A new day. Morning sunlight reflected off the river, casting a pale gold sheen across the ceiling of Yuan Yewei's apartment.
The living room was quiet and still. The curtains were only half open. A long slanted block of light sliced diagonally across the wooden floor, the dust motes inside it drifting in slow, silent spirals.
Two empty coffee cups sat on the coffee table, a ring of brown residue left at the bottom of each. The faint trace of coffee had long since gone dry.
We cleared the plates, pushed the chairs back into place, and gently pulled the door shut behind us. The lock clicked with a soft, final sound.
We walked east along the Moonochuan. The morning air still held a chill, but the sunlight had already begun to warm the stone slabs beneath our feet.
The sun cut across from the eastern sky, turning the river into a sheet of shattered silver. Glints of light leaped across the water's surface, each one flickering to its own rhythm, like countless tiny signal mirrors flashing all at once and then going dark.
Passing through Saixing District, we sat for a while on a bench along the riverside walkway. The bench was cool, its wood grain weathered smooth by years of river wind and rain.
We watched the towers on the far shore flicker in and out of the late-morning haze. The glass facades reflected the sunlight. Some windows were lit. Others were dark—like a chessboard that had been jumbled and then forgotten to be put back in order.
Dianzi pulled the squirrel from her bag and set it on the railing, facing the river. The metal railing was cold under its little paws. The river wind blew its tail flat back. The fuzzy tip of its tail quivered endlessly in the breeze, as if it were trembling with some small, persistent life of its own.
We strolled slowly along the Bund walkway. The river wind was strong. It made our skirts snap like flags, the fabric pulling taut against our legs for a heartbeat, then loosening with a soft flap.
When the wind gusted in from the river, it carried the briny smell of water weeds, mingled with the scent of hot oil drifting from a distant restaurant. The two smells tangled together in the air, inseparable.
Clumps of wild grass grew between the stone slabs of the walkway, pressed flat against the ground by the wind. Their blades were dry and pale at the tips, yet stubbornly green at the roots.
Dianzi walked beside me. The bow of her apron swayed gently in the wind, a loop of pink ribbon fluttering against the small of her back. She reached up to press it down. It didn't stay. She pressed it again, and it lifted once more. She gave up and let it be.
An old angler sat beside the railing. His silhouette was as still as if he had been carved from the same gray stone as the riverbank.
His fishing line hung motionless on the river's surface, cutting a barely visible thread across the shimmering water. He wore a dark gray jacket, his collar turned up against the wind. A plastic box sat at his feet, the lid half-open.
Inside were a few coils of used fishing line, their translucent threads tangled and catching the daylight. He didn't look at us. He just stared at his float. The float bobbed gently on the water. Each dip looked like the wind, not a fish. Each time it dipped, a small ring of ripples spread outward and quickly vanished.
Later, he reeled in his line, the reel clicking softly with each turn. He wrapped the empty hook around the spool—slowly, circle by circle, the way one might wind a thread around memory.
When he stood up, his knee joint emitted a crisp crack, a sound startlingly sharp in the quiet. He picked up his folding chair, tucking it under one arm, and slowly walked away. His footsteps faded into the distance, each one softer than the last.
He left the plastic box by the railing. The lid swayed gently in the wind, creaking a little with each gust, a thin, plaintive note. Inside the box, those coils of discarded fishing line were tangled together, glinting faint silver in the daylight, like a small nest of forgotten light.
The river wind eased a little. The ferry was long gone. All that remained on the river was a ribbon of gold light carved by the sun—stretching from the shore all the way to the bridge arch, where it was cut off by the shadow of the bridge.
We leaned against the railing and watched that ribbon slowly narrow. The river seemed to be breathing, the light ribbon narrowing and widening in an almost imperceptible pulse.
——Stand by the river long enough, and you start to believe you are part of the shore.
Dianzi leaned in, her chin resting on my shoulder. Her pinkish-purple stray strands brushed against my neck, soft as feather tips. I could feel the slight weight of her head, the warmth of her breath.
The river wind tangled our skirts together and pulled them apart again. Together, apart. Together, apart. I raised my phone, the front camera framing both of us. She was looking at the lights on the far shore, her gaze distant and thoughtful.
I pressed the shutter. On the screen, her profile and the scattered lights in the distance lay layered together, like two different worlds pressed into a single frame.
💬 The maid dress with the deep V to the sternum is absolutely stunning
💬 Sister's chest strap pendant is so cute
💬 Daughter leaning on Sister's shoulder is so sweet 😭
💬 The atmosphere with the two sisters standing together is unreal
I put my phone away, slipping it back into my pocket. The screen's warmth lingered against my palm for a moment before fading.
"Zhao Dayong's high-end consumption phase is enough. Any more and it turns into infantilization. Yuan Yewei needs ideological surrender, not luxury."
"Then we still need a transitional target."
"Right. We need someone willing to hand over the right to decide. Someone who won't cling to their own choices."
Dianzi leaned on my shoulder. "Sister, do you think he'll regret it someday? Whether a life where he listens to us for everything will slowly make him stop wanting to make his own decisions."
"Maybe. But that was his choice. He heard us clearly and still chose it."
She buried her face into the hollow of my neck, her voice muffled. "Mm. He chose it himself." She buried her face a little deeper. "Let's head back."
We walked back along the walkway. The river wind made our skirts snap like flags. Our two skirts tangled together and then pulled apart, again and again, as if they couldn't decide whether to stay joined or go their separate ways.
At the bend in the walkway, I looked back. The plastic box the old angler had left was still on the inner side of the railing. The lid had finally stopped swaying. It rested quietly on top of the box, like a question that had exhausted itself.
Inside, those coils of discarded fishing line were tangled together. The daylight rested on them, like a small tangle of crumpled silver thread, holding nothing but the memory of water.
We returned to the hotel. The curtains were drawn, and the room was dim and cool, a world removed from the bright, restless river outside.