Who was Qiu Zhenghong?
He was a vital figure Sima Qiuyun had never met, the genuine biological grandfather of the original Qiu Xiaoyun, the legendary wandering fortune-telling mystic, and the mysterious owner of an entire traditional courtyard house. Most importantly, he was a ticking time bomb in Sima Qiuyun’s heart.
He… he was back?
And he had written her a letter: *I know who you are.*
Good grief…
Qiuyun read the letter over and over. There was no salutation and no postmark; it looked as though it had been delivered directly to the school.
A cold sweat broke out across her back.
That one simple sentence carried a staggering amount of hidden information. To Qiuyun, it felt like a threat.
*He knows who I am? How? Does he know anything else?*
*And who, exactly, is he?*
Sima Qiuyun had transmigrated here in September 1987. It was now May 1988. After safely passing through the previous September, the peaceful days of her life had been shattered by this bolt from the blue.
The next question was: should she go?
Qiuyun’s first instinct was yes. She definitely had to go. Although she didn't know his intentions, he was likely the only person in this world who knew of Sima Qiuyun’s existence. He might even be the clue she needed to return to her own time. Of course she had to go.
But she was still afraid. The unknown and uncontrollable nature of the situation far exceeded her capabilities. Would going be a good thing or a bad thing? Was he a friend or a foe? Could she, a lone girl venturing into this meeting, handle whatever happened?
She didn't know.
Until the story ended, even as the protagonist, she could not foresee the conclusion.
She was distracted during her afternoon classes; by the time they ended, she couldn't even remember which teacher had been lecturing.
As she passed the faculty office building, she stopped, changed direction, and went upstairs to the teachers' office to make a phone call.
The owner of the sundries shop on Phoenix Street answered. He told Qiuyun that there was no one at No. 89 Phoenix Street.
Qiuyun thanked him and left the office, clutching her books, her mind heavy with worry.
Liang He happened to be pushing the door open as she was leaving.
Sima Qiuyun’s brain was a muddle. She felt someone brush past her but didn't notice who it was until she heard someone call her name. She looked up blankly. "Huh?"
Liang He walked over. "What are you thinking about?"
"Oh, nothing." Realizing it was Liang He, Qiuyun instinctively greeted him. "Hello, Teacher Liang."
Then, both of them fell silent for a second.
Liang He didn't speak; this was the first time he had seen her since the night he got drunk. Two days ago, he had run into Wang Chen in the cafeteria, and she had mentioned that Qiuyun was feeling unwell and had taken the morning off. He figured she might have caught a cold from the combination of alcohol and the night breeze. Before he could offer his concerns, she had already recovered and appeared in the office. He hadn't decided how to start the conversation yet. Should he… ask if the braised pork from that afternoon had been good?
But in that same second, Qiuyun was thinking about something entirely different. The shop owner had told her there was no sign of Qiu Zhenghong returning to Phoenix Street, which only deepened the mystery. Caught off guard when her name was called, she looked up to see Liang He—and for some reason, in that moment, her resolve wavered. She felt a sudden impulse to tell him everything and ask him to accompany her this weekend.
But in the next second, she hesitated. *Forget it, how would I even begin to explain this?*
Just then, Liang He asked, "Was the braised pork good?"
At that exact moment, Qiuyun was shaking her head and sighing.
Liang He froze, feeling a bit awkward. *Was it not good?*
"Then…" He tried to smooth things over. "I didn't know… maybe the flavor wasn't right…" He hadn't been able to bring himself to eat any of it, giving it all to her.
"Huh?" Qiuyun seemed to snap back to reality. "What did you say? Oh, right… it was delicious, very delicious."
"Then why were you just shaking your head?"
"It’s nothing, really."
Liang He looked at her distracted state and asked, "What's wrong? Are you still not feeling well?"
"Feeling well?"
"That night… Wang Chen said you had a splitting headache the next day and were sick."
"Oh," Qiuyun said absently, "I'm fine now."
"What is it?" Liang He noticed her expression was off and asked again, "Is something bothering you?"
Clutching her books, Qiuyun glanced up at him, then quickly looked down and forced a smile. "No. I’ll be going now."
Liang He wanted to say more, but someone called out to him from behind. "Teacher Liang, are you done with class? Come here for a moment."
Qiuyun took the opportunity to slip away.
Liang He watched her retreating back, sensing that something was wrong.
What exactly was it? He couldn't figure it out immediately. He wondered if it was about that night, but several days had passed. If she were brooding over that, given Qiu Xiaoyun’s personality, she wouldn't have had that expression just now. What kind of expression was it? Trance-like, detached… a person only looks like that when they have something on their mind—something bad and difficult to resolve. Especially that final smile of hers. Yes, that smile!
It was clearly a smile, but it looked more painful than crying.
"Teacher Liang? Teacher Liang?" Lin Chongren called out to him several times from the office. "Can you swap classes with me this Friday?" Seeing Liang He return to his senses, Lin Chongren continued, "I have some family matters on Saturday and wanted to switch with you. You have class on Wednesday, right?"
Liang He nodded. "Yes."
"Then let's swap my Saturday morning class for your class next Wednesday. You cover for me this Saturday morning, and I'll take your class next Wednesday."
"Sure," Liang He replied, having no other plans. "We’ll need to inform Mr. Sun in the Academic Affairs Office."
"I'll go tell him," Lin Chongren said. "Thanks."
Liang He replied politely, "You're welcome."
Lin Chongren headed to the Academic Affairs Office happily.
Liang He walked to the window. Outside, dark clouds gathered, and the sky was heavy. It was about to rain.
***
Once the rain started, it wouldn't stop.
Every year at this time, City A entered an endless rainy season. It drizzled incessantly, with the sun occasionally peeking out for half a day, only for torrential downpours to return by the afternoon. It was as if the sky had a leak; people never left home without an umbrella. Clothes hung on the balcony for a week without drying, and even the bedsheets felt damp. However, the people of City A seemed accustomed to this weather, knowing that the miserable days would eventually pass—though what followed wasn't necessarily pleasant. Often, the rainy season transitioned directly into the height of summer without any buffer. The brilliant sun would bake the earth like an oven, as if making up for its previous absence.
But for Qiuyun, the weather no longer mattered. The most important thing was the door in front of her.
Indeed, Qiuyun was standing before No. 89 Phoenix Street. The vermilion door with its peeling paint stood starkly before her. The sky was gloomy, and a light rain was falling. She didn't have an umbrella; standing under the eaves, the stray droplets blown by the wind made her feel a bit cold.
To push, or not to push—that was the question.
If she pushed it open, in the worst-case scenario, she might die. If she didn't, she might never be able to live a comfortable or straightforward life again.
Life and death might very well hinge on this single moment.
She closed her eyes and pushed the door open.
***
Liang He looked out at the thin, drizzling rain, feeling a sense of restlessness.
Across the desk, Chen Jingtao lifted his eyelids, peered over his reading glasses, then looked back down at his book, speaking slowly. "This rain is never-ending."
"Ah…" Liang He withdrew his gaze, realizing his mentor was speaking. He quickly replied, "Yes, the rainy season has arrived."
"Have you ever painted rain?"
"Rain? Not rain on its own, but I've painted landscapes in the rain."
"Oils or watercolors?"
"Watercolors. Just ordinary daily practice."
Chen Jingtao turned a page. "Have you decided where to go for the art internship in July? Pick somewhere sunny."
"There are a few options, but nothing is confirmed yet. Do you have any suggestions, Professor?"
"Safety first. Accessibility second. Don't go too far; travel time wastes effort. Where did your class go back then?"
"We went to Anhui."
"Oh, that's a good place. Beautiful scenery, beautiful architecture."
"Yes, we gained a lot back then. It's a candidate."
Chen Jingtao looked up, reflecting. "It seems our school has always preferred the south."
Liang He thought for a moment. "Yes, the class before us went to Suzhou, and the one after went to Hangzhou."
Chen Jingtao said, "You could consider the north."
"For example?"
"There are plenty," Chen Jingtao smiled. "Beijing, Tianjin, Shanxi—all places where the cultural heritage and natural scenery are equally beautiful. Discuss it with Lin Chongren. The two of you will lead the group. As long as the budget allows and you make the proper arrangements, write a detailed report, and I won't have any objections."
Liang He responded, "Understood."
"By the way," Chen Jingtao noted the book in Liang He's hand that hadn't been turned for a long time, "have you digested the book I gave you last time?"
Liang He looked a bit embarrassed. "Not yet. Buddhism is too profound, and I need to brush up on my classical Chinese."
Chen Jingtao seemed puzzled. "Didn't you go ask your friend who studies Chinese literature?"
Liang He replied frankly, "No."
Chen Jingtao glanced at him and chuckled. "Then you'll have to work a bit harder. I'll give you another one today." With that, he took a hand-copied, blue-covered book from his bag and placed it on the desk. Liang He looked at the title: *The Diamond Sutra*.
"Copying sutras in your spare time will keep you from finding the rain so bothersome." Chen Jingtao stood up. "I need to head home for dinner. Oh," he didn't forget to remind him, "this is a family heirloom edition. Don't damage it."
Liang He promised, "I'll be careful." He picked it up and flipped through it; the scent of ink wafted out. It was written entirely in vertical columns of regular script with a brush—square, powerful, and resonant.
