It was already very late. He Qi felt that getting angry was meaningless. Carrying that pitiful shopping bag, she said goodnight to Li Jiajia and went back to her room to sleep.
The next morning, she woke up fairly early. After washing up, she put on her glasses, took her laptop and phone, and curled up on the living room sofa, planning to finish revising Judy’s New Home today.
As winter approached, the air had grown dry. A small patch of peeling skin had formed on her lips. While carefully picking at it with her fingertip, she checked her WeChat messages.
There was a red dot on Li Jiajia’s profile picture. Judging by the time, it had been sent on her way to work.
“There’s still a pack of frozen dumplings in the fridge. If you want, help me finish them, or they’ll expire.”
“Also, let me tell you—when I got up at three or four in the morning last night, I actually saw Chen Jin’s car still downstairs. He probably slept in it. But when I went down after eight, it was gone.”
“Tch.” He Qi unconsciously applied a bit more force with her fingers, tearing off the patch of dead skin.
Looking down, she saw a bit of blood on her fingertip. She realized she had probably torn the skin on her lip as well. She quickly grabbed a tissue to wipe her hand, then sucked lightly on her lower lip. Sure enough, there was a stinging pain, along with a faint metallic taste.
“Just woke up. I’ll go deal with the dumplings.”
After replying, He Qi tossed her devices aside and went into the kitchen.
With a full stomach, everything felt easier. He Qi spent the entire morning revising the story’s ending, typing away on the keyboard. Just before noon, she finally completed the most polished version and sent it to Editor Luo Luo right away.
By the time she received a reply, she had only eaten half her lunch.
Since they had already discussed the structure of the ending beforehand, there weren’t major issues. However, Luo Luo pointed out that the final conversation between Judy and her parents felt stiff and unrealistic, offering several suggestions.
After reading it, He Qi immediately put down her chopsticks and grabbed her laptop. After carefully digesting Luo Luo’s feedback, she continued revising.
But for some reason, this part just wouldn’t flow. No matter how much she cut and rewrote, pacing back and forth in the living room for inspiration—even to the point of nearly standing on her head—she still couldn’t produce a satisfying version.
In the end, she could only grit her teeth and send a barely acceptable draft. As expected, Luo Luo’s response was less than ideal.
Sensing that He Qi was stuck, Luo Luo temporarily set aside her own work and spent twenty minutes discussing it with her.
During the process, He Qi felt as though something in her mind had slightly clicked into place. A vague blur began to clear, like wiping condensation off a glass window.
Encouraged, she reopened the document with renewed confidence—only to be beaten back by reality an hour later.
The condensation on the window might have been wiped away, but she was like a nearsighted person without glasses—still unable to see clearly.
Feeling both frustrated and guilty for letting Luo Luo down, He Qi struggled harder, only to find herself even more lost. Helpless, she asked for help again.
After another round of discussion, Luo Luo finally made a decisive suggestion via voice message:
“Why not just remove this part entirely? End it at the point where Judy raises the question.”
From her voice, she sounded like a fairly young woman. He Qi asked:
“Would that work? If it only raises the question without resolving it, won’t it feel incomplete?”
Luo Luo seemed truly busy—even typing would waste time—so she sent another voice message.
“It can be a form of leaving it open-ended, giving readers space to think. I think it works, but it still depends on what the second and final reviewers say.”
Suddenly, a sentence surfaced in He Qi’s mind—something Li Xiulan had sent her the day the story passed the initial review:
“Children’s literature belongs to children—it’s not your podium.”
Back then, He Qi hadn’t understood it at all. She had even thought it was sarcasm. In the end, she assumed Li Xiulan was simply reminding her that the story had passed the first review.
But now, she froze for a moment, feeling as though she could see more clearly.
He Qi replied to Luo Luo with a “Okay,” expressing her sincere gratitude. Then she found her chat history with Li Xiulan, opened it, and stared at that sentence for a long time.
She couldn’t quite say whether she fully understood it now—but she created a note on her desktop and typed that sentence into it.
No matter what, it felt like she had resolved a major issue. He Qi felt noticeably lighter. Relaxing, she scrolled through Moments, seeing Zhang Xinyi’s casual posts, Li Jiajia’s goofy selfies, and several photos Fang Yi had posted of Twenty-Seven.
She tapped into the Live Photo and zoomed in with two fingers, observing for a while. The little blue cat did seem well cared for. In the background audio, when Fang Yi called “Xiao Qi,” Twenty-Seven lifted its head and meowed.
After only a short break, He Qi became restless again. She spent some time finishing the book The Sky Blue Shore, then after eating, she jotted down new ideas and began outlining a new story.
Li Jiajia came home late that day. It was past seven when the door finally opened. Hearing the sound, He Qi set down her laptop and adjusted her glasses. After staring at screens all day, her head felt slightly dizzy as she looked toward the door.
Li Jiajia looked completely drained, like her energy had been sucked dry. After changing her shoes and passing through the living room, she suddenly blinked at He Qi curiously. “Chen Jin is downstairs again. Did you know?”
Of course He Qi didn’t know—she had spent the entire day busy “contributing” to children’s literature. Hearing this, she frowned and shook her head.
Li Jiajia leaned over with interest, collapsing onto the sofa and stretching lazily. “Do you think he’s planning to sleep in his car every night?”
He Qi closed her laptop and rubbed her temples with her fingertips, forcing her brows to relax. “Once it rains, he’ll leave. He’ll have to choose between suffocating from lack of oxygen or sleeping in the rain.”
Li Jiajia was speechless and gave her a big thumbs-up.
Unfortunately, the weather didn’t cooperate with He Qi’s wishes. November in Jiangshi was dry and clear. For three or four consecutive days, Chen Jin stayed in the residential area without incident. Some residents were even intrigued by his car and occasionally went up to chat with him.
He Qi didn’t go out much. Even when she did, she chose broad daylight, completely avoiding any chance of running into Chen Jin.
Li Jiajia, on the other hand, enthusiastically applied a very unscientific “controlled variable method” and deduced that Chen Jin’s arrival time varied—coming as early as six or seven, as late as eleven or twelve—but his departure time was consistently between six and seven in the morning.
Then, based on additional data provided by He Qi—such as the distance between his residence and theirs, the distance from his home to his company, and his working hours—she constructed a complete picture of his daily routine:
He would wake up around six or seven, go home first, shower, get ready, eat breakfast, then drive to work. His end time varied, but afterward, he would come to their neighborhood and wait. He didn’t message anyone—he simply waited alone in silence until dawn, then quietly left again.
Every night, Li Jiajia would watch from the balcony like someone observing ants. Occasionally she would comment to He Qi—if He Qi looked okay, she’d talk more; if she frowned slightly, she’d quickly change the subject.
One ant at home, one ant downstairs—Li Jiajia saw herself as the antenna transmitting signals, and she quite enjoyed it.
Another three days passed in the blink of an eye. During these days, He Qi was bursting with inspiration. She efficiently wrote two short but interesting stories and skillfully submitted them to Huisheng Publishing.
At the same time, the second review result for Judy’s New Home came back.
She passed.
She hadn’t expected the second review to be this fast. Staring at the email, He Qi felt like she was dreaming. Just one final stage left, and her manuscript would be accepted.
She was trying to restrain her excitement—afraid that the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment—when another message popped up, perfectly diverting her attention.
It was from Fang Yi.
“Sister, Twenty-Seven can do somersaults now. Want to come to my place and see?”
He Qi stared at the bizarre message, not understanding what he was trying to do, so she replied:
“You can record a video and send it to me.”
Seeing her reply, Fang Yi immediately dropped his tricks and got to the point.
“Are you still staying at Jiajia-jie’s place? I’ll treat you to that malatang we had last time!”
It was the weekend. As a dedicated teacher, Li Jiajia still didn’t get a day off and couldn’t join her for dinner. He Qi happened to be in a good mood, and the thought of that malatang made it even easier to agree.
“Sure. What time are you going? I’ll come over.”
Fang Yi gave her a time and offered to pick her up, but He Qi rejected him with several consecutive “no’s.”
Since she was going out, she couldn’t exactly wear pajamas. He Qi went into Li Jiajia’s room, browsed her wardrobe, picked out a casual outfit she could wear, and took a photo to send her as a heads-up.
Li Jiajia had just finished a class and was taking a break at a convenience store. She replied with a voice message, her words slightly muffled as if she were chewing something.
“Just wear it. What’s up, going out?”
Holding the voice button, He Qi replied, “Yeah, going out to eat.”
The other side sent back an envious voice message:
“Damn, I’m eating convenience store rice balls while you sneak off to a feast behind my back. Just wait till I get my day off next week—I’m definitely dragging you out drinking!”
He Qi laughed at herself: “I’m practically eating my way into poverty, but what big meal am I giving up? Just a bowl of spicy hotpot!”
Li Jiajia replied softly, “You think a bowl of spicy hotpot isn’t a big meal for someone who’s eating rice balls like me?”
He Qi laughed again. They chatted for a short while before Li Jiajia had to go to her evening class, and He Qi needed to head out as well, so the conversation paused for the moment.
She stepped out of her bedroom and passed through the living room, suddenly pausing as if she’d remembered something. She shifted her steps toward the balcony first.
Glancing down, everything looked fine—no familiar cars in sight.
The wind outside was strong today. Indoors, it wasn’t noticeable, but standing on the balcony, a sudden gust hit her face. He Qi quietly retreated back into the living room, grabbed a white scarf from the sofa, wrapped it around her neck, and headed out.
The hotpot shop was still bustling when she arrived. Fang Yi was already there. After they picked their dishes, He Qi didn’t let Fang Yi pay—splitting the bill was easier that way.
At the table, Fang Yi rambled on to keep the conversation flowing, preventing any awkward silence. He Qi returned to their familiar rhythm: eating while listening to his stories, occasionally following the topic along, never feeling tense—like having a younger brother out for a casual meal.
A meal of hotpot didn’t take long, and He Qi wanted to be back before six or seven. But as she prepared to leave, Fang Yi insisted on driving her home.
“No need. Your rented place is right by the school. I’ll just take a cab,” He Qi said, opening a ride-hailing app on her phone.
Unexpectedly, Fang Yi reached from behind, snatched the phone with precise timing, and turned off the screen.
He Qi was startled by this slightly intrusive action and turned around, only to see a face blinking innocently at her.
Fang Yi, apologetic, handed the phone back, then lowered his head, clasped his hands together, and said, “Let me take you home, okay, sister? I was planning to go for a drive anyway, but you wouldn’t let me pick you up.”
He Qi frowned in mild annoyance, about to refuse, but Fang Yi, with an innocent pout, bowed slightly: “Please, sister.”
Faced with such insistence, He Qi couldn’t immediately refuse. She hesitated a moment, then nodded in agreement.
In the car, the heater was on full blast. As soon as He Qi gave her address, she felt warm and pushed the scarf aside. Fang Yi caught it in his peripheral vision and asked, “Sister, why didn’t you wear the gift I gave you?”
He Qi froze for a moment, realizing the shawl was likely left in Chen Jin’s car.
“I’d get it dirty eating hotpot,” she replied.
Fang Yi smiled foolishly: “Alright, then next time we go for Western food—you can wear it then, right?”
He Qi looked down at her phone to check the time, then out the window, not responding.
They finally arrived at Li Jiajia’s residential complex. He Qi, as usual, had him park outside. After saying goodbye, she walked in herself.
The deep autumn wind blew fiercely, pressing against her neck. Her hand, tucked in her pocket, gripped her phone tightly, a vague unease settling in her chest. She felt like she had forgotten something.
Walking back on autopilot, relying on muscle memory, she reached the unit building. Just a few steps from the door, she slowly detached from her thoughts and lifted her head.
A strong gust pushed against her from behind, but she froze, unable to move her feet.
In her sight was a familiar black SUV parked at the roadside—and Chen Jin standing there, squinting against the wind, staring straight at her.
Though the distance wasn’t close, He Qi seemed able to see him clearly, perhaps because she knew him so well—the dark shadows under his eyes, his messy hair, the stubble on his jaw—all could be traced in her mind.
In just two seconds, all those details appeared effortlessly.
He Qi didn’t care to scrutinize whether he had been doing poorly these past few days. She turned her gaze away first, feigning calm, and tried to take the route farthest from him.
But just as she took a deep breath and stepped forward, a small, running voice called from behind.
“Sister! You left your scarf!”