Under the same moonlight
I. Balconies in Provence
The firelight from the fireplace licked the pine wood, casting Ah Yu's shadow onto the lavender-colored curtains. Zhong Hua sat in a wicker rocking chair, hugging her knees, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the cool rim of a wine glass—it didn't contain red wine, but hot apple juice mixed with honey; her old stomach injury couldn't withstand the effects of alcohol.
"What are you thinking about?" Ah Yu walked over and draped a camel-colored blanket over her shoulders. The edges of the blanket still had bits of grass stuck to them from when they were repairing the roof that afternoon, and it smelled warm and sweet from the sun.
Zhong Hua pointed out the window: "Look at the moon, doesn't it look like the one outside the ICU window after the mudslide that year?"
Ah Yu followed her gaze. Provence in the winter night lacked the purple waves of lavender fields; only bare grapevines draped in a pale silver net under the moonlight. He remembered that night: the beeping of the monitor mingled with the wind and rain outside the window; Zhong Hua, with an oxygen tube inserted, tears still clinging to her eyelashes; he held her left hand, the one without the IV, until his palm was wrinkled from cold sweat.
“No.” He picked up his cup and gently clinked it against hers. “The moon was shattered back then; it’s round now.”
The moment their cups touched, they both smiled. Zhong Hua's cup still bore milk stains from the hot cocoa he drank that afternoon, while Ah Yu's cup had a half-blurred lip print—a mark he'd accidentally left while testing the temperature. These tiny traces, like some hidden code, marked the tranquility of the moment more clearly than any vow.
My phone vibrated on the coffee table; it was a photo sent by Lin Wanqing. The night sky over the African savanna was so low it seemed you could reach out and touch it. A small cluster of orange-red flames burned in the lower left corner of the image. Lin Wanqing stood by the fire, holding a wine glass, her shadow stretched long and overlapping with the shadows of the distant baobab trees.
“She said this was a New Year’s gift for us.” Zhong Hua turned her phone to show A Yu. “She also said that she would take us to see the snow on Kilimanjaro next year.”
Ah Yu lowered his head and took a sip of juice, his throat tightening slightly. He recalled three years ago on the streets of Paris, when Lin Wanqing waved to them across the police cordon, the red and blue lights of the police flashing on her face. She said, "I'll go ahead and scout things out," her tone as casual as if she were going to buy an ice cream on a street corner. Later, he learned that she had used her status as a "tainted witness in the Gu family case" to obtain immunity and do what she truly wanted to do.
“She’s always like this,” Zhong Hua suddenly said softly, her fingertips tracing Lin Wanqing’s smiling face on the phone screen. “She walks the hardest path by herself, but tells us there are flowers ahead.”
The firewood in the fireplace crackled and sparked. Ah Yu reached out and took her hand; their shadows nestled against the wall, like two drops of ink melted by moonlight.
II. Around an African campfire
As Lin Wanqing stuffed her phone into the inside pocket of her windbreaker, flames leaped up and licked the soles of her boots. She took a half step back, kicking away a piece of scorching hot charcoal at her feet. The ash rolled in a gray-black circle on the sand, much like the reflection of the three of them standing in front of the champagne tower at that party that year.
"Miss Lin, would you like to try this?" The local guide next to her handed over a ceramic bowl containing stewed mutton with spices, steaming hot and glistening with oil.
She took it and thanked him, then scooped up a spoonful with the wooden spoon. The pungent smell, mixed with the wind of the wilderness, filled her nostrils, suddenly reminding her of Gu Yanting's funeral. It was just as cold that day. Zhong Hua, wearing a black overcoat, shivered like withered leaves in the autumn wind. Ah Yu stood beside her, her suit sleeves stained with undried tear stains—at that time, they didn't know that the truth about the arson was hidden in the lining of the suicide note, like a spark buried in the ashes, just waiting for someone to ignite it.
"Thinking about something?" The guide smiled and pointed to her bowl. "Lamb should be eaten while it's hot."
Lin Wanqing snapped out of her daze and scooped up a large mouthful. The spiciness shot from the tip of her tongue to her eyes, and she blinked, holding back the tears that almost welled up. The little girl she had met in the refugee camp last month was now sitting across the fire, hugging her knees, playing with the small silver bell Lin Wanqing had given her—it was something Ah Yu had found at the antique market years ago, saying that the sound of the bell could "drive away bad luck," and somehow it had ended up in Lin Wanqing's bag.
The bells twinkled in the firelight, much like the starry sky captured by Zhong Hua's camera. She remembered Zhong Hua saying that what she most wanted to photograph wasn't famous mountains and rivers, but "moments that make people feel 'it's good to be alive'." Now, she realized that the three of them were actually chasing the same thing: a moment that could bring peace of mind.
My phone vibrated again; it was a video from Zhong Hua. In the video, A Yu was clumsily adding firewood to the fireplace, sparks splashing onto the back of his hand, making him wince in pain. Zhong Hua, off-camera, was laughing so hard he couldn't stand up straight. In the background, you could see the red ropes hanging on the balcony railing—the same two ropes they had tied next to the prayer wheels in Tibet last year. Zhong Hua had said they were meant to "tie good luck in the wind." A Yu hadn't said anything then, but as she turned away, he secretly tied an identical one for her.
Lin Wanqing raised her enamel mug and gently swirled it towards the moon in the video. The mineral water in the mug reflected the half-moon, overlapping with the moon over Provence in the video, as if the three of them, separated by more than ten thousand kilometers, were sharing the same moonlight.
She recalled the document she had seen at the law firm before leaving Paris. In Gu Yanting's estate list, there was a page with a note circled in red: "To Lin Wanqing—the studio in Montmartre, where you said you wanted to paint sunrises for the rest of your life." She ultimately donated the studio to the Foundation for Homeless Artists, as if she had converted all those tangled past experiences into someone else's new life.
Suddenly, the fire crackled and sparks landed on the back of her hand. It didn't hurt, only leaving a warm sensation, much like the warmth of Ah Yu's fingertips when she wiped the red wine stains from the corner of her mouth backstage at a party many years ago.
This chapter is not finished yet. Please click on the next page to continue reading the exciting content!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
