At the Guesthouse
The three sisters had no mind to rest.
They weren’t tired. They were filthy.
The long journey, train to bus, then ox cart. You could call it a hard, wandering trek and not be exaggerating.
The train had been a slow green-skin hard-seat car, clattering and swaying the whole way.
You could bring anything onto those cars.
Chicken, duck, and goose cages stuffed under the seats, villagers’ woven bags holding God-knows-what, live or dried, and the occasional squeal of a pig. The car was packed to bursting, people pressed against people, the air thick with smoke, sweat, foot stench, dry rations, and some unidentifiable animal smell.
Qiao Yujie had felt like she smelled of toilet the whole time.
Not an illusion.
She really did.
So the moment the three brothers left, she grabbed her toiletries and a change of clothes and headed straight for the bathhouse behind the building.
She needed to scrub herself clean, head to toe, inside and out.
At the bathhouse door, she took a deep breath.
A Guangdong native, she’d never been in a bathhouse.
In the south, bathing was private. A stall, a door, a quiet rinse, and you were out.
In front of her—
“Ugh…”
She sucked in a breath.
A vast, open indoor room. A few pipes overhead. Wet floor. Steam hanging in the air.
No partitions.
No screens.
Nothing hidden.
She instinctively stepped back half a pace.
Qiao Yurou had already walked in without a care, undressing as naturally as if she were in her own bedroom.
Qiao Yuxin followed silently, her face expressionless.
Only Qiao Yujie still stood in the doorway, as if struck by a paralysis spell.
“Little Sister Xiaoyu, what’s wrong?” Qiao Yurou turned back, her tone gentle, though a flicker of superiority passed through her eyes.
“It’s like this everywhere in the north. You’ll get used to it.”
Qiao Yujie gritted her teeth.
She forced herself inside.
Her eyes fixed on the floor as if she were blind.
She undressed at bomb-defusal speed. The faster the better. The fewer people who saw, the better.
Fortunately, it wasn’t a peak hour. The entire women’s bathhouse held only the three of them.
A bathhouse for three was a private room.
When the hot water poured down, she nearly let out a sigh.
Not from comfort. From being alive again.
The exhaustion of the journey was scalded away, inch by inch, washed off, a feeling of resurrection.
She washed slowly.
Soap, over and over.
Her hair, twice, fingertips scrubbing her scalp hard, as if she could uproot the toilet smell that had marinated into her on the train.
As she scrubbed, she looked at the rolls of grime coming off her arms, fell silent for three seconds—
Then scrubbed harder.
In two lifetimes, she’d never been this dirty.
Through the steam, she heard Qiao Yurou and Qiao Yuxin finish, dress, and leave.
Not a hint of waiting for her.
Qiao Yujie didn’t mind.
After washing herself, she glanced at the pile of clothes beside her.
After a moment’s hesitation, she washed everything she could. Including the old military coat.
She had a cleanliness obsession.
Not severe, but definitely there.
Those clothes had swayed and jostled the whole way. The toilet smell had worked into every fiber.
If she didn’t wash them clean, she wouldn’t sleep tonight.
Soaked, the military coat was heavy as an iron plate.
She gritted her teeth and scrubbed, scrubbed until her hands were red, and when she wrung it out, her arms were shaking.
But somehow, she felt at ease.
By the time she finally finished, she was the only one left in the bathhouse.
No smoke smell. No sweat smell. No toilet smell.
She felt like she’d shed an old shell.
She rolled her shoulders. Light, loose, not a trace of soreness.
She tried a small hop. Her steps were so light she almost wasn’t used to it.
This body was like a new branch in spring. Supple, strong, brimming with resilient vitality.
She stood in front of the mirror, drying her half-wet hair, studying the face reflected there.
The features were about fifty or sixty percent like her previous life’s, but younger, more vivid.
Her skin, soaked pink by the hot water, was like a peeled egg.
Fine droplets still clung to her lashes. Her nose was straight, her lips red without paint.
Her brows and eyes still held a touch of unripe youth, but her eyes were bright.
Young.
What a luxurious word.
She reached out a finger and traced her own brows, her own contours, on the mirror.
“Qiao Yujie,” she whispered, “you’re twenty-one now.”
No hidden worry of a body in decline.
No family pressure.
No anxiety over career advancement.
This life, you’re going to live well. Live easily. Just be yourself.
This time,
enjoy your youth to the fullest.
She tapped the person in the mirror.
“Raise yourself again.”
Huo Zheng ran back to his dorm.
He cut through the wind the whole way, a nameless irritation lodged in his chest, and a trace of… urgency he absolutely refused to admit.
He burst into the dorm, stripped off the wrinkled training uniform reeking of “manly essence,” and shoved it into the basin under his bed.
Then he turned on the tap and doused himself with cold well water, over and over, until he shivered hard and felt the inexplicable heat press down a little.
Then came the most careful, most thorough shower of his life.
Three rounds of soap, scrubbing until his skin was red, not even sparing his fingernails.
He changed into a clean uniform, stood before the mirror, and buttoned the collar hook to the very top. Then thought about it and undid it.
What’s the point of buttoning it? It chokes.
Then he thought again and buttoned it back up.
Looks more formal.
He tugged at the corner of his mouth in the mirror, then quickly let it drop.
What are you smiling for? You’re not going to a blind date.
Fuck, actually, it kind of is a blind date.
He grabbed his cap, jammed it on his head, and strode out the door.
But when he got downstairs to the guesthouse, the duty auntie stopped him.
“The young ladies are bathing. Wait a bit.”
Fine. Wait.
He stood downstairs for ten minutes, the cold wind pouring into his collar, freezing the freshly washed hair at his temples into ice crystals.
Then he circled around to the corner behind the bathhouse.
That side was sheltered from the wind, and he’d be able to see the moment anyone came out.
And so began the most inexplicable wait of his life.
Before long, the other two Qiao girls came back one after the other.
The one in front—
The one called something-rou, smiled at him from far off, soft and gentle, like water.
Huo Zheng nodded expressionlessly, his gaze passing over her and sweeping behind her.
No one.
He waited another five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Twenty minutes.
…Had his fiancée drowned in the bathhouse?
He switched the cigarette from the left corner of his mouth to the right, then back again.
The cigarette had gone soft from being held.
The other two girls had gone up half an hour ago, and the bathhouse was still quiet. No sign of anyone.
Huo Zheng finally couldn’t hold back. He walked a few steps toward the bathhouse.
He couldn’t exactly go in and fish her out, could he?
Just as he stood outside, straining to listen, the back door of the bathhouse creaked open.
Huo Zheng instinctively stepped back half a pace, tucking himself into the shadow of the corner.
Not hiding. Just… not wanting anyone to think he was lurking.
A girl walked out.
What he saw first was her hair.
Black and long, half-wet, draped over her shoulders, droplets still clinging to the ends, catching thin glints of light in the twilight.
Then the sweater.
White, high-collared, wrapped tight, but he could tell the waist beneath it was impossibly narrow.
She held an enamel basin in her arms, stuffed full of washed clothes, almost spilling over.
One arm still cradled a bulging cloth bag, weighing her arm down.
Her feet were in bath slippers, white ankles bare, stepping on the cold concrete. Probably cold, her toes curled slightly.
She walked with her head down, humming some tune under her breath, low and broken, most of it carried off by the wind.
Huo Zheng narrowed his eyes.
Who the hell is this?
He’d just seen the two Qiao girls.
Each thinner than the last, each plainer than the last, wrapped in military coats like stuffed sacks. Nothing like this…
The girl looked up, heading for the stairs.
The light fell on her face, and Huo Zheng’s fingers unconsciously tightened on the cigarette pack.
It was his fiancée.
The girl wrapped in a scarf, only her eyes showing, crouched in the corner saying she wanted to leave.
The fiancée who’d looked at him like she’d seen a ghost, who’d wanted to vanish on the spot.
The scarf was gone.
The heavy military coat was gone.
Not the delicate, pretty kind of beauty. The fresh, living, water-misted kind.
Like a bamboo shoot just breaking ground in a southern spring.
She lowered her head again, went on humming that tune he didn’t recognize, her steps so light she wasn’t walking, she was floating.
At the stairs, she suddenly paused.
She swept a quick glance around from the corner of her eye.
Huo Zheng held his breath.
Seeing no one, her eyes curved into a slightly sly smile.
Then,
with remarkable agility, she backed up a few steps, took a running start, and bounded up three steps at a time like a nimble antelope.
Her slippers slapped against the concrete steps. The clothes in her basin nearly bounced out.
She let out an “Ah—” and scrambled to pin them down with her chin, then vanished around the corner without a backward glance.
From start to finish, she never looked his way.
Huo Zheng stood frozen.
A north wind blew over, pouring into his freshly buttoned collar, cold enough to make him shiver.
He looked down at the cigarette pack in his hand. It had been crushed flat. When he’d done it, he had no idea.
He slowly tucked the pack back into his pocket and pressed his tongue against his cheek.
He thought of that afternoon at the gate, the utterly done-with-life face she’d made when she saw him.
Then he thought of that rabbit-like figure bounding up the stairs just now.
Same person?
He leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, and looked at the lit window on the second floor. His throat felt dry.
He cleared it. Still dry.
“Zheng-ge!”
Gu Mingyang’s voice came from behind him, loud and cheerful.
“What are you standing here for? Feeding mosquitoes? Oh wait, no mosquitoes in this weather.”
Huo Zheng turned his head, expressionless.
Gu Mingsong walked up behind him and glanced at him. “Been waiting long?”
“No.” Huo Zheng said, “Just got here.”
Gu Mingyang leaned in, nose twitching. “Did you shower with soap?”
“…”
“And shaved?”
Gu Mingyang’s eyes lit up, his face like he’d discovered a new continent. “Zheng-ge, you actually— ow!”
Huo Zheng withdrew the elbow he’d just driven into him, his face unchanged. “Let’s go. Dinner.”
“Wait, aren’t we supposed to call those three girls?”
Gu Mingyang rubbed his arm, aggrieved.
Huo Zheng’s step paused.
“…You go.”
“Why me?”
“Because I don’t want to go up.”
“Why don’t you want to go up?”
Huo Zheng looked at him.
Gu Mingyang shut his mouth for no reason he could name.
Gu Mingsong, standing nearby, said nothing. He only raised an eyebrow slightly.
Huo Zheng pulled his cap down, hiding most of his face, his voice muffled.
“Hurry up. I’m hungry.”
Gu Mingyang gave an “oh” and jogged upstairs.
Huo Zheng stood in place, his gaze following the other’s back upward a stretch, then quickly pulling back.
Gu Mingsong watched him for three seconds, then suddenly asked, “What did you just see?”
“What do you mean, what did I see?”
“Your cigarette pack.” Gu Mingsong tilted his chin. “It’s crushed.”
Huo Zheng glanced down.
“…Slipped.”
Gu Mingsong didn’t press. The corner of his mouth curved up slightly.
Huo Zheng tugged his cap down a bit more.
This weather. It was damn hot.