Chapter 34

*The Moon Runs to Me*
The space technology exchange this time was hosted by the Qian Xuesen Space Technology Lab and the Shanghai Satellite Engineering Institute. Experts from the Academy of Sciences and the aerospace group’s R&D department—Director Wang and Engineer Chen—were among the invited attendees.
Penny had returned to China because of Chen’s invitation. She’d already passed the interview at the Shanghai Satellite Engineering Institute as a specially recruited talent. Long before, she’d turned down NASA and her advisor’s pleas to stay.
She’d told no one.
Not even Wen Minzhu. Her mother had thought she wouldn’t be back until after the New Year at the earliest. Instead, she’d slipped in quietly, signed a job offer, and blindsided her.
When they met, Penny was holding two medium hot Americanos. She handed one over. “Here. Americano.”
“Thanks.” Qin took it, eyes flicking to the circles under Penny’s eyes. “Rough night?”
“Something like that.” Penny sighed. “You know what my mom’s like. She still hasn’t snapped out of her little fantasy. When she found out I’d signed with the Eighth Academy, she exploded. We had a huge fight. She even tried to fake sick this morning to keep me from leaving.”
Her parents’ marriage had never been good, but Penny had been the one thread holding them together. With a daughter that outstanding, even her father had had to act like a decent man for her sake.
It was Penny who’d kept Wen Minzhu in that hollow marriage for so long. She’d been the whole plan—kept close, raised to take over Song Corp, revenge incarnate.
But Penny had gone abroad without a word. Now she’d come back, job secured, without consulting anyone. By the time her mother knew, the ink was dry.
Last night’s war at home had been the result.
“She’s never been in better health,” Penny said bluntly. “Yearly checkups, and she still treats every little ache like a major drama. If she were really sick, she wouldn’t have waited until now to ‘collapse.’”
It was true. No one feared death more than her aunt. A miserable marriage hadn’t stopped her from enjoying a very comfortable life.
Qin could almost picture her pitching a fit, crying and threatening, and had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.
Penny caught it instantly. “Laugh if you want. Don’t hold it in. You think my mom’s ridiculous too, don’t you? I have no idea how she’s managed to get *more* stubborn with age. These tricks of hers—who is she even learning from?”
“Maybe she chose the wrong career,” Qin said, eyes smiling. “She’d probably do better in entertainment.”
“Wow,” Penny narrowed her eyes. “You’re teasing my mom now? You’ve gotten bold. You weren’t like this before.”
“You’re the one who said people grow up and change,” Qin replied innocently.
Penny laughed for real. “You’re better now. You used to be such a little fool I worried someone would just carry you off. At least you have some edge now. You know how to protect yourself.”
“Remember?” she added, holding a hand at her hip. “You were only this tall once. Didn’t even reach my shoulder. Always glued to me. I couldn’t shake you.”
Back then, Qin had been all soft cheeks and big eyes—like a little rice dumpling. Even their biased grandparents had found it hard not to soften sometimes.
Penny, at that age, had hated her. She’d seen her only as an invader—someone come to steal her place. Her temper had been loud and sharp, her attitude worse.
Sometimes, after being scolded by her mother, Qin hadn’t cried. She’d just followed behind Penny, grabbing her sleeve with tiny fingers and whispering, “Don’t be mad, Sister.”
Penny’s anger had always drained away then. Looking back, she could only despise herself a little—for being so petty with a four-year-old who’d known nothing.
Qin had grown well. Her only problem was that the price of that growth had been too high. Even as an outsider, Penny sometimes found it hard to breathe watching her.
She couldn’t imagine how Qin had stood it alone for ten years.
She sighed without sound and reached over to smooth a hand over Qin’s hair. “It’s okay. From now on, let me cling to you. If anything happens, don’t shoulder it alone. My mom may be awful, but we’re still family. You don’t have to accept her as your aunt. But don’t shut out your cousin. And don’t shut out Uncle either. He worries about you.”
Qin stiffened a little at the unexpected touch. She still wasn’t used to this kind of closeness—even with women, even with blood.
“Remember,” Penny said. “You have us behind you.”
Her tone was light. Her eyes were not.
Qin’s fingers curled around her cup. Her pinkie trembled ever so slightly.
After her father died, everything had unraveled. Her mother had collapsed into the hospital. She’d sat alone in the corridor while the red “In Surgery” light stayed on for three long hours.
Night made hospitals lonelier. Wind rattled the trees outside; shadows twisted across the walls like claws. Somewhere down the hall, someone sobbed.
She’d sat there, numb. Her gaze had been empty.
Her grandparents had arrived with Wen Minzhu. She barely remembered the words—only the doctor’s warning, and the way her grandfather’s hand shook signing the DNR.
“Such bad karma,” he’d groaned. “I told her not to marry him. She wouldn’t listen.”
They were old. They’d been frightened, of course. But as their fear faded, their blame had grown.
“Sang-sang,” her grandfather had said later, “don’t blame us for being cold. Your father’s mess isn’t something we can touch. You know Hengyu is at a critical point. We can’t have this dragging the Wens down.”
Her uncle was a diplomat. Reputation mattered more than anything. Penny was in a crucial year. And the Wen name had been built over decades.
They couldn’t afford to have it all crash down in the same mud as a construction scandal.
“I understand,” Qin had said.
And she had.
“This is my father’s problem. I’m his daughter. I’ll take responsibility.”
She had truly understood. She had never held a grudge. The world wasn’t black and white. People high up had their own chains and fears.
She had just… been sad.
She’d wanted family. She’d wanted help.
“Even a few words of comfort,” she thought now, “would have been better than that verdict.”
Penny’s simple “You have us” might have been all eighteen-year-old Qin had wanted to hear.
To know that no matter how far she walked, there was still a home, a shoulder, a mountain—that she wasn’t lost alone in a barren field with no path forward.
…
“Ah,” Penny suddenly said, pitch rising. Her gaze slid over Qin’s shoulder.
She lifted a hand and waved. “Over here.”
Qin turned, puzzled.
White walls, gray tiles, a curtain of green vines spilling down. Wisteria hung heavy and purple, blossoms like waves.
For an instant, memory snapped back.
There had been a wisteria grove on the back hill of No.1 High. Every spring and summer it bloomed—a sea of pale purple. Students weren’t allowed up there during flowering season. Too many feet would have trampled the cats and the roots.
They went anyway.
The first time, Liu Chengcheng had dragged her. “We’ll just go now,” she’d said, tugging her along. “It’s class time. No one’s watching the gate. We’ll be in and out before anyone finds us. I swear we won’t get caught.”
They almost had been.
At the first shout from the gatekeeper, Liu had bolted. They’d gotten separated.
Afraid the man would wait at the entrance, Qin had wandered the paths instead, planning to sneak back after the bell.
Leaves had rustled. Somewhere, a cat had meowed.
She’d followed the sound and pushed through a tangle of shrubs.
There, beneath the latticed shade of wisteria and leaves, a boy sat on a stone bench. Long legs stretched out, head tipped back. His eyes were closed.
Sunlight filtered through the branches, sketching his brows and the sharp bridge of his nose. One hand lay over a cat’s back. His fingers moved slowly, stroking. The cat’s tail drooped, tapping at fallen petals.
She’d stepped back in shock. Her heel had snapped a twig.
She stared down, heart pounding.
When she looked up again, his eyes were open.
He lifted his lids lazily. Light and shadow slid over his lashes as he focused on her.
Summer sun had been harsh. Heat had pressed in through the trees. Flowers had fallen like rain.
Now, in late autumn, a cold wind lifted the wisteria petals again. They drifted down in quiet showers.
Qin stood frozen. It felt as if she’d fallen back into those eyes. In their faint amber she saw herself reflected—hair caught with bits of purple.
He stepped toward her.
And this time, she forgot to move.