" across the classroom on a broomstick, Sheng Fang and Juan had become nodding acquaintances.
They coexisted peacefully now, and Juan hadn’t tattled to the teacher since.
"Of course I do." Fangfang puffed out his chest, his little nostrils flaring. "Eldest sister!"
"How old is she?"
"Like, super old! Dozens of years!"
"Wow, that’s seriously impressive..."
Nearby, the art teacher, pretending to tidy supplies, discreetly pricked up her ears.
So... impressive in what way?
...
Jiang Xiaowei had only changed into a simple black coat before accompanying the police to the morgue.
The forced smile on her lips was more bitter than tears. Ten years ago, at the funeral without a body, she had worn a similar black, bidding farewell to her husband before an empty coffin. But that dress from back then no longer fit—time spared no one.
"At least this time, there’s finally a body," she murmured.
It was meant to be a joke, but even the usually carefree Xu Jiale turned his face away.
Zhu Qing was silent for a moment. "My condolences."
Jiang Xiaowei took a deep breath and nodded slightly as she stood before the refrigerated compartment. "I’m ready."
The drawer slid open, mist swirling. After ten years, Jiang Xiaowei saw the husband she had long believed dead.
She didn’t cry—only felt a strange mix of familiarity and distance. Ten years ago, Zhou Yongsheng had been just thirty-four, a director in his prime. Now, he showed signs of age: streaks of gray at his temples, the lines around his mouth turned downward.
"How could he not have aged?" Her fingers brushed her own hair. "When I turned forty, there were only a few gray strands. I’d sometimes ask my son to pluck them out—out of sight, out of mind. But now, years later, there are too many to count—"
Jiang Xiaowei gave a helpless laugh, fine wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes. "Yifan told me, 'Mom, there are too many to pull out now.'"
Xu Jiale asked, "Did you notify your son to see him one last time?"
"No." Jiang Xiaowei shook her head. "I don’t know how to tell him. Yifan used to idolize his father."
When Zhou Yongsheng faked his death, his son Zhou Yifan was six. Now, he was sixteen.
Jiang Xiaowei said that with this scandal resurfacing, her biggest worry was her son.
"At six, when he learned his father had died, he cried from morning till night, even in his sleep. Back then, I didn’t tell him it was a love suicide—just that it was an accident."
"Yifan used to proudly tell everyone his father had been a director. It wasn’t until he was ten that he found out Yongsheng had died in a love suicide with an actress... A classmate he’d fought with told him. The parents all treated it like some lurid gossip."
"He nearly had a breakdown. He came home and screamed at me, saying his grief and memories were all a joke."
"I blame myself too—I never knew how to tell him the truth. After that, Yifan never mentioned his father again. It was like Yongsheng had become a stain on his life."
Jiang Xiaowei sighed softly, then turned her gaze back to the body.
She wasn’t afraid. Her hand hovered, as if to touch him, but then she withdrew it, her expression dimming.
"If he never died..." Jiang Xiaowei suddenly asked, "does that mean his feelings for Gu Niman weren’t as deep as everyone thought?"
Her eyes were desperate, as if pleading for the police to give her an answer that would ease her humiliation.
But neither Zhu Qing nor Xu Jiale replied.
Did the answer even matter anymore? Jiang Xiaowei wondered the same.
"Did Zhou Yongsheng wear glasses?"
"From morning till night, except when he slept," Jiang Xiaowei said. "Severe nearsightedness—seven hundred degrees. Couldn’t function without them."
Zhu Qing noted it down.
She also remembered the few magazine photos of the director—Zhou Yongsheng had always worn glasses.
"Where is your son now?"
"At school," Jiang Xiaowei said. "He won't want to show himself."
"Over these ten years—" Xu Jiale flipped through the documents, "has Zhou Yongsheng ever contacted Zhou Yifan?"
"No, of course not." Jiang Xiaowei shook her head, then corrected herself, "It's Jiang Yifan now. He didn’t want to keep his father’s surname, so I changed it for him."
After leaving the public morgue and parting ways with Jiang Xiaowei, Xu Jiale finally exhaled deeply, as if he had been holding his breath for far too long.
"Even if her son is hiding now, within his own social circle, he’s already suffering enough," he muttered. "Only sixteen years old. Whether it was ten years ago or now, Zhou Yongsheng never once considered his son."
The two of them walked in silence for a while.
It was easy to imagine what Jiang Yifan would face at school.
Media attention was indeed a troublesome thing.
……
After reporting back at the police station, it was time to clock out.
That movie from ten years ago was Gu Niman’s masterpiece—her only work. She wasn’t famous, and information about her was scarce. They’d have to dig deeper.
When Zhu Qing arrived at the nursing home, the dim golden light of the setting sun spilled across the empty hallway, as if warmly illuminating the path home.
Her mother was reading a book. Hearing the door open, she looked up, her eyes bright with a smile.
Little Sheng Fang was off at tennis lessons and wouldn’t be coming tonight. Without the usual chatter of her little brother around, Sheng Peirong found it oddly quiet.
Zhu Qing remarked that kids were like that—sometimes when Sheng Fang was home and silent, she’d complain it was too peaceful.
The nutritionist had prepared a simple dinner, and mother and daughter ate quietly, face to face, warmth flowing between them.
This ordinary moment made Zhu Qing feel as though the lost years were slowly being reclaimed.
"Mom," Zhu Qing suddenly spoke up, "do you know Zhou Yongsheng?"
"That young director?" Sheng Peirong thought back. "Your father loved his work. We went to the theater together to watch his films."
That was over twenty years ago. Back then, Zhou Yongsheng was barely in his twenties, yet his cinematography brimmed with brilliance and a unique style.
Zhu Qing flipped through the documents in her hands. The director’s debut had been met with acclaim, but his later works were mediocre, earning him criticism for being a one-hit wonder.
Then, at thirty-four, he met Gu Niman—the media’s so-called "muse"—and together they jumped into the sea in a supposed act of love.
Hearing this, Sheng Peirong set down her chopsticks and shook her head.
She couldn’t condone such a thing.
What was love? Was dying together really love?
Her gaze drifted to the framed photo of her and her husband on the side table. In it, he was smiling at the camera. She liked to think he could see her now, see that she and Coco were doing just fine.
"You have to keep living," Sheng Peirong said firmly. "Only then is there hope."
……
At half past seven in the evening, Little Sheng Fang stood at the entrance of the tennis court, swinging his tiny racket and looking around.
Aunt Ping had already arrived.
Then, over her shoulder, Sheng Fang spotted the black SUV parked by the roadside.
"Qing-jie!"
His little legs moved fast as he dashed toward Zhu Qing.
Even though tennis lessons were annoying when he was so busy, and even though Jin Bao couldn’t even hit the ball properly, at least his niece remembered to pick him up. The little prince could grudgingly forgive the world.
Sheng Fang climbed into the car with Aunt Ping.
Zhu Qing turned the wheel, merging into traffic—but they weren’t heading home.
"Qing-jie, Qing-jie, where are we going?"
Sheng Fang leaned forward, his soft little voice drifting over.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside a video rental store.
The shop was dimly lit, shelves upon shelves of tapes neatly labeled by category.
The owner was busy organizing, moving up and down the ladders with ease. Noticing customers, he turned and asked, "Looking for something, miss?"
"Do you have Zhou Yongsheng’s—"
Before Zhu Qing could finish, the owner had already plucked a tape from the shelf.
"Eclipse?" he said. "The suicide director’s final work. The papers ran a story on it this morning—price has tripled."
He shook the tape in his hand. "Out of print now."
"We’ll take one." Sheng Fang’s little hand was already digging into Zhu Qing’s pocket.
"Not even asking the price?" Zhu Qing tapped his nose.
Sheng Fang stood on tiptoe and whispered, "We’ll sell it tomorrow and make even more."
With the hype around the tape today, prices would likely soar even higher in the coming days.
Zhu Qing pinched his chubby cheek. "Such a Sheng family child."
Aunt Ping stifled a laugh.
He’d inherited his father and eldest sister’s business sense. If he didn’t become a cop, he could always be Chairman Sheng.
Just yesterday, Sheng Fang had been planning to take Zhu Qing to the movies…
In no time, they were back home, curled up on the sofa. As Zhu Qing slid the tape into the VCR, she told the little one this was their "home theater."
The living room lights were dimmed deliberately, niece and uncle sitting shoulder to shoulder on the couch.
Sheng Fang swayed happily—
Had Qing-jie forgotten he was only allowed TV on weekends? Score.
The screen flickered to life. Zhou Yongsheng and Gu Niman’s "suicide masterpiece" was a melancholic love story.
The male lead might as well have been an afterthought—no one talked about him.
Every frame featuring Gu Niman was breathtakingly beautiful.
Sheng Fang sat cross-legged beside Zhu Qing, a bag of chips open in his lap. He stuffed one into his own mouth, then offered another to Zhu Qing.
"Qing-jie, why is she crying?"
"Maybe she’s hungry."
"You’re just saying that."
The chip bag rustled as Sheng Fang swung his little feet.
Zhu Qing kept her eyes on Gu Niman.
She’d been so young. When she decided to die, had she truly understood what it meant?
The girl gave her life, while the director clung to his. It wasn’t worth it.
But she had to admit—even without the sensationalism, the film itself was a masterpiece.
Aunt Ping couldn’t sit through it. Yawning, she stood. "All these lovey-dovey films… you love me, I love you… same old story for decades."
Before shutting her bedroom door, she caught snippets of Zhu Qing and Sheng Fang’s easy chatter.
The two always had endless things to talk about.
Sheng Fang’s belly was round with snacks.
Even the wisest little villain couldn’t grasp such complex film language. All he saw was two people staring at each other…
"Qing-jie, have you ever dated anyone?"
"Nope."
Sheng Fang took another chip, snuggling comfortably against Zhu Qing’s shoulder.
"Me neither."
Zhu Qing: "…"
