Chapter 29

*The Moon Runs to Me*
“Little Chen, you’ve been busy all night. Come sit for a bit,” Wen Shuyu called.
Xie Yuncheng’s gaze slid briefly to the closed bedroom door. From the moment they’d come home, Qin Sang had locked herself inside.
At the restaurant, she’d stood alone—thin to the point of fragility, face white as paper, eyes empty. The surrounding stares and whispers had almost drowned her.
She’d been shaking, hands like ice. When he led her out, she’d seemed hollowed out, like a shell with its spirit gone.
Wen Shuyu brought him a glass of water. “Here. Thank you for helping tonight.”
“You’re welcome, Auntie,” he said, taking the cup. His eyes moved quietly around the little home.
It was cramped and old. The damp had crept into the walls; mold bloomed in sea-green patches. The plaster had fallen away in places, exposing bare red brick.
But everything was carefully kept. Paintings and knickknacks were neatly arranged. In the display cabinet, trophies stood in rows—children’s drawing contests, singing awards, even a Peach Blossom Cup gold in dance. Beside them sat a photo of three people packed close together, the little girl in the man’s arms laughing hardest of all.
She was round-faced and rosy-cheeked, still full of baby fat. But her eyes were already bright and curved with joy, sweet as honey when she smiled.
Looking at it, Wen Shuyu’s expression softened. “She was seven. She’d just won that dance prize. Her dad was so happy he nearly grinned his teeth off. He dragged the staff over to take a family photo.”
Xie Yuncheng’s gaze lingered on the girl’s bright smile. His own chilled eyes gentled. “Classmate Qin looks a lot like her father.”
People always said she took after her uncle, but now he saw clearly—she was her father’s daughter.
“Yes,” Wen Shuyu sighed quietly. “Face and temperament both. They’re alike—optimistic, easygoing, always thinking of others.”
“She’s always been like that. Always reporting the good and hiding the bad.”
Guilt and shame flickered in her eyes. “Back then my health was poor. I was in and out of the hospital. Her father had no time to look after her, so we sent her to the Wens. I thought with her grandparents and Penny there, at least she’d have company. I never imagined…”
She trailed off.
She’d never imagined Wen Minzhu could be so cruel, treating her daughter like a plague. Ignoring her was bad enough. She hadn’t even let the child sit at the table.
“You’ve seen your aunt’s temper,” Wen Shuyu said bitterly. “Not an easy person. Who knows what my girl went through there. But she never told us. Every time she called, she’d say everything was great so we wouldn’t worry.”
On the phone, the four-year-old had always been sunshine.
“Grandpa and Grandma are so good to me,” she’d chirped. “Aunt teaches me to count. Penny shares toys with me. I’m very happy here. Don’t worry, Mom. Daddy says being sick is miserable. You have to get better soon.”
Four years old. A four-year-old that considerate had made her own mother want to disappear from shame.
“I wasn’t a good mother,” Wen Shuyu whispered. “Her father and I owe her too much. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had to suffer this much. When Dahai died, she was only eighteen.”
Eighteen—an age for dreaming about university. Other kids had been filling in applications and planning dorm life. Her daughter had been forced to shoulder the weight of a family.
“Dahai was a well-known foreman locally,” she said. “He worked with a construction company on a project. They signed everything, but the managers embezzled, cut corners, and the building collapsed. Many workers were hurt. Some never came out from under the rubble.”
“He hadn’t been on site then. He could have escaped it all. But he went in after Xiao Yan’s father and… never came back. Xiao Yan’s father was pulled out—only to die three days later in the ICU. That left just Xiao Yan and her seventy-year-old grandmother.”
By rights, the company and the project head should have paid. But the manager and boss had run off with the money. Qin Dahai, who’d already died, became the face left behind—and his wife and daughter the only people the dead workers’ families could see.
“Families couldn’t get compensation,” Wen Shuyu said. “So they came to us.”
Her voice thickened. “They came on the day of the college entrance exam. Smashed the windows, broke down the door. Took anything that could be sold. We called the police. I begged them to at least let the child go sit her exam. They refused. Wouldn’t let her leave.”
She swallowed. “She didn’t go.”
Her hands shook.
“She never sat the gaokao. Refused Wen family’s help. While I lay in bed half-dead with grief, that eighteen-year-old girl had to grow up overnight and hold everything up.”
Qin had squeezed her mother’s hand and said, “Mom, don’t worry. This will pass.”
She’d gathered every asset they had—savings, the car, the little apartment in the capital that Dahai had bought for her to study from. She’d mortgaged, sold, scraped together cash and paid what she could to the workers’ families.
Only Xiao Yan’s family had been different. Too poor, too ill, too alone. Xiao Yan had been a disabled teenager. Her grandmother was sick and frail. They’d been neighbors for years. When Qin came with money and saw them, she’d brought them home instead—and taken on the burden of their care.
…
Very few knew she’d never taken the exam. After graduation she’d almost completely lost contact with her class.
Even Jiang Mingyi hadn’t known until he’d dug for it.
“She really didn’t sit it,” he’d told Xie plainly. “Heard she got a job after—worked as a cashier at a cafe. One of our classmates saw her there. They’d picked that cafe for our reunion without knowing she worked there.”
He’d laughed, then sobered. “None of us imagined she had that big a mess at home.”
“What was the cafe called?” Xie had asked.
“MEETING Coffee.”
Then Jiang had realized. “We’ve been there, haven’t we? That last class gathering after the exam.”
He’d dug out the old photo.
Only one figure had come out clear—someone sitting at the far end, long-limbed, head down, eyes on his phone.
Behind him, in the blurred background, a girl in a cafe uniform stood with a tray, clearing their table. Only a side profile, pale as porcelain—but easy to recognize.
She’d been thinner then, younger, more raw. Shadows under her eyes.
At the time, he’d dismissed that “reunion” quickly. His mother’s barrage of calls and texts had left him in no mood to talk to anyone. He’d thrown his camera to Jiang, barely looked up.
He’d almost forgotten everything about that day.
Except the post-it note on his cup.
Simple handwriting. A simple, silly line:
“Wish you happiness every day ^ ^.”
There’d been no signature. Nothing to link it to anyone. Just a tiny, ordinary blessing—light enough to vanish in a breeze.
It was the only thing she could offer.
Now, sitting in her small living room, he set the glass down.
“Auntie,” he said quietly, “may I see her?”
Wen Shuyu hesitated, then nodded. “Go ahead. She must be… scared.”
He stood and walked to the door.
Behind it, Qin Sang hugged her knees to her chest on the bed, phone pressed to her ear.
“Doctor Chen,” she said softly, “I think I might be sick again.”
…