The negotiations between Sheng Fang and Cheng Xinglang commenced in front of the ordering counter at the police station cafeteria.
Sister Xiao was initially the sole audience member, eavesdropping at first before ultimately failing to suppress her laughter. Covering her mouth, she pretended to cough, but the amusement spilled straight from her eyes, earning her an immediate glare from the young master of the Sheng family.
Little Fang Fang, much like Dr. Cheng, didn’t mind having their conversation overheard. But if Sister Xiao was going to be this unserious about it, then that was her fault. After a few seconds of locking eyes with Sheng Fang, she sat up straight, her expression turning solemn.
Only then did Baby Fang Fang retract his warning and reassume his authoritative stance, interrogating Cheng Xinglang with the demeanor of an elder. That round little face somehow managed to exude a hint of sternness.
Cheng Xinglang borrowed a pen and paper from Sister Xiao.
Leaning over, he began writing, the pen tip pressing through the paper onto the counter as he noted down the little one’s preferences.
Ultraman and Transformers—things he could recite backward in his sleep—why bother writing them down?
Sister Xiao couldn’t help but admire Dr. Cheng’s strategy of playing the elder. Clearly, as he bent over to write, the little elder nodded in approval.
By the time Uncle Ming emerged from the kitchen with their food, Sheng Fang followed Cheng Xinglang to a table in the middle of the cafeteria.
The tray was loaded with all of Fang Fang’s favorites, and his tiny hands eagerly clutched a spoon, ready to dig in.
"Why are you pursuing my niece?"
Cheng Xinglang answered the question earnestly.
Two days ago, after a brainstorming session with the entire kindergarten class, the children had concluded that the former motorcycle driver was pursuing their niece.
Now, the answer was so simple—he said it was because he liked her. "Pursuing" and "liking" became synonymous in the child’s mind.
Sheng Fang tilted his head, pondering. Though he didn’t fully grasp the deeper meaning, he accepted the explanation.
Well, of course—Qing Zai was lovable to everyone. What was so surprising about liking her?
"Ultraman and Transformers," Cheng Xinglang tapped the pen. "What else?"
"Combined Dinosaur Mecha." Fang Fang counted on his fingers. "Transformation belts, Twin Star four-wheel-drive cars."
Cheng Xinglang chuckled as he scribbled notes.
This kid really knew how to look out for himself.
"What about Ninja Turtles?"
Sheng Fang nodded vigorously. "Of course Ninja Turtles!"
"And what else?"
Fang Fang beamed. "And Qing Zai."
Only then did the little one remember—Dr. Cheng had been asking about his niece’s preferences.
"And me," Sheng Fang added in his tiny, milky voice.
There was no useful intel to extract from little Sheng Fang.
Cheng Xinglang treated it as amusing a child, filling an entire page with Fang Fang’s favorite things.
Sheng Fang had clearly gone to demand answers, yet somehow ended up eating a meal. But unlike the rapid-fire dining style of the Major Crimes Unit, Cheng Xinglang ate at a leisurely pace that suited the young master of the Sheng family perfectly. As the pair enjoyed their dinner, they brainstormed what toys might have been missed.
"Do you like LEGO?"
"The Space Transport Plane!" Fang Fang nodded enthusiastically. "Even the cargo bay opens!"
The little one shoveled food into his mouth while racking his brain.
Meanwhile, at a table not far away, the Major Crimes Unit ate like they were on a battlefield, their conversation still revolving around the case.
"That fan of Gu Niman—the one tailing Zhou Yongsheng—was wearing a fisherman’s hat the entire time. During the last sweep of all the shops along the street from Funian Teahouse to Xiaguang Theater, none of the owners or workers remembered seeing him."
"Got lucky today—ran into a female student handing out flyers on the street. She said she'd seen Liu Wei before."
"He was definitely heading toward the Glow Theater. But only that girl recognized him, so the evidence is thin."
Liang Qikai set down his chopsticks. "Later, we went back to the Glow Theater. The ticket clerk got caught sneaking off to apply for jobs at other cinemas. She said she was afraid the theater would go under and wanted a backup plan."
Over the years, rumors about the Glow Theater's impending closure had never stopped. Yet until now, this old cinema had stubbornly held on.
These days, the theater was pitifully empty, with more staff than patrons. Add to that the scandal of Zhou Yongsheng's murder case, and it seemed the theater's days were truly numbered.
Whenever the Glow Theater's current decline came up, people couldn’t help but reminisce about its glory days. The projectionist fondly recalled how most Hong Kong film premieres used to be held there, with the last grand event being the premiere of Island Storm over a decade ago.
"The hallway leading to the screening room is still covered in old movie posters and event photos from over the years. But oddly, the Island Storm poster is missing."
Both Uncle Li and Liang Qikai found this strange, so they followed the lead.
Soon, they discovered that the current theater manager had worked at the Glow Theater as an usher twenty years ago. With all this secrecy, something was clearly off.
"I remember the theater manager also gave a statement that day."
"He never mentioned having met Zhou Yongsheng before."
"Logically speaking, Zhou Yongsheng didn’t get plastic surgery or lose a drastic amount of weight—he just cut his hair short..." Zeng Yongshan said. "Even I recognized him at the crime scene based on memory. How could someone like the theater manager, who’d interacted with him face-to-face, not remember?"
The colleagues traded theories back and forth.
But this time, Zhu Qing’s mind wasn’t on the case.
Her gaze drifted to another table—
Little Sheng Fang was animatedly talking about something, while Dr. Cheng Xinglang listened with a smile, occasionally jotting down notes.
Zhu Qing rested her chin in her hand.
What in the world were those two talking about so happily?
......
In the interrogation room, time seemed to stand still.
Theater manager He Liren had been waiting for what felt like an eternity.
Every time footsteps sounded outside, he reflexively looked up. Each passing second was torture.
After what seemed like forever, Uncle Li and Liang Qikai finally walked in.
"Do you know director Zhou Yongsheng?"
"I’ve heard of him. Saw him in the papers later," He Liren said. "Never thought such a famous director would die... in our theater."
Uncle Li gave him a meaningful glance before flipping open a folder.
"The planning roster for City Storm in 1980." He pointed at a name. "We contacted the event coordinator from back then. He confirmed that Zhou Yongsheng had an altercation with theater staff backstage during the premiere."
This was new information for the police.
"Need me to jog your memory?"
He Liren stayed silent, staring down at the table.
Liang Qikai leaned forward. "We found out that the person who argued with Zhou Yongsheng back then was you."
"How did an usher and a renowned director end up in an argument?"
Uncle Li observed quietly, his expression unreadable.
He Liren’s face paled slightly as he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
It was something that had happened over a decade ago.
Zhou Yongsheng was a fledgling art-house director who had won a newcomer award, while City of Storm was a commercial film. He looked down on such movies and disdained attending promotional events. But back then, Zhou’s career was already on the decline—his films were failing one after another, and he couldn’t afford to be picky about work.
"Zhou Yongsheng was past his prime, but his temper hadn’t mellowed. You handed him the script you’d written, hoping for guidance, but he flipped through just two pages before tossing it back at you."
"You resented him, but at the time, you were just an usher. No matter how far he’d fallen, he was still a director."
"Then, five years later, he and that actress died together in a love suicide—"
"But you never expected to see him again recently. Am I right? And I’m guessing he didn’t even remember you?"
Beads of sweat formed on He Liren’s forehead.
Over a decade had passed. He had climbed from usher to theater manager, only for the cinema to now face closure. From his twenties to his forties, time had slipped away.
Yet he would never forget that day—when posters for City of Storm plastered the theater walls. Hopeful, he had handed his script to Director Zhou, only for the man to glance at it dismissively before throwing it back, mocking him for overestimating himself. This isn’t even passable as writing, let alone a screenplay.
That day, He Liren had crouched on the floor, gathering the scattered pages one by one.
But he could never piece back together the dignity that had been trampled.
For over ten years, He Liren had never forgotten that self-righteous director.
He often wondered—was his script truly that worthless? Or had Director Zhou, bitter over his own failures, simply taken his frustration out on the first person in reach?
"Out with it!" Uncle Li suddenly slammed the table.
He Liren flinched, finally relenting.
"You’re wrong," He Liren said. "He did remember me."
"Zhou Yongsheng said to me—You’ve fallen even further."
......
Sheng Fang, the little troublemaker, was having the time of his life at the police station again, mooching meals and loitering around.
But as dusk settled, it was time to head home.
With the case still unfolding, the police had only just identified a second suspect. Even Weng Zhaolin hadn’t left yet—looked like the entire B-team was pulling an all-nighter.
When her phone rang, Zhu Qing glanced at the caller ID.
Aside from the station, the only people who called her were her mom and Cheng Xinglang.
She answered, still flipping through case files.
Cheng Xinglang said he’d take Sheng Fang home for her.
"Okay."
She waited, but the line didn’t disconnect.
"You hang up first," she said, tilting her head to keep the phone in place. "My hands are full."
Suddenly, a tiny, muffled giggle came through—Sheng Fang covering his mouth but failing to stifle his laughter.
As the person who knew her little uncle best, Zhu Qing couldn’t even decipher what the little rascal was scheming this time.
After the call ended, Sheng Fang clasped both hands over his mouth, but his mischievous grin was impossible to hide.
"Niecey won’t pay attention to you~" he sang, dragging out the words smugly.
Cheng Xinglang humbly asked for advice: "Does she usually ignore you at this time?"
Sheng Fang’s smile slowly faded.
When Qing Zai was working on a case, no one could distract her.
But was Dr. Cheng provoking an elder?
"Not paying attention to you either?" Cheng Xinglang's lips curled slightly. "Good, that puts me at ease."
Tall and long-legged, Cheng Xinglang walked ahead, claiming he was seeing Sheng Fang home—though Fang had to jog a little to keep up with his strides.
Chasing shadows was Sheng Fang’s favorite game, one he usually played with his niece. But his niece never indulged in such running and jumping, while Dr. Cheng, an oddly childish adult, happily became Fang’s playmate.
The short walk home ended at the building’s entrance, where the young master of the Sheng family had already forgotten his earlier grudge against the doctor.
"Oh no!" Fang suddenly gasped. "I forgot my bike!"
His brand-new little bicycle was still parked outside the police headquarters, right next to the official patrol cars.
Cheng Xinglang stopped and turned. "Let’s go back and 'drive' it, then."
Under the streetlights, their shadows stretched long as Fang skipped his way back. How could anyone forget their bike after work?
Just as scatterbrained as his niece!
"Like uncle, like niece?" Cheng Xinglang teased.
"More like niece, like uncle!" Fang shot back, never one to lose a verbal spar.
...
Zeng Yongshan sat in her swivel chair, spinning halfway before turning back, her eyes narrowing.
She had been staring at Zhu Qing’s office phone for a while now.
Finally, she cracked the case.
Those two—they never even bothered with thank-yous. It was always like this between them!
Sliding over in her chair, Zeng blurted, "So you and—"
"We’re heading to the Gu residence," Zhu Qing cut in, closing a case file as she stood. "Fresh orders from Mo Zhenbang."
"What were you saying earlier?" she asked.
Before Zeng could reply, Hao Zai had already grabbed his jacket and stepped forward.
"Leaving now?"
During the drive, the three officers reviewed the Gu family’s tragedies.
Gu Niman’s mother, Yu Dancui, died in 1987—two years after the "suicide pact" case was closed. Her father, Gu Guodong, drowned while night fishing in 1992. Her younger brother, Gu Hongbo, died in a car accident earlier this month.
These three cases spanned eight years and were handled by different precincts, so they were never connected.
The police arrived at the apartment where the Gu family had lived. Not long ago, Zhu Qing had found a crucial lead here—a cemetery sketch in Gu Hongbo’s home proved Liu Wei had been stalking the family.
"After Gu Niman’s death, the media hounded them relentlessly, forcing multiple moves. Only two years later, when the scandal faded, did they settle here."
"But tragedy struck again soon after—Mrs. Gu fell from the building."
Eight years ago, the Gu family moved here, desperate to escape the gossip.
They rented at first, then bought the apartment shortly after.
"Seventh floor, right there," said Uncle Fu, pointing at the weathered exterior. "That’s where Mrs. Gu fell."
He shook his head. "Such a decent family, and their son was so filial. What a cruel fate."
"Weren’t the guardrails here notorious for safety hazards?"
"Absolutely. The neighbors complained for years. That day, the weather was nice—Mrs. Gu carried bedding to the rooftop, leaned against the railing, and…"
"The developer shirked responsibility and refused to compensate, claiming there was already a 'Do Not Lean' sign placed next to the railing. Their family—such honest folks—ended up letting the matter drop."
Case file photos confirmed this: a faded warning sign had indeed been placed by the railing.
"That’s way too dangerous," Hao Zai remarked. "Just putting up a warning sign and calling it a day?"
"Well, it was a fatal accident. Later, the neighbors made such a fuss that the property management couldn’t take it anymore and finally replaced the railing."
Zhu Qing asked, "Did Mrs. Gu know about the rusted railing?"
"She might not have," Uncle Fu replied. "We reported it for repairs many times, but she had only moved in about two months before it happened."
Zeng Yongshan followed him upstairs to inspect the scene.
In the dim evening light, clothes fluttered on the rooftop clothesline, and she instinctively rubbed her arms against the chill.
"After Mrs. Gu’s accident, how did her husband take it?"
"Not sure. That gentleman rarely interacted with the neighbors," Uncle Fu recalled. "All he cared about was fishing—heard he’d been doing it half his life, his only pastime."
When the conversation turned to Gu Hongbo’s case, Uncle Fu grew more talkative.
"After the young man passed, only his girlfriend came to handle his funeral arrangements and sort through his belongings."
"Rumor was her family had always opposed their relationship. One day, he even brought cigarettes, liquor, and gifts to visit them, but they wouldn’t even let him in—he had to carry everything back untouched. The way he looked when he returned, so heartbroken… it was pitiful."
"But what parent can truly stand firm against their own child? I told him, 'If you’re sincere and persistent, sooner or later, you’ll win them over.' That young man thanked me so earnestly—such a polite fellow."
"Who’d have thought he’d die so young… What a shame."
"You mentioned her family objected," Zeng Yongshan pressed. "Why?"
"Didn’t ask for specifics. Probably because he was an orphan, no family to rely on."
"Honestly, for someone his age, owning a car and an apartment was impressive enough."
Surprisingly, Uncle Fu knew nothing about Gu Niman and had no idea the family had once been tied to a city-wide sensation—a star who died for love.
As they left the building, Hao Zai sighed. "Honestly, door-to-door inquiries rarely turn up anything suspicious. If there were obvious issues, the investigators back then would’ve caught them."
......
No matter how busy the case kept her, Zhu Qing never missed breakfast with Sheng Fang.
She used to grab a piece of toast and rush out the door, but under Sheng Fang’s strict supervision, every meal was now nutritionally balanced—thanks to Aunt Ping’s meticulously planned weekly menus.
A notepad stuck to the fridge door let the uncle-niece duo jot down their cravings.
Today’s breakfast? Sheng Fang’s request: ham and eggs with warm milk, plus a small bowl of blueberries.
After eating, Sheng Fang hopped onto his little bike to wait for the school bus.
The stop was just outside their home, and Aunt Ping, who doted on him, had been hauling the bike downstairs for him all week.
Zhu Qing patted Sheng Fang’s new ride. "Figure out how to get it down yourself."
Sheng Fang gave a defiant "Hmph!" and lifted his chin. "Just watch me!"
That morning, Zhu Qing spent over ten minutes just seeing little Sheng Fang off to the school bus.
First, Sheng Fang struggled to squeeze his bicycle into the elevator, only to get it stuck in the doorway when they reached the ground floor. Too weak to maneuver it free, his face flushed red with frustration. It was peak rush hour for work and school, and Zhu Qing didn’t bother holding the elevator door open for him. So the elevator carried the uncle-nephew duo up and down, up and down.
"Qing Zai, do you have nothing better to do?" Sheng Fang huffed indignantly.
"Just happened to wake up early today," Zhu Qing replied lazily, leaning against the elevator wall.
So annoying!
"I’m not taking you for a ride anymore!" Sheng Fang turned his little head away.
Zhu Qing eyed the tiny seat attached to the back of the bike.
Could that even hold her?
Little Sheng Fang wasn’t one to give up easily.
After several attempts, he finally mastered adjusting the bike’s angle in the cramped elevator and triumphantly rode out.
Qing Zai always said: When you face a problem, you overcome it!
Humming a children’s song, Sheng Fang barely pedaled for a minute before the school bus arrived.
Totally not worth it.
"Qing Zai, I’m riding my bike to school tomorrow," Sheng Fang declared.
Zhu Qing bent down and pinched his little nose. "Then I’ll call the traffic police to arrest you."
...
As soon as she arrived at the police station, Weng Zhaolin was already waiting in the CID office, holding a stack of newspapers and tabloids—enough for everyone.
The front page prominently featured a paparazzi shot of Gu Niman.
Her oversized sunglasses covered half her face, and a scarf was wrapped tightly around her chin, yet the ghastly scar on her left cheek was still faintly visible. Once a glamorous star who should have been unafraid of the camera, the woman in the photo flinched away, even raising a hand to shield her face—her disheveled appearance was almost painful to see.
"Must’ve been taken yesterday afternoon on her way back."
"These paparazzi nowadays... no sense of decency."
"I was wondering if Gu Niman would camp out at our station again today."
"No wonder she didn’t show up. Probably hiding again."
In the case of the staged lovers’ suicide, more than one person had faked their death.
The news exploded across the city, stirring public debate—some shocked, others demanding answers. Reporters swarmed the police station entrance, pressing Weng Zhaolin for a statement.
It was predictable: Once the truth came out, Gu Niman would be plastered across every headline. Even a decade later, the once-radiant star was still in her prime. When the public learned she was a victim, the sympathy would only deepen.
At Liang Qikai’s desk, a psychology book lay open, untouched.
"Planning a career change, Liang sir?" a colleague teased.
Liang Qikai chuckled. "Turns out psychology’s pretty interesting."
The investigation pressed on.
Zhu Qing and her colleagues spent the morning canvassing the city, chasing leads in the Gu family case. By the time they returned to CID, case files towered on their desks—Gu Guodong, Yu Dancui, and Gu Hongbo’s records sprawled out, waiting to be organized.
All of Hong Kong was watching this case, but police procedure wouldn’t bend to public pressure.
After multiple rounds of interviews, the three cases showed no obvious irregularities on the surface.
Before closing them, every investigative record had to be filed.
New leads were logged, then dismissed.
Following Mo Zhenbang’s instructions, Zhu Qing began reorganizing the case files.
This was once a happy family of four. After Gu Niman's "death," her parents, hounded by relentless media attention, were forced to relocate repeatedly with their young son.
In recent investigations, the police compiled records of their frequent address changes, inadvertently sketching the brief life of Gu Niman.
Gu Niman's parents were diligent factory workers. The year she was born coincided with her father's promotion to workshop foreman. When she turned six, her younger brother was born, and the cramped factory dormitory forced the family to move out. They first rented a tenement in Sham Shui Po, then shuffled to Prince Edward Road. By the time Gu Niman was ten, following the passing of her grandparents, they finally settled into their first real home in a lane off Man Wah Road.
The police files meticulously noted these relocations.
Among the records was a photograph, unearthed by a relative during interviews.
In it, a three- or five-year-old Gu Niman shone with bright eyes and radiant features, her delicate beauty innate and striking.
Back then, the Gu family still maintained ties with relatives. It was only after their constant moves that these connections gradually faded.
While assisting the police, the relative recalled that Gu Niman had always been the most dazzling presence among children. Even as a little girl, she was gifted in singing and dancing, never shy in the spotlight. Her later career as an actress seemed almost inevitable.
Zhu Qing continued flipping through the documents.
The records showed the Gu family's relocations never ceased. Yet in every address change, one crucial name was always missing.
"Found something," Little Sun interrupted her thoughts, pushing the door open with a hint of excitement. "A potential murder weapon was discovered at the Radiant Theater!"
...
In the afternoon meeting room, the officers were alert, showing no signs of fatigue.
The new evidence had invigorated everyone.
"On the day of the incident, theater manager He Liren was the one with the easiest access to the victim," Mo Zhenbang tapped the crime scene photo with his pen. "Given their past grudge, this was the perfect opportunity—of course, he has no alibi. He was at work, inside the theater."
Xu Jiale skimmed through employee testimonies. "The theater's management was chaotic and lax. Ticket sellers often left their posts, projectionists weren't in the booth, even the cleaners slacked off. During the entire timeframe of the crime, no one could vouch for him."
"As for motive," Uncle Li pointed to last night's interrogation notes, "He Liren kept insisting he didn’t kill anyone. The only thing he admitted was that Zhou Yongsheng taunted him, 'You’ve fallen even lower now.' If it was a crime of passion, that single remark alone would be motive enough."
"Less than two hours later, the victim was dead in the theater's screening room. The murder weapon was a steel wire."
"Last night’s employee statements mentioned the manager urgently clearing out the prop room after the incident, disposing of all the steel wires used to secure stage backdrops."
"But the stage curtains haven’t been taken down yet," Zeng Yongshan looked up. "The wires extracted from the curtains were sent to forensics for comparison with the ligature marks on the victim’s neck."
Theater manager He Liren remained detained in the interrogation room.
The records showed he vehemently denied the murder charges, repeatedly stressing that his wife was hospitalized, his son in school, and his family relied entirely on his job to survive.
"How many murderers would willingly confess?" Hao Zai chuckled. "He won’t admit a thing until the evidence is undeniable."
Mo Zhenbang said, "Push forensics to speed up the comparison results."
The meeting room buzzed with discussion before gradually falling silent.
Officers exchanged glances, all wondering if this case was truly nearing its conclusion.
Scattered across the table were tabloid magazines with sensational headlines and lurid reports, now lying forgotten in the corner.
At last, everything was slowly settling down.
Truthfully, even the killer behind Zhou Yongsheng’s murder would struggle to uncover the decade-old deception of his faked death. After all, even the police had gone to great lengths to unearth this lead.
Perhaps the supposed "lovers' suicide" from ten years ago and the current homicide should never have been conflated.
In the end, what pushed Zhou Yongsheng to his death was nothing more than a personal grudge.
...
The forensic comparison results weren’t in yet, but the relentless investigation could finally take a brief pause.
After days of tension, the team’s nerves were allowed to relax, and someone suggested ordering afternoon tea to unwind.
"I’ll cover it," Mo Zhenbang said, slapping a few bills onto the table.
Mo Sir was always like this—generous to a fault, making his subordinates worry about his wallet.
No one responded at first, until a low scoff came from Weng Zhaolin’s office—
"Today’s on me."
Team B erupted in cheers.
As for Mo Sir… with his inspector’s exam next week, once Sergeant Mo became Inspector Mo, he’d owe them an even bigger treat.
The downstairs "Li Ji Cha Chaan Teng" worked with startling efficiency, delivering stacks of takeout boxes in no time.
Hao Zai stretched, stabbing a straw into his drink. "Whatever the results say, at least we can have a proper dinner at home tonight."
"Shut your jinxing mouth," Xu Jiale shot back. "If the comparison doesn’t match, who knows how much longer we’ll be stuck here."
Though the case wasn’t closed yet, the rare breather let everyone exhale in relief.
Mo Zhenbang let Zhu Qing leave early—he knew her mother was still in rehab and needed care.
Zhu Qing took a flaky egg tart and tucked it into a takeout box.
Weng Zhaolin passed by, his gaze flickering toward her.
She lifted the box. "For Sheng Fang."
As if he usually begrudged his subordinates such small things.
"Take it if you want. It’s just an egg tart—no need to explain," Weng Zhaolin frowned.
Zhu Qing opened the box again and grabbed another. "I haven’t eaten either."
The office barely stifled their laughter.
Weng Zhaolin watched her hurry away, torn between annoyance and amusement.
Fine. For the sake of his little confidante, he’d let his niece off this time.
...
Outside Weston Kindergarten, parents huddled against the cold wind, waiting for their children.
Zhu Qing stood in the most visible spot, ensuring Sheng Fang would see her the moment class ended.
The wind howled, and everyone bundled tighter in their coats.
Zhu Qing cradled the egg tart box protectively, shielding it from the chill.
She could already picture the kid barreling into her like he hadn’t eaten all day.
The crowd at the gate naturally split into small clusters—mothers chatting together, fathers standing in twos and threes, grandparents forming their own circles.
People only needed to exchange a glance to effortlessly find their own kind.
But Zhu Qing could search the entire kindergarten and still never find another niece her own age.
"That coat of yours is lovely," an elderly woman remarked, drawing closer. "Not like the styles they sell in department stores these days."
"It's an old-fashioned cut—young people nowadays wouldn’t appreciate it," the curly-haired woman adjusted her collar. "This was made by Master Xiang’s hands."
"His clothes last over a decade without losing shape." She rubbed her reddened hands, chilled by the cold. "Such a shame he moved away later."
"Xiang’s Tailor Shop? Wasn’t it on Ferry Street?"
The two women chatted with growing enthusiasm, their faces lighting up with nostalgia.
Meanwhile, rustling sounds emerged from the kindergarten as the children lined up like a little train, ready to go home.
Today, Sheng Fang was the "train conductor," and the moment he spotted his niece from afar, he waved excitedly.
"Qing Zai! Qing Zai!"
"It was near the corner where Ferry Street meets Wenhua Street," the curly-haired woman continued reminiscing. "After Wenhua Street was expanded, the whole row of shops was demolished. No one knows where that old master went."
"Even back then, over a decade ago, he was already wearing thick glasses, saying sewing was getting harder for him..."
Sheng Fang came barreling over.
Zhu Qing nearly toppled over from the impact, quickly stuffing a flaky egg tart into Sheng Fang’s mouth to keep him quiet.
Her attention, however, was completely seized by the words "Wenhua Road."
The Gu family’s records listed Wenhua Road as their former address.
And before its expansion and demolition, Wenhua Road had been right next to Ferry Street.
Which meant—back then, the distance from the Gu residence to the Xia Guang Theater on Ferry Street was just around the corner.
...
At nine in the evening, Sheng Fang and his niece returned from the nursing home.
Aunt Ping was busy in the kitchen, as usual.
She always seemed to be there, crafting warm, handmade dumplings, buns, and tangyuan with her own hands—watching the younger and older members of the household enjoy them, her eyes brimming with kindness.
"You're back?"
"Aunt Ping!" Sheng Fang lifted his little face, looking triumphant. "I tattled on you today to Big Sis and my niece!"
Aunt Ping wiped her hands as she stepped out of the kitchen, smiling. "Oh? What did you tattle about?"
Most days, she spent her time with the little master.
Children, after all, couldn’t help but act their age—mischief was inevitable. Whenever the little troublemaker acted up, Aunt Ping would report him to his big sister and niece.
Now, the tables had turned. Sheng Fang planted his hands on his hips, his tiny face glowing with pride.
"Ta-da!" Suddenly, like a magician, he pulled out a brand-new mobile phone from behind his back. "For you!"
Aunt Ping froze.
This was too extravagant—she had already refused once before...
Zhu Qing stood by the entrance, bending down to set Sheng Fang’s backpack aside.
"Now you can call Aunt Ping anytime."
Sheng Fang shoved the phone into Aunt Ping’s hands, then immediately grew suspicious. "What are you gonna call and say?"
"Aunt Ping! Aunt Ping!" Zhu Qing mimicked his tone. "Please come pick up Sheng Fang from the police station!"
"No way!" The little master shook his head like a rattle-drum, then put on a high-pitched voice, imitating Aunt Ping. "Qing Qing ah—the young master won’t come home!"
