After dinner, Gao Zhifei headed to the library to study, while Qiu Yun and the others returned to their dormitory. Liang He escorted Lu Xialan back to her school. B University was very close to the Academy of Fine Arts—just across the street, a mere five-minute walk. Because Lu Xialan had classes during the week, she lived in the faculty apartments at B University. Before they parted, she learned that Qiu Yun and her friends had never visited B University and warmly invited them to drop by anytime; the School of Humanities was the first building inside the East Gate.
"So that was Lu Xialan." Having held it in all evening, the four girls couldn't wait to start gossiping the moment they stepped back into the dorm.
"I saw her once before, but only from behind," Chang Huan said. "It seems she comes to our school quite often."
"This was my first time seeing her. Did she come today to watch Teacher Liang play basketball?"
"Very likely. I heard that when she came last time, the basketball court was packed. Half the people were there to see Teacher Liang, and the other half were there for her."
Liu Yujin sighed as she reminisced. "She really is beautiful, not at all plain like us. And she’s so brilliant—the same age as me, yet she’s already stayed on as a teacher. And at B University’s Department of Literature, no less."
"Did you see the clothes she was wearing?" Wang Chen added. "I saw that outfit at the department store once. It’s Peacock brand; it really brings out her elegance."
"Do you think Teacher Liang bought it for her?" Chang Huan arched an eyebrow.
"It’s highly possible."
"Tsk..." A chorus of envious sighs filled the dormitory.
Qiu Yun listened to the three of them go back and forth and sighed as well. However, her sigh was different from theirs; she was lamenting the ultimate end of this relationship. They were a match made in heaven, equal in status and grace, so why did it have to end with the song finished and the people scattered? In the original ending, one cheated and died young, while the other was left heartbroken, their life forever changed. Thinking of this, Qiu Yun’s sigh deepened. She even wondered: if she continued living here, would she become a witness to history, forced to watch their journey from sweetness to tragedy with her own eyes? Furthermore—Qiu Yun’s imagination took flight—did she now possess some kind of power? A power to change their history?
While Qiu Yun’s mind wandered, the other three were oblivious.
"Da Chen," Chang Huan said, scanning the room, "you’re the only one among us with any romantic experience. Tell us, how far along are those two?"
Wang Chen’s face flushed. "What experience do I have..."
"Don't be shy," Liu Yujin egged her on.
"It’s fine, we’re all friends here. If you don't tell us, I’ll report you to the school tomorrow for having a secret relationship."
"Yeah, hurry up and tell us." Liu Yujin gave Wang Chen’s waist a playful pinch.
"Stop tickling me! I think..." Wang Chen rested her chin on her hand, adopting a look of serious contemplation. "It’s hard to say. During dinner, they seemed to have a good relationship, but they weren't exactly... intimate."
"What do you mean by 'not exactly intimate'?" Chang Huan asked.
"Well, when people are dating, the way they look at each other... there’s usually something different about it."
"Oh, so you’re saying the way you look at your 'Brother Feng' is different from the way you look at us?" Liu Yujin teased, following her logic.
"You people..." Wang Chen was both annoyed and amused. "The way Lu Xialan looked at Teacher Liang had a hint of bashful affection..."
"Tsk tsk tsk... And how did Teacher Liang look at Lu Xialan?"
"That..."
Qiu Yun also pricked up her ears.
"How would I dare to stare into Teacher Liang’s eyes?"
The group collapsed in laughter.
"I feel like Teacher Liang was lacking a bit of... passion toward Lu Xialan?"
"Passion? What kind of passion?" Liu Yujin looked puzzled.
"Like the way Gao Zhifei asked Lu Xialan about literature, or the way Xiao Yun asked Gao Zhifei about the food?" Chang Huan added a sharp observation.
"Exactly!" Wang Chen laughed. "Xiao Yun kept asking Gao Zhifei if this was edible or if that was cooked yet. I almost thought Xiao Yun was interested in him."
"Hey, hey, hey, stop right there." Qiu Yun had been enjoying the gossip as a bystander, but she hadn't expected the topic to turn to her. She quickly clarified, "How could I be interested in him? It’s more likely he’s interested in me."
"Listen to you! You’re making me blush," Chang Huan said, covering her face.
"Oh please, you’re a twenty-year-old woman. What’s there to blush about? Only people who’ve never been in love blush at this," Qiu Yun teased her.
"You... you rogue!"
Qiu Yun reached over and patted Chang Huan’s cheek. "I was helping him. Who keeps talking to another girl when her boyfriend is right there?"
"Is that so? I didn't notice."
"It is. I realized it later," Wang Chen said, stifling a laugh. "Gao Zhifei is definitely not Xiao Yun’s type."
"Da Chen, you really are an experienced one." Qiu Yun walked over and patted Wang Chen’s face too. "You usually seem the most honest, but I didn't expect your powers of observation to reach 1% of mine."
***
December 13, 1987.
It has been four months since I arrived in this era.
I have slowly become familiar with the background and pace of life here; I’ve even started to like it. There is a kind of beauty here that deeply attracts me, much like the Mona Lisa’s smile—inexplicable, yet strangely mesmerizing.
It’s quite interesting.
In my 2017 diary, I wrote "meaningless," but back thirty years in the past, I find myself writing "quite interesting."
It’s a contradictory pull of self-reproach, a sentiment that’s hard to explain.
Qiu Yun capped her fountain pen and put her diary in her bag. She had started writing in it during her third week after traveling back in time. She wrote intermittently, and this was now her 64th entry. Over these four months, she had completely adapted to life in the 1980s. She had even been unconsciously influenced by her environment—for instance, she had been infected by her classmates' passion for learning and had developed the habit of lingering in the studio even when she had nothing to do, occasionally picking up a brush to paint or looking at her classmates' work.
In truth, back in Qiu Yun’s original university days, her teachers also encouraged students to spend more time in the studio; even if they weren't painting, just being there was good. But the temptations of the new century were too many. Very few students could settle down and devote themselves to studying art; the studio only saw people working through the night right before an assignment was due. In 1987, Qiu Yun also saw people painting all night, but it wasn't because of a deadline. It was a spontaneous desire to create, where inspiration roared down like a waterfall, giving one an irrepressible urge to wield the brush. This contrast made Qiu Yun feel ashamed. She wondered: if this group of dedicated people were placed in the information-rich, technologically advanced world of 2018, what would they be like?
Qiu Yun had arrived at the studio around seven. Initially, she wanted to paint something, but with the brush in hand, she didn't know where to start, so she wrote in her diary instead. As the weather turned cold, people gradually left. she sat for a while longer, lost in thought.
She was wearing an old black sweater today. Feeling a bit chilled, she stood up to close the window, and a full moon suddenly caught her eye. The moon was so bright, so round, and so beautiful—so luminous that the craters on its surface seemed to vanish. She couldn't help but stare, mesmerized.
She remembered when she was a child, one night a massive full moon appeared over the mountain opposite her home. It was so large it seemed to cover the entire peak. She had been so surprised she couldn't believe her eyes. As she grew up, she wasn't sure if a moon that large could truly exist or if her memory had been artistically enhanced through countless replays. She only remembered Sima Feng holding her hand, looking down to tell her: *That is the sixteenth. The moon is roundest on the sixteenth. The moon on the sixteenth day of the lunar month is the roundest and brightest.*
So, the fifteenth had passed again. Clear moonlight flooded the ground, casting a layer of light even over the concrete floor of the classroom. That moon felt like an eye, watching her in return.
*"Oh, moonlight spills into everyone's heart, lighting the way home; oh, the hometown left behind for too long, and the aging parents..."*
She seemed to hear someone singing that song.
*Hello, Moon.*
*Moon, can you see me? Can you see my father too?*
*Is he doing okay?*
Suddenly, a chord was struck in her heart, and she felt an urge to cry. She returned to her seat and opened her art supplies. With hands that were almost trembling, she quickly began to sketch the outlines. This was a long-lost impulse, breaking through obstacles and surging forth. She had loved drawing since childhood and had fallen madly in love with oil painting in high school. Sima Feng had spent a great deal of money to hire a provincial-level teacher for her. After a few pieces, the teacher praised Qiu Yun for her talent, calling her a "moldable talent." Back then, she was insatiable, as if she had an inexhaustible supply of inspiration. She had ranked first in her professional exams and got into the Academy of Fine Arts. But man proposes and God disposes; the incident after her senior year of high school completely changed Qiu Yun’s family. Once Sima Feng went to prison, Qiu Yun’s spirits plummeted, and her inspiration seemed to dry up. she had drifted through four years of university in a daze.
But today, that inspiration—accumulated over those years—was like a clogged faucet suddenly being blasted open, all the water spraying out. She became immersed in the sensation, as if she were in a place where no one else existed. In this vast world, as if at the dawn of creation, she was the only one there, commanding the clouds and rain, painting with absolute, exhilarating abandon.
