“Sure,” she said lightly.
She set down the garment bag, took her phone out of her apron pocket, opened her WeChat QR code, and held it out.
Qin Yuzheng took out his own phone and scanned it.
Beep.
He glanced at the screen.
Zhiyan. A white magnolia blossom as her profile picture.
Friend request accepted.
As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, his thumb lightly pressed against it through the fabric of his trousers, unable to hide the quiet delight rising in his heart.
“Then I’ll be going,” he said.
“Take care,” Yang Zhiyan replied with a slight nod.
Carrying the garment bag, Qin Yuzheng turned to leave. When he reached the door, he paused for a moment.
He wanted to look back.
Just one glance—to see whether she was still standing there, whether she was still watching him.
He restrained himself.
He opened the driver’s door, sat inside, and placed the garment bag on the passenger seat. As he fastened his seat belt, he lowered his eyes toward it.
For no reason at all, a thought crossed his mind.
If the one sitting there weren’t the qipao… but her.
He started the engine and drove away.
Saturday.
The Second Qipao Culture Exhibition at the International Convention and Exhibition Center.
By nine-thirty in the morning, the exhibition hall was already packed with visitors.
The vast white space had been divided into several exhibition areas. Warm lighting bathed the fabrics on display: silk shimmered with a pearly glow, cotton and linen reflected a muted matte finish, while fragrant gambiered silk carried a weighty sense of age and history.
A faint scent of sandalwood drifted through the air, likely from one of the exhibition booths.
The background music was an old Shanghai jazz tune. The trumpet’s languid yet elegant notes echoed beneath the soaring ceiling.
Qin Yuzheng hadn’t planned to attend.
But considering his strangely fated encounters with qipaos lately, perhaps another unexpected surprise awaited him.
After delivering the opening speech and officially declaring the exhibition open, he quietly slipped away on his own.
He wore a navy lightweight jacket over a white dress shirt, its collar unbuttoned. The casual outfit made him look several years younger than usual.
Walking through the crowd, he wasn’t particularly eye-catching.
Yet the commanding presence that seemed woven into his very bones couldn’t be concealed. Even without knowing who he was, people instinctively stepped aside to let him pass.
He didn’t head straight for the Mufei Studio booth.
Instead, he entered the main exhibition hall and slowly followed the flow of visitors, taking in the antique qipaos on display.
The loose, wide-sleeved styles of the late Qing Dynasty…
The fitted, waist-hugging silhouettes of the Republican era…
Shanghai fashions of the 1930s…
Chongqing styles of the 1940s…
Walking through them felt like flipping through a three-dimensional history book.
He lingered before a moon-white Republican-era qipao with broad inverted sleeves, studying the row of hand-knotted grape buttons along the collar.
Suddenly, he remembered what Yang Zhiyan had said yesterday—
“They’re the most exquisite embellishment on a qipao.”
He continued on.
Passing another display, he overheard two middle-aged women discussing the embroidery techniques on a qipao.
“Flat stitch.”
“Couching stitch.”
“Long-and-short stitch.”
Terms that meant absolutely nothing to him.
He stopped and listened for a few seconds.
He still couldn’t understand any of it.
But he remembered how Yang Zhiyan’s eyes would light up whenever she talked about these things.
After wandering through the exhibition for nearly twenty minutes, he finally arrived at Mufei Studio’s booth.
The booth wasn’t large, nor was it in a prime location.
But it had been arranged with great care.
The backdrop was a light gray wall bearing the calligraphic words “Mufei Qipao.”
Beside it hung a row of old photographs.
One showed a Republican-era street where women in qipaos walked beneath oil-paper umbrellas in the rain.
Another captured a tailor’s shop in the 1950s, where an elderly craftsman, wearing reading glasses, carefully stitched under the glow of a lamp.
There was also a photo of Master Mu in her youth, standing outside her studio in a qipao she had made herself, smiling so brightly that her eyes curved into crescents.
At the center of the booth stood three mannequins dressed in qipaos.
The one on the left was moon-white silk, with delicate embroidered orchids blooming along the hem, the stitches so fine they looked painted on.
The one in the middle was made of dark emerald brocade, its collar trimmed with a narrow strip of black piping, understated yet dignified.
The one on the right was fashioned from lotus-colored fragrant gambiered silk. It bore no embroidery at all—only a series of finely pleated folds along the collar, simple and elegant, like a five-character classical poem.
Beside the three qipaos stood a display plaque.
It bore the designer’s name.
Yang Zhiyan.
The moment Qin Yuzheng’s gaze settled on those three characters, a voice came from behind him.
“You’re here?”
It wasn’t directed at him.
She was greeting a visitor who had just arrived at the booth.
He turned around.
Yang Zhiyan stood on the other side of the display, speaking with a man and woman who appeared to be husband and wife.
Today she wore a modified qipao in a muted dusty-green shade.
The skirt reached her calves. The waist was gently tailored, and the short standing collar was just high enough to cradle her chin.
The fabric was matte cotton-linen—unassuming at first glance, yet the longer one looked, the more perfectly the color complemented her fair complexion.
Instead of securing her hair with a hairpin today, she had braided it loosely over one shoulder. The end of the braid was tied with a dark green ribbon that swayed softly whenever she moved.
Standing a few steps away, Qin Yuzheng made no move to approach.
Leaning casually against a nearby pillar with both hands tucked into his jacket pockets, he simply watched her from afar.
“The embroidery on this piece depicts white magnolias,” Yang Zhiyan explained, turning slightly as her fingertip lightly touched the collar of the dark green qipao.
“The white magnolia is our city’s official flower. I chose it partly because it symbolizes purity and elegance, but also because it blooms early without competing with the other flowers of spring. It carries a quiet, aloof beauty.”
Her diction was crisp, her pace unhurried.
Her voice flowed like a mountain stream—calm, clear, and gentle.
As she spoke, her hands moved naturally with her words, sometimes pointing lightly at the qipao, sometimes tracing small arcs through the air.
Every gesture was graceful and expressive.
Standing beside her own creations, explaining the design philosophy, fabric selection, and embroidery techniques behind each qipao, Yang Zhiyan appeared completely at ease.
Confident.
Composed.
She seemed to radiate a captivating light.
“A white magnolia has nine petals,” she continued, “but we couldn’t actually embroider nine petals here. Silk is very delicate, and too many layers of thread would pull on the fabric and distort its shape.”
Tilting her head slightly, she raised seven fingers.
“So in the end, we embroidered only seven petals. We used layered embroidery, with three different shades of white thread for each petal, gradually transitioning from the center to the tip. That creates depth while keeping the fabric from becoming too heavy.”
The female visitor listened, utterly absorbed.
She instinctively reached out to touch the qipao, then hesitated and drew her hand back, afraid she might damage it.
Yang Zhiyan smiled.
“It’s alright. You can touch the fabric. The feel of real silk is an important part of the experience.”
The woman cautiously brushed the hem with her fingertips.
A soft gasp escaped her.
“It’s so smooth.”
“That’s one of silk’s greatest qualities,” Yang Zhiyan replied.
“It feels wonderful against the skin and breathes well, so it’s comfortable even in summer. And look at the sheen—it isn’t flashy. It’s a restrained glow, like moonlight reflecting on water. That’s silk’s natural pearlescent luster. Synthetic fibers simply can’t replicate it.”