Chapter 35: The Warmth of Spring is Here, and the Ice is About to Melt
What is a parallel universe?
On a micro level, perhaps it refers to the countless possibilities that could happen to the same person. In life, maybe each seemingly insignificant decision leads to two divergent parallel realities. In every timeline, that person is still herself.
Jiang Xiaoyuan deeply felt this as she stepped into the original owner’s room. All the cups were placed on the left side with handles facing left, but pens and tools were on the right. This was because although Jiang Xiaoyuan wasn’t left-handed, she had always been accustomed to holding cups with her left hand. The penholder on the desk was filled with pens, most of which didn’t work. Their tips faced upwards, unused—another one of her quirks. Even if a pen ran out of ink and couldn’t be refilled, she wouldn’t throw it away.
The bed was always near the corner, never in the center.
Jiang Xiaoyuan tentatively sat beside the old wooden desk. Suddenly, she had a feeling and bent down to open the bottom drawer. As expected, she found a metal box inside. Everything reflected her habits, so Jiang Xiaoyuan didn’t need to ask anyone—she instinctively knew what was in this room.
She took out the metal box, knowing that it contained her treasures from this timeline. In her original world, she had a similar box, though it was much fancier than this rusty cookie tin. It held certificates from art exams, the stub of her first used-up eyebrow pencil, and birthday gifts from her parents when she was a child—which stopped after she turned ten. After that age, they no longer bothered to buy her toys to make her happy; they would just give her a red envelope, leaving her to buy what she liked.
After she turned ten, she indeed had few opportunities to communicate with her parents.
Jiang Xiaoyuan took a deep breath and opened the box from this world, as if unveiling a past she hadn’t had the chance to experience. The box was rusted and took some effort to pry open. Inside, it was crammed full and heavy. There was a high school acceptance letter, a printed middle school exam result slip, a dog-eared, pirated copy of the English novel The Glass Castle, a box of broken cassette tapes, a broken Walkman…
And an old, yellowed photograph.
It seemed to be from an obscure tourist spot. She saw a family posing in front of an obviously man-made boulder. The place looked shabby, and the people’s outfits were just as shabby. Their expressions as they looked at the camera were uniformly pained and solemn, as if they weren’t on vacation but rather reporting for a political session.
There was her grandmother, with most of her hair still black, and her parents from this world. As Jiang Xiaoyuan looked at them, they seemed so unfamiliar, so young yet so worn-out. She couldn’t help but feel a certain doubt: Were these two really her parents? Did her parents really look like this?
Their facial features were familiar, but their demeanor and expressions were worlds apart. Could the same person, dressed in designer clothes with a well-groomed appearance, be considered a wealthy lady, while in a worn-out floral cotton blouse, looking exhausted and hostile at the camera, she was just an ordinary peasant woman?
Jiang Xiaoyuan placed the photo at the bottom of the box, took a deep breath, and clasped her hands together, her fingertips pressed against her forehead. The Lighthouse Assistant had once told her that when she was thrown out of the car that crashed into the tree, her original timeline had split into two possibilities: one where she died and one where she survived. These two situations developed further, branching into more possibilities like a tree with countless parallel realities.
Her life had been like a straight, continuous path that suddenly split into two diverging roads. The original path stopped abruptly at the moment of the split. It halted, ceased to exist.
In every parallel universe that branched off, there would be a version of her, alive or dead, as a fixed outcome for her parents, relatives, and friends to face. They might grieve or be relieved, and then continue rushing through time, unable to turn back, never knowing there was a version of her they had missed.
It was already deep into the night. The elderly slept early, and the old woman in the next room had long fallen asleep. Under the dim glow of a lamp, Jiang Xiaoyuan was suddenly overwhelmed by sadness. From the scorching summer to the bitter cold, for more than half a year she had been on the run, repressing her sorrow, and now that sadness found an outlet and rushed out all at once. She had disappeared so completely, perhaps only the laws of space-time would remember her, ready to obliterate her into dust the moment she returned to the Lighthouse.
As a child, Jiang Xiaoyuan had been willful and rebellious, with few friends. Her parents were always busy, rarely having time for her, leaving her to grow up lonely, accompanied only by a series of nannies who came and went faster than Japanese prime ministers. Jiang Xiaoyuan had once harbored countless complaints, fantasizing about having a warm and lively home… But now, even the cold home was out of reach.
She thought of her father, whom she rarely saw, maybe once every ten days or so. Each time they met, he would inevitably frown and criticize her harshly. Many fathers, it seems, set standards for their children based on themselves, and by his standards, Jiang Xiaoyuan had always been a disappointment.
If he saw her now, having gone through such dramatic changes and surviving despite all the hardships, would he be surprised?
Unfortunately, she would never have the chance to tell him.
Jiang Xiaoyuan cried for half the night. In the end, her head ached, and she had finally shed all the pent-up emotions from the past six months.
Only then did she take a break, put the metal box away, and easily found a hidden compartment under the drawer where she discovered the original owner’s diary.
With teary eyes and a runny nose, Jiang Xiaoyuan prepared to read about the life of the top student. When the top student had first started keeping a diary, she was young, often rambling about trivial matters. Later, she must have gotten lazy, as her entries became short and to the point, mentioning only the important things.
The top student’s style was something like this:
“X month X day, sunny: Today, I overheard that four-eyed nerd in Class Four say he’s going to surpass me. Hah, keep dreaming.”
“X month X day, cloudy: The physics teacher made a calculation error today and blamed me for doing it wrong. That old prune is the worst.”
“X month X day, light snow: Some idiot wrote me a love letter today. He couldn’t even string a sentence together. Seriously, he should have practiced with his dog first.”
And so on.
Jiang Xiaoyuan was thoroughly confused but also gained a sense of realism about the fact that she and the top student were one and the same—that familiar, straightforward, and blunt tone.
Toward the end of the diary, the entries became sporadic, and the top student even stopped writing dates. Instead, she would leave a few words, more like random scrawls made when she was frustrated.
Jiang Xiaoyuan saw an entry that said, “Grandma fell. If only Dad were here.”
Later, written in a different pen, as if on a different day, the top student replied to her past self: “Your dad’s been dead for ages. Stop dreaming. You have to take care of this yourself.”
The words “school” and “dropping out” appeared repeatedly in the following pages.
Then Jiang Xiaoyuan found the last entry, written in pencil, with the handwriting already smudged.
It was the final message the top student left in this world, consisting of just two lines:
“No money, not going to school anymore.”
“One day, I’ll make it big.”
And then it stopped.
The top student had gone off to work in the countryside or tend to barren land, likely too busy to write another word. Her entire teenage years were pressed into this prize notebook, hidden silently beneath a secret compartment.
Jiang Xiaoyuan finished reading it all, and it was almost four in the morning. She exhaled heavily, pulled back the curtain slightly, and stared at the bizarre frost patterns on the blackened windowpane, feeling as though the phrase “make it big” weighed heavily on her chest.
The next morning, with dark circles under her eyes, Jiang Xiaoyuan was mixing meat stuffing when Qi Lian called.
While doing her mechanical task, Jiang Xiaoyuan answered, “Checking up on me? I’m still alive. The Lighthouse has been quiet the past few days. I think the virus is probably dead, so you can relax.”
Qi Lian was silent for a moment before saying, “…I wasn’t worried.”
Jiang Xiaoyuan: “Hmm?”
Qi Lian: “I just noticed you transferred the money back to my account… You didn’t have to rush. You could have waited until after the new year when things were easier for you.”
“Oh, so it was about that,” Jiang Xiaoyuan thought. She had forgotten to mention it after transferring the money, assuming Qi Lian would get a balance update notification.
“I just had it, so I paid you back,” Jiang Xiaoyuan said. “You’ve helped me a lot. Thanks. When I make it big, I won’t forget you.”
Qi Lian: “…”
At first, he didn’t believe Jiang Xiaoyuan could survive. Later, he realized she was the last chance, and no matter what, he had to succeed. He began treating her like a tender sprout in the desert, anxiously watching over her every moment. Who would have thought that in just a blink of an eye, her wings had grown so strong?
Strong enough that when she said, “Even when I make it big, I won’t forget him,” Qi Lian didn’t find it funny.
On the other side, Jiang Xiaoyuan suddenly thought of his figure that evening—how he came whenever called, never taking credit afterward, and silently walked away. Initially, she felt Qi Lian had an air of banditry about him, but over time, she found him to be reliable, with a good temper. He was like a large dog that looked like a wolf—frightening at first, with fangs that could bite, but when retracted, he was a gentle and patient companion.
She couldn’t help but bring up Sam Jiang’s offer to Qi Lian: “A friend called me a few days ago, asking if I could work for him during the New Year…”
Qi Lian paused, somewhat surprised, and then asked, “What kind of work?”
Jiang Xiaoyuan replied, “A makeup artist.”
“A makeup artist? In what field, exactly?” Qi Lian asked.
Jiang Xiaoyuan: “…”
She didn’t fully understand what a professional makeup artist did. The hair salon didn’t provide her enough information, so she only had a vague idea and couldn’t explain it well at the moment.
“What does your friend do?” Qi Lian asked.
Jiang Xiaoyuan: “…He’s a teacher?”
She couldn’t really explain that either. In fact, she didn’t even know Sam Jiang’s full name.
Qi Lian sighed. “It’s good that you have a direction and ambition, but it’s best to be cautious and not rush into things. I don’t know many people in the makeup industry, but I’ll ask around and see if there are better opportunities. Then you can go.”
Jiang Xiaoyuan: “Wait, I’m not…”
“Hmm?” Qi Lian responded.
Jiang Xiaoyuan thought to herself gloomily, “I just wanted some advice from someone I knew. I didn’t mean for him to help me find a job.”
But saying that out loud seemed ungrateful. After countless interactions with customers, Jiang Xiaoyuan had learned how to communicate better. She hesitated and swallowed her words.
Qi Lian added, “Besides, if you move to a new place, where would you stay? Take it slow.”
Jiang Xiaoyuan had no way to refute that.
So, she stayed in her hometown for over half a month, constantly pondering but coming up with nothing. Books, advice from seniors—everyone only tells you to eat more fruits and vegetables, work hard, and think deeply, but no one says what kind of vegetables to eat or what direction to focus on.
There were no computers or internet in her hometown, and Jiang Xiaoyuan didn’t enjoy watching TV. So, she gradually settled down and started reading the books that Scholar had collected.
“If we’re the same person, how could I not be able to read her books?” Jiang Xiaoyuan thought.
Oddly enough, once she thought that, her habit of feeling sleepy while reading miraculously disappeared.
The original owner had a lot of books, mostly bought from the county’s Xinhua Bookstore—their stamps were on the inside cover. Scholar had carefully wrapped each book in old calendar paper, without a single crease or note in the pages. Due to the limited selection of books at the county bookstore, most of them weren’t popular bestsellers. Instead, they were classics or random self-help books.
Jiang Xiaoyuan ended up reading more books than she had in her entire life, though they didn’t help much with her current dilemma. After all, she was reading books, not instruction manuals.
Before she knew it, the Lantern Festival passed, and the festive atmosphere faded with the spring breeze. It was time for her to leave.
She left 1,000 yuan behind and said goodbye to her grandmother.
Her grandmother, as always, remained calm and indifferent. When she heard Jiang Xiaoyuan was leaving, she simply nodded.
“Go,” she said. “I don’t understand the outside world, but you have to go out there.”
When Jiang Xiaoyuan set off, her grandmother walked her to the bus station. As she watched her board the bus, the elderly woman took a small step forward, only to realize that her legs could no longer catch up with anyone. She stepped back again.
“Will you come back next year?” her grandmother asked.
Jiang Xiaoyuan replied, “Yes, I’ll come back!”
“Remember to come back. There won’t be many times left,” her grandmother said.
Jiang Xiaoyuan blinked, suddenly feeling like crying.
She returned to the city, alone, carrying that piece of paper from the original owner that said, “I must make something of myself.”
This time, Jiang Xiaoyuan was wiser. She took a detour to a nearby county to catch a train instead—surely the train driver wouldn’t go on strike just because of an argument with a passenger.
The train ride was a little over two hours. After those two hours, Jiang Xiaoyuan would have to make a decision: Should she stay at Chen’s hair salon or go with Sam Jiang?
Jiang Xiaoyuan used the remaining pages of her notebook to list the pros and cons of leaving versus staying.
As for income, both options were about the same. She was now a skilled technician at the salon, and her basic salary plus commissions were roughly equal to what Sam was offering.
She was also reluctant to leave Mr. Chen. It wasn’t easy to find a decent boss when working far from home, and he had always treated her well.
Then there was the most practical issue—she had left most of her money with her grandmother, keeping only a little pocket money for herself. If she quit her job, she would have to find a new place to live. Could she even afford rent?
On the other hand, she was completely in the dark about what working with Sam Jiang would entail. What kind of school was it? What exactly did professional makeup artists do? Would the workload be heavy? What challenges would she face?
The more she thought about it, the more uncertain it seemed.
Jiang Xiaoyuan paused her pen and circled the words “hair salon,” just as Qi Lian had advised her.
The scales in her heart tilted towards the hair salon, but for some reason, this decision left her feeling a sense of loss.
At that moment, the train slowly pulled into a small station. The announcement came over the loudspeakers, first in Chinese, then in English. The English version used a phonetic transcription for the station’s name, which ended up sounding like mispronounced pinyin.
A middle-aged man nearby would excitedly quiz his teenage son every time the announcement played: “Do you know what that means?”
Then, he would mimic the mispronounced station name each time the English announcement was made, like a noisy, parroting bird.
Finally, the son lost his patience and snapped, “Stop embarrassing yourself! It’s not like you understand, you didn’t even finish primary school!”
The father, his pride hurt, could only sheepishly turn to look out the window.
A strange sense of sadness welled up in Jiang Xiaoyuan’s heart—sadness for that man, and sadness for herself.
Her gaze wandered to the unthawed river ice outside the window. She realized that human dignity was sometimes as fragile as that river ice—solid and unyielding at times, but at others, floating lightly on the surface, easily broken with a poke.
“I can’t stay,” Jiang Xiaoyuan suddenly thought. “If Sam Jiang’s offer isn’t reliable, I’ll figure it out myself. Worst case, I’ll start as a wedding photographer’s makeup artist.”
For the first time, without being provoked or pressured by anyone, Jiang Xiaoyuan decided not to stay in a place of comfort and ease.
After all, when spring comes and the flowers bloom, the ice will melt.
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