Chapter 8

In an instant, Duan Qingshen felt as if Liang Yuanxing had just cast a spell on him. Otherwise, why was he unable to move?

People often say, “The work is the person,” and though this isn’t always absolutely true, over the past three years, Liang Yuanxing had repeatedly studied Duan’s work and had, at least, understood a part of his soul.

After finishing, Liang Yuanxing’s eyes curved into a smile. “I’m going to retouch the photos now.”

“Oh.” Duan Qingshen nodded stiffly. “Okay… thanks for your hard work. You can use my computer directly. I’ll… go out and get some food.”

“Sure,” Liang Yuanxing replied.

Duan Qingshen really wasn’t skilled at photo editing—not because he couldn’t learn the software, but because he lacked an aesthetic sense for people. He simply didn’t know how to retouch portraits naturally and beautifully.

While Duan went downstairs to find some food, Liang Yuanxing worked on his computer. At first, he was a bit hesitant—using someone else’s personal electronic device in a closed room felt like invading their territory. Especially since the computer would pop up email notifications showing the subject lines.

Fortunately, these weren’t private emails but information from the hospital where Duan Qingshen worked.

Still, thinking it over, Liang Yuanxing reasoned that if Duan was willing to leave his computer and himself alone in the same room so confidently, it meant he had nothing shameful to hide. Convinced, Liang Yuanxing continued editing.

After compressing and sending half of the cropped original photos to Jiang Yu, he began retouching. The process was quite easy—the originals were already good, Duan had great taste and had chosen excellent angles of Jiang Yu, so the post-processing was smooth.

Liang Yuanxing deliberately saved the photo of the black dress with lightning for himself to edit, not sending it to Jiang Yu. He had a bit of a selfish reason: he thought this shot was the best.

After cropping, the image was a vertical composition with the figure small but harmonious. For a moment, Liang Yuanxing didn’t know where to start. He thought for a while, erased a few unnecessary small rocks in the foreground, enlarged and retouched the hem of the dress, then stopped.

The photo was nearly perfect—even the few stray strands of hair stuck to the subject’s profile added emotional depth. After gazing at it for over ten seconds, Liang Yuanxing finally realized—wait, this was a wedding photo, but the whole picture looked dark and desolate.

Just then, as he finished the last photo, the door unlocked with a beep—Duan Qingshen had returned.

“I just bought a little something,” Duan said. “Mackerel dumplings. Not sure if you’ll like them.”

“What kind of fish?”

“Mackerel.”

“Mackerel what?” Liang Yuanxing didn’t understand.

“Dumplings.”

Liang Yuanxing looked at him with wide eyes, silently asking, “What kind of strange food did you buy?”

Seeing this, Duan Qingshen explained, “Mackerel dumplings sound odd, but fish filling is common here—mackerel, yellow croaker… like how people in Yunnan, Guizhou, and Sichuan eat cold dishes with fish mint. You should try it.”

He spoke as if he had lived here, but Liang Yuanxing still hesitated slightly and glanced at Duan cautiously. He closed his laptop and moved it aside.

“I thought you were from Zhejiang,” Liang Yuanxing said. “Otherwise, I would’ve countered with ‘egg-stuffed pancakes rolled with West Lake vinegar fish.’”

“...” Duan Qingshen was speechless for a moment, then put down a few bags. “I also bought some other stuff.”

Some fried chicken cutlets—food most people could accept—along with yogurt, drinks, some common convenience store snacks, and waterproof bandages.

Duan sat down and said, “The bandages were from the convenience store. After the wedding tomorrow, I’ll take you to buy some common medicine.”

He meant it was wise to prepare some medicine for a long motorcycle trip. Liang Yuanxing said “Oh” and picked up a dumpling. It seemed the words he said before leaving were forgotten, like a couple living together in formality but treating conversations outside life as air.

Liang tried a mackerel dumpling. It was a bit strange for him since he had only ever tasted shrimp in such dumplings or wontons before.

He tried to pick up another, but his chopsticks slipped.

Duan dug out a spoon from one of the bags and handed it to him. “Use this.”

“Oh.” Liang started to say “thank you,” but didn’t get the chance.

“I...” Duan looked at him seriously. “I don’t know what filter my photos gave you years ago, but I’m not the person those pictures made you think I am.”

Liang swallowed and said, “Brother Shen, I study music.”

Suddenly saying this, Duan nodded.

“At school, a teacher once said, ‘People often lack words to express their feelings properly, but everyone can find the right emoji. In terms of music, we can find the perfect melody.’”

Duan lowered his eyes and nodded in agreement. “That’s true.”

“And images,” Liang said, looking at him. “Images too.”

In truth, Duan barely remembered that year in the northwestern desert. So many things later swept him further away. Even that night at the inn in the small town, when Liang showed him the photo “Going Northwest” on his phone, for a moment, Duan felt strange about his own photograph.

He looked up again; Liang was still watching him.

If he were to be sentimental, in that moment, Duan felt Liang was here to help him find himself again.

More sentimentally put, among all the landscapes he had shot—deserts, mountain seas of clouds, the Milky Way—it was this one photo that Liang knew held his soul.

Or rather, which specific photo.

Thinking this, Duan found it absurd himself. So, he asked in a dull, slow voice, “What do you study... exactly?”

Obviously, Liang hadn’t expected Duan to pick up on that from his previous words.

He paused, then answered, “Piano, musical performance. My parents died early; my aunt and uncle raised me. When I was a kid, they signed both my cousin and me up for piano lessons. My cousin quit after a while, so I took over her lessons.”

“Sorry,” Duan pursed his lips.

“It’s nothing,” Liang smiled. “I’m doing well. Life has been smooth. When I left for this motorcycle trip, my aunt and uncle worried about me and even bought me a camera. So there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

Duan looked at the camera on the table and asked, “Then why didn’t you study photography in college?”

“My cousin and I were both in five-year piano classes,” Liang said.

“I see.” Duan smiled. “Two five-year courses turned into your ten-year course.”

“Yeah, so I took the art exam. Otherwise, I’d feel regretful.”

“We’re quite alike,” Duan said, still looking at the camera. “I’m also at ten years, unwilling to give up, but… it’s not the same thing.”

His words came abruptly, without beginning or end. But Liang didn’t mind and asked directly, “Have you decided? Do you want to come with me?”

Duan’s gaze faltered briefly. Strange as it was, he felt an unspoken understanding with Liang. During the time he was out buying food, he had been thinking.

Liang took a piece of chicken cutlet, admired its crispy shell, then stuffed it into his mouth, crunching happily. The sound was joyful—crispy and tender—his cheeks puffed out waiting to speak.

After a long moment, Duan said, “Okay.”

—Logically, a thirty-year-old who had worked before shouldn’t be so easily swayed, but in hesitation, Duan still chose him.

After dinner, Liang showed Duan the retouched photos, but Duan couldn’t make much of them, just nodded and said they were good. Liang only ate two mackerel dumplings; Duan finished the rest. While tidying up, Liang couldn’t help but ask where Duan was from. He said his household registration was in Zhejiang.

“Oh~” Liang tied up the bags and adjusted the lunch boxes inside to avoid spilling when lifted.

“This is my mother’s hometown. After my parents divorced, my mother brought me here for high school,” Duan said, taking the bags from Liang. “So I’m used to most food here.”

He added, “Whether it’s mackerel dumplings or West Lake vinegar fish.”

“Is this the path to becoming a master?” Liang laughed.

“Mm~” Duan intoned playfully. “I’ll buy you a special portion tomorrow. You can practice on it.”

“No need,” Liang said without hesitation. “I don’t want to be a master, just a happy ordinary person.”

A happy ordinary person. Duan’s movements paused.

In truth, since resigning from the hospital, Duan had been trapped in an indescribable state. Although he had quit, he was still caught between two worlds. He could faintly hear voices echoing in his heart.

Saying something like: It’s okay, your resignation was just a moment of confusion. You’re just taking time to relax. Would your father not know? He’s just silently approving, waiting for you to come back, bow your head and apologize. He’ll arrange a job for you, and life will return to normal.

There’s still time.

Just as he told Liang, who couldn’t sleep, there were three hours until sunrise—there’s still time.

At this moment, he was in the darkness three hours before dawn.

Liang compressed the retouched photos and sent them to Jiang Yu, who quickly replied with a “thank you” emoji.

After packing up, the two decided to take a walk and throw out the trash. Not far from the hotel was a pedestrian street. Although late October on the coast was chilly at night, many people still came out.

The entire street smelled delicious. It had rained during the day, and although the night was cold, the shaved ice fruit stands still had long lines.

Liang glanced over—the ice cooler displayed various sliced fruits. Nearby, a stall was grilling squid on a hot iron plate, sizzling loudly. The owner shouted, “Step back! The oil might splash!”

The fragrant smell of fried oil wafted straight to Liang’s face.

What was that phrase from Zeng Xiaoyang? Duan glanced at him secretly—twenty-three years old, the age of being able to eat two more meals after feeling full.

“Want some?” Duan asked. “Freshly made tastes much better than takeaway.”

“Since you say so,” Liang smiled.

Queueing for food on a narrow pedestrian street was a bit awkward; the line had to form sideways, and a slight misstep could look like cutting in line to other stalls.

But fortunately, the owner was quick and efficient. The iron plate was hot, and seafood cooked fast. Soon, it was their turn.

The owner pressed the prepared squid with his hand. “What do you want?”

“What do you want?” Duan got ready to scan a QR code to pay.

“I’ll do it myself,” Liang said shyly.

“What do you want!?” The owner asked again, clearly urging them to decide. Probably thinking, if you two are fighting over who pays in a restaurant, fine, but why at a street stall too?

“Squid!” Liang said. “Squid, fries, and iced cola!”

“No iced cola!” The owner said. “That’s what my daughter left!”

“Oh!” Liang said.

“I’ll go get it for you,” Duan paid, “You line up here.”

At the end of the pedestrian street was a small square—not much more than a round open space with a few simple tables and stools where people ate.

“Got closer and realized it’s sour plum juice, not cola,” Duan sighed. “The color’s too similar.”

“No problem, as long as it’s cold. Sour plum juice is good too,” Liang said.

The air after rain was pleasant. Liang chewed on squid tentacles and suddenly felt incredibly comfortable.

“This place is really nice,” Liang said. “Not too humid, and the autumn breeze is gentle.”

Duan agreed, “It’s comfortable this time of year, but summer is quite humid, especially near the sea. The wind carries salt.”

Duan had lived here for a while, but it had been so long the city had changed so much he didn’t recognize many places anymore. After tossing the trash, they continued wandering along the street, drifting wherever their feet took them.

After a short walk, they saw a traffic cop stopping a black Santana and questioning the driver. Liang looked over curiously.

Duan looked too and asked, “What’s going on?”

“Have you heard the old saying, ‘White Jetta, black Santana, the trunk’s full of guns’?”

“...What nonsense,” Duan frowned. “Who taught you that?”

“My old bar boss,” Liang said.

“Oh, my predecessor,” Duan replied.

Hissing. The tone sounded a bit off. Liang looked away and met Duan’s gaze.

“How did the bar close down?” Duan asked.

Liang put his hands in his pockets. “Well… it was by West Lake.”

That was enough. Duan understood. “Rent was too high. The retail price of alcohol was too expensive and tourists complained. The economy was bad.”

Liang nodded. “Yeah, in the end, we barely made back the renovation costs.”

“That’s normal. Doing business isn’t like it used to be.”

“What about you next?” Duan asked. “Not long-term, just… what do you plan to do after you get to the northwest?”

“I don’t know.” Liang smiled, carefree. Though Duan couldn’t see his expression clearly, the tone was light and indifferent.

Then he added, “We’ll all die anyway.”

“What?” Duan thought he heard wrong.

“I said, we’ll all die. Everyone’s end is the same. Don’t care too much about the outcome,” Liang said. “Have you read a manga called ‘What Bad Intentions Could I Possibly Have?’”

Duan shook his head.

He never had the chance to read manga or novels as a child, and never developed an interest as he grew older.

Liang took out his phone, browsed his album for a moment, then handed it to Duan.

The image showed a conversation between two seagulls:

—What’s the ultimate goal of our lives? Why do we live?

—To get some fries at the dock.

Liang said, “We’re going northwest to get some photos.”