Chapter 21

*Moon-Chasing Diary*
“Like green threads of Yan grass, like low green branches of the mulberry.”
— *Moon-Chasing Diary*
-
Fireworks bloomed just then. Bright color fell across the girl’s pale face, making her eyes look even clearer.
Bang. Bang.
Emotion flickered in Xie Yuncheng’s eyes. Explosions echoed in the sky.
The late autumn night was quiet—so quiet he couldn’t tell if it was the river crashing against hidden rocks, undercurrents battering too hard, or the fireworks booming too arrogantly.
Across the river, thousands of homes linked their lights into a tapestry. People came down to the bank, holding lanterns, making wishes.
Lanterns drifted downstream, tiny points of fire. One after another they reflected each other, speckling the water with light.
Tonight was probably Mid-Autumn Festival. In Jingcheng, people had the habit of putting lanterns afloat to pray. Families would gather briefly for a meal.
But for the Xies… one had a family outside the family, the other pretended not to know. Every Mid-Autumn, they would pretend to be harmonious—acting a farce of reunion at the table.
In sophomore year, they didn’t even bother acting. They argued in the living room until the roof nearly lifted.
“This is how you ‘raised’ him?” Xie Zhenting roared. “How did he get hurt? Fighting with Jiang again—doing god-knows-what? About to enter senior year and still this useless—you don’t mind the shame, but I do!”
“Xie Zhenting, watch your mouth!” Zhou Wanqing snapped. “What ‘god-knows-what’? And is he my son alone? You never cared how we lived. Now that he’s hurt, you come back to scold me? You have the nerve?”
She cried. “You’re hoping he fails, aren’t you? Hoping I die so you can give that woman my place. You’d gladly see me and our son die in that car crash!”
“Enough with the nonsense,” he snarled.
“Nonsense? If you cared, you’d know how he got hurt. The news has replayed it again and again. If you thought about us at all, you wouldn’t charge back and blame me.”
Jingcheng TV hadn’t managed to interview Xie Yuncheng, but they had some edited surveillance footage from shops nearby. Even with mosaics, you could still recognize silhouettes.
And the old lady whose money was stolen was a martyr’s mother. Her only son had died in the line of duty. She had only a daughter and a sickly granddaughter, who was in the hospital for chemo. The day of the theft, she’d withdrawn money for treatment—then lost it to a thief.
The seventy-year-old cried in the street, unable to stand, begging passersby for help. Most only watched.
Jiang Mingyi and Xie Yuncheng came out of a nearby convenience store then. Jiang hurried over to lift the old lady.
“Granny, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you. Just… my money…”
She could barely stand. Thinking of her granddaughter’s bills, she sobbed. “That’s for my granddaughter’s treatment. Without it, what will she do…”
Jiang’s temper flared. “What kind of bastard steals that?!”
Xie frowned. “Granny—do you remember where you lost it?”
“I…” She thought hard. “I withdrew it from the bank and took the bus here. My granddaughter’s on chemo; she wanted that famous dessert, so I got off near Huafeng Road and came here. When I bought the cake, the money was still there.”
“So you lost it here?”
She nodded. “Right. Oh—I remember now. When I left the dessert shop, a young man bumped into me. He helped me up and apologized. It was only when I got here I saw my bag was cut and the money gone.”
“Granny,” Jiang said, “was the shop on F1?”
“Yes—F1 on the escalator. I don’t know its name—some English I couldn’t read.”
“Then it’s probably MOTO,” Jiang said to Xie. “That place is insanely popular. Yan Yan made me line up. The day I got caught skipping was because of it. The line was so long. I waited two hours and still didn’t get any, then got busted climbing back.”
He’d been having a bad run. As day students, both of them got sent on errands by Yan Yan—buy this, fetch that. That time he’d waited for two hours only to be told, “Sorry—we’re sold out.” He’d come back over the wall and was immediately caught by Director Qiu, dragged to Student Affairs, made to stand, and forced to clean the future lab building a week.
Xie mulled it over. “Do you remember what he looked like?”
Most people wouldn’t catch details under panic. But the old lady’s son had been a detective. She’d picked up some instincts, and she’d seen the man’s face.
“He was tall and thin,” she said. “Looked twenty or so. Oh right—he had a big mole.”
“On his mouth?” Jiang asked sharply.
“Yes!” she said, surprised. “How did you know?”
Jiang smacked his head. “He works at MOTO. Last time I lined up, he was on register.”
That mole was impossible to miss. And after that miserable trip, how could he forget?
He dragged Xie. “Go—maybe he’s not far. We might catch him.”
On their way up on the escalator, they saw him—a young man in a black hoodie. He saw them too and bolted.
He moved fast, up and down, cutting through crowds. Jiang almost lost him. Only because the floors were open could they track him.
Before Jiang could react, he caught a black streak from the corner of his eye.
Xie vaulted off the up escalator, jumping down—swift as a black panther. Gasps rose from onlookers.
Panicking, the thief darted into a desolate corridor. The shops there had closed. The only exit was blocked.
Xie wasn’t even out of breath. Jiang, on the other hand, huffed and bent double. “What are you—part rat?”
The man stared at them, wary. “What do you want?”
“The money,” Xie said. “Give it back.”
“Money? What money?”
The man lowered his head, hands in his hoodie pocket.
When he kept feigning ignorance, Jiang’s temper snapped. “Still pretending? That was her granddaughter’s life-saving money. Don’t you have a conscience? Hand it over before I make you.”
He lunged for the bag. At that moment, Xie hissed, “Watch out.”
The man whipped out a knife. Jiang blinked. Cold light flashed.
The blade sliced flesh.
Xie grabbed his wrist and twisted. A crack. The man howled. The knife clattered to the floor.
“Bastard,” Jiang cursed, kicking his knee until he collapsed.
“Enough,” Xie said.
He leaned against the wall. His right arm hung, blood running down. His face had gone pale.
“Call the police,” he reminded calmly.
Jiang’s hands shook dialing. His voice trembled. Guilt gnawed at him.
They’d only bandaged the wound quickly before returning to school. However Jiang urged, Xie only said, “I’m fine.”
At the hospital they learned it was deep—six stitches. His fingers couldn’t bend. He couldn’t lift his arm. The doctor said they’d only know how bad the nerve damage was after the inflammation cleared.
Worse, his hand had an old glass-piercing injury from the car accident; the ulnar nerve was already damaged. If recovery went badly this time, it could be permanently crippled.
While Xie was on leave, Jiang visited every few days, and called when he couldn’t. Cutting class that often got him the whip from his father.
He was used to beatings. Two days later he was bouncing again.
When he called that night, Xie had just showered. Dressed in white loungewear, hair damp, his bandaged right hand resting on the table.
His parents were still shouting. Their voices leaked clearly into the call.
“…Who told him to play hero right now? Stirring up trouble. If his hand doesn’t heal, what about the gaokao? People will say my son’s disabled—a useless waste!”
“Tsk.”
Jiang spat, then looked at Xie’s hand and fell silent. After a while, he asked, “You still can’t bend your fingers?”
The biggest problem was that—no strength at all. That was why he was still home, waiting for rehab.
“My fault,” Jiang muttered. “If I hadn’t rushed in, you wouldn’t…”
“Is that why you called?” Xie cut in calmly.
Jiang blinked, then remembered. “No. Scores are out.”
“Mm,” Xie said.
“You’re not curious how you did?”
Seeing he wasn’t, Jiang just spilled it. “Figures. You’re first as always. Nothing new—except that lunatic Tong was stirring up trouble today, saying you faked scores.”
“If my wounds were better I’d have beaten him. But—”
“There was a girl who shut him up for you.”
He rubbed his chin, thinking. “She looked familiar. Maybe a classmate. That girl from Ningjiang… last time you gave her that signed cap.”
“What was her name?”
On the surface Jiang joked with everyone, but deep down he was like Xie—he didn’t put people in his heart easily.
The experimental class churned. Students swapped in and out. It was hard to keep track of everyone.
After a long time he remembered. “Surname Qin… Qin Sang. Right—just like that poem. How did it go… ‘Yan-something spring’…”
…
Thinking of this, Xie Yuncheng’s gaze shifted. He could still feel the trace of her fingertip in his palm.
Suddenly his Adam’s apple moved. He laughed quietly, voice low.
“Like green threads of Yan grass, like low green branches of the mulberry.”
“Mm? What did you say?” Fireworks boomed. Qin Sang didn’t catch it. She turned—and found him far closer than she’d expected.
They locked eyes.
His eyes were deep and clear, curving in a faint smile—as if hanging a hook. Light and teasing. “I said—how should I repay Classmate Qin’s kindness?”