FQ chapter 14

Luan Ye had traveled to Southeast Asia before for work—visiting Myanmar and Vietnam for field research. His memories were of blazing sunlight, the rich scent of spices, sweltering heat, and the dense palm trees. The air always seemed to carry a sense of fervor, noise, chaos, and carefreeness.

He might have passed by a branch of the river Fan Qing mentioned, seen its waters flow day after day, year after year, calmly joining the great Mekong River.

No one would have known that the fate of a young couple was buried there, like two raindrops falling into the current.

“Was it because…” Luan Ye began, but didn’t finish.

“No one knows. No one saw,” Fan Qing replied.

He turned his head to look at Luan Ye.

“My grandma told me it was an accident. She hadn’t slept for days, and it had rained during that time. The boat rocked a lot, and the current was strong.”

Maybe it was just her exhausted body and the rough conditions—she couldn’t hold on when the boat swayed.

Or maybe it was something else. But no one said.

Fan Qing didn’t know why he repeated again, “My grandma said it was an accident. She wasn’t the kind of person who would just… leave me.”

Following Fan Qing’s gaze out the window, the sunlight was beautiful. Through the glass, one could see the staggered village houses and mountains beyond.

Past the village and over the mountains, across more than a decade—long ago, a woman stood at the bow of a boat, the raging river below had swallowed her husband, while her young, clueless child was a thousand miles away.

In that moment, the choice might have been hers—or maybe just fate’s.

No one knew.

“After both of them were gone, the boat owner came to my house. That year was bad for business. He still owed over 500,000 yuan for the boat. He knelt three times to my grandma, gave her some money, and even some gold as compensation.”

“The money’s long gone, but the gold is still there. Last year on my birthday, my grandma said she wanted to give it to me. I didn’t take it.”

Fan Qing spoke calmly. When he turned to look at Luan Ye, his expression was like the wind outside the window—quiet and gentle.

Seeing that Luan Ye looked too serious, Fan Qing sat up a little straighter and stared at him for a few seconds.

“You okay?”

“I—” The room’s frozen air stirred slightly. Luan Ye paused and almost laughed.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I’m fine.”

After saying so much, Fan Qing’s voice had gone hoarse again. He finished the remaining water in the cup, and when he spoke again, his voice was much better.

“I was too young then. I only have faint impressions of them. Everything else came from my grandma.”

“She often talks to me about them.”

Luan Ye looked a little surprised. After a moment, he asked, “What does she say?”

“…A lot.”

Fan Qing wasn’t sure why Luan Ye suddenly wanted to hear about this, but after some hesitation, he picked a few stories from the many his grandma had told.

“She said my dad was really mischievous as a kid, always getting beaten. My mom was in the same class. They walked to school together. My dad never did homework, and every morning he’d squat by the roadside copying hers—got caught by my grandma and scolded.”

It might have been inappropriate, but Luan Ye couldn’t help smiling. “What about you—ever copy a girl’s homework?”

“No.” Fan Qing sighed lightly.

Luan Ye didn’t quite believe it but nodded. “What else?”

“Later, both their families had financial troubles. They dropped out of school to work and got married. Grandma said they were the sweetest young couple in the village—always stuck together while working. Couldn’t even farm a third of an acre in a day.”

Fan Qing turned his head. Luan Ye was watching him, listening intently.

He paused to recall, then continued: “She also said when I was born, they were really happy. Took half a month to pick a name—finally chose the simplest one, easy to raise.”

Fan Qing-— “lush and green,” like a thriving tree.

“Not simple,” Luan Ye said. “It’s a beautiful name.”

Fan Qing smiled. “Grandma said my eyes and face are like my dad’s. Both pretty—”

He paused, and Luan Ye finished the sentence for him: “Both pretty handsome, right?”

Fan Qing cleared his throat and averted his gaze as he continued.

“My mom was always lively and straightforward since she was a kid, and she was smart too. Everyone in the village liked her. If my dad hadn’t been good-looking…”

Fan Qing couldn’t help laughing at this point, and Luan Ye joined in, laughing for a while.

Behind them, sunlight and wind streamed in through the window. Luan Ye sat in the chair, imagining—perhaps it was under sunlight just like this that an elderly woman calmly, without reservation, told her young grandson about his parents’ childhoods and youth, their love and his birth, life and death.

Luan Ye remembered how, up in the snowy mountains, he had talked about finding a place to die, and Fan Qing had responded with a serious expression.

He finally understood—because of his parents’ accident, especially his mother’s disappearance that left no answers, Fan Qing disliked others mentioning death.

But it wasn’t out of fear of death. On the contrary, it was because he respected life.

“My aunt sometimes tries to stop her from telling me these things, afraid I’ll feel sad hearing them.”

“Don’t you?” Luan Ye asked.

“At first, I did.” Fan Qing pursed his lips and quickly relaxed them. “But if we never talk about it, my memory of them will always be from when I was three—a vague… shadow.”

“The more I heard, the more I felt they were… pretty interesting.”

And that’s why Fan Qing could now speak about these hardships, which would seem painful to most people, in such a calm and open way.

Because over the past ten years, every time he told the stories, the parents he pieced together from memory were no longer just two blurry shadows from when he was three. They weren’t abstract concepts from a textbook.

They were a love and a life—unfinished, but still whole—that he had come to know through stories.

“…That’s really nice.”

Luan Ye leaned back in his chair, his whole face bathed in sunlight. Fan Qing saw that his eyes were closed, his long lashes casting shadows across his face in the light.

“That’s really nice,” Luan Ye repeated.

“I haven’t seen my mom in a long time either.”

“Because of studying abroad?” Fan Qing asked, but quickly realized something was off. Luan Ye had been abroad for years and even made it all the way to Yunnan; visiting his mom should’ve been easy.

“Because I had a relationship too early. It upset her.”

Fan Qing froze, unsure whether Luan Ye was joking or serious. Before he could ask, Luan Ye had already straightened up and stood from the chair, glancing at his phone.

“It’s five. Let’s go. I’m treating the patient to dinner.”

Fan Qing was thrown off by his sudden shift in tone and was about to decline.

“I’m still sick,” he said, pointing to the medicine on the table. “Forget it, I might be contagious.”

By then, Luan Ye was already at the door. He looked back, then came over and gently touched Fan Qing’s forehead.

His hand, warm from the sun, stayed there for a few seconds before pulling away.

“No fever. It’s not serious,” Luan Ye said. “If you’re worried, bring your meds. Take them, and I’ll take the risk.”

“…”

Luan Ye had already opened the door and gone downstairs. Fan Qing casually grabbed a jacket, put it on, and followed him down.

Laifu, the dog, rolled over and got up. Fan Qing poured it a bowl of dog food. Luan Ye asked, “What do you want to eat?”

Fan Qing thought for a moment and replied, “Why don’t I cook?”

Luan Ye turned to look at him. Fan Qing suddenly got a little embarrassed. “Just noodles. If that’s not okay…”

“Okay,” Luan Ye said, not waiting for him to finish.

The kitchen was on the first floor. Fan Qing pulled out ingredients from the fridge and lit the stove to start boiling the noodles.

Luan Ye played with Laifu in the yard for a while, but once the dog had food, it ignored him, completely focused on eating. Finding it boring, Luan Ye wandered to the kitchen door and watched Fan Qing work.

He was slicing meat with practiced ease. Nearby were prepared pickled vegetables and other ingredients.

Luan Ye watched for a bit and asked, “Do you cook often at home?”

“Not often,” Fan Qing replied without looking back. “During the busy farming season, when they didn’t have time to cook, I made a few meals.”

“Your aunt’s family—”

Luan Ye hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. Fan Qing glanced at him and knew what he wanted to ask.

“They’ve all been good to me. My tuition and living expenses used to be covered by them.”

“Oh.” Luan Ye relaxed a little.

The noodles were ready. Fan Qing turned off the stove.

“They said they’d help pay for college, but their business hasn’t been doing well in recent years, and they have two kids. I felt… it wasn’t right.”

Luan Ye looked at him for a while and smiled.

Two bowls of beef noodles with pickled vegetables. Luan Ye’s bowl had a few chili flakes floating on top; Fan Qing’s was spicier with two full spoons.

Luan Ye looked down: “You’re sick and still eating spicy?”

“It helps you sweat. Makes you recover faster.”

“Won’t it make things worse? Like lose your voice or something?”

“No.”

Fan Qing paused, then laughed for a long while and handed him chopsticks.

“I won’t mooch off you either.”

Luan Ye smiled and took the chopsticks.

The noodles were steaming and tasted pretty good. Luan Ye ate quickly, even drinking half the broth.

The sick one ate a little slower. By the time he set his bowl down, his forehead was covered in sweat. When he looked up, his damp lashes made his eyes look dewy.

Luan Ye couldn’t help but laugh.

“Why are you crying from eating, kid?”

Still smiling, he pulled two tissues from the table and teased him.

“Wipe your tears.”

Fan Qing glanced at him, took the tissues, and wiped off the sweat. He carried the bowls away to wash, and Luan Ye stayed on the stool, unmoving, casually asking, “Need help?”

“No.” Fan Qing didn’t look back.

“Aren’t you sick?” Luan Ye said. “Making the sick do chores doesn’t seem right.”

Water splashed in the sink. Fan Qing replied over the sound, “I’m almost better.”

After saying that, he remembered something and turned his head. “Some people are going to Lugu Lake the day after tomorrow. Want to come?”

A message alert dinged from the phone on the table.

As Luan Ye pulled out his phone, he asked, “Is it fun?”

“It’s alright, but a bit crowded. If you come, that’ll make six — a full group.”

It was an email. Luan Ye tapped it open.

“The day after tomorrow? I—”

The loading icon spun, and the email opened to reveal just one line:

“Be safe. Once you’re rested enough, come home.”

Signed: Bai Mingchuan.

Luan Ye’s expression changed. He stood up so fast he knocked over the stool with a loud crash.