More than a month had passed since the Snowfield Ship departed from Shanghai and arrived at Yellow River Station. By late December, in the town at 78° N latitude, the sun had long since vanished.
The locals who lived there year-round had long mastered the art of adapting to the polar night with practiced ease. Their daily routines remained unchanged despite the endless darkness; they relied on clocks to maintain their twenty-four-hour biological rhythms.
For Song Yu, however, the initial thrill of the first couple of days quickly wore off, leaving her to struggle. The unrelenting dark seemed to naturally drag down her mood, fostering a deep sense of depression.
Many others on the expedition team felt the same way, weighed down by a stifling gloom.
That was why Arctic scientific expeditions were typically scheduled for summer. During those months, over two hundred scientists from various nations gathered in Ny-Ålesund, this tiny town buzzing with activity. Come winter, most withdrew, escaping the extreme cold and interminable polar night.
To lift everyone’s spirits—and since their second day at Yellow River Station happened to coincide with the winter solstice—the station chief consulted with the captain, and they decided the whole team should get together to wrap and eat dumplings.
Ny-Ålesund was tiny, and with researchers from every nation crammed together, everyone knew everyone else. Holidays and festivals were shared affairs, with invitations extended across borders.
That evening, nearly everyone in town had gathered inside Yellow River Station.
The station was a stately two-story red house spanning about five hundred square meters. Towering stone lions flanked the entrance, and a metal plaque reading “China Arctic Scientific Expedition” hung proudly above. Against its stark, minimalist architecture, the building exuded solemn dignity.
The lounge and cafeteria were packed to the brim. People clustered together in high spirits, wrapping dumplings. The ratio of Chinese to foreigners was about one to one, turning it into a hands-on cultural exchange.
Song Yu joined in on the fun, but she had no idea how to wrap dumplings. She couldn’t impart any traditional Chinese skills to the foreign guests, nor could she lend a hand. Before long, she was shooed out of the chaotic kitchen for taking up space.
She brushed the flour from her hands and headed down the corridor toward the bathroom. Midway there, she overheard two voices in conversation.
The captain’s voice was rough and gravelly, instantly recognizable and piercing. He chuckled. “President Zhou, look—no mishaps along the way. We brought your Song Yu back safe and sound.”
Zhou Yan’s tone was polite and courteous. “You’ve gone to great trouble, Captain. My thanks.”
The captain waved him off. “Not at all, not at all.”
Song Yu’s brows furrowed tightly. She strode over.
The captain caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. He clapped his hat onto his head from under his arm, a knowing look on his face, and tactfully made himself scarce.
“You two talk.”
Zhou Yan glanced up at her. Surprise flickered across his features, quickly giving way to composure.
A long silence stretched between them.
“What was that supposed to mean?” Song Yu demanded bluntly.
Zhou Yan had crossed paths with her enough times to know her temperament well. Push too hard, and she’d pull back, her defenses and wariness kicking into high gear.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he explained. “President Shen heard you were joining the expedition to the Arctic. She was worried you’d stir up trouble, so she asked me to have a word with the captain—make sure he kept an extra eye on you.”
Song Yu’s frown deepened, her voice stiff. “Tell her I’m an adult. I don’t need looking after.”
Zhou Yan had no desire to be caught in the middle between Shen Shuzhi and Song Yu, pleasing neither side. He shrugged. “Then tell her yourself.”
From a distance, an American professor with a prominent nose and reddish-brown curly hair poked his head out of the lounge. “Eric—”
Eric was Zhou Yan’s English name.
He went on, “Let me introduce you to a professor.”
Zhou Yan gave Song Yu one last glance, noting her foul mood. Deciding not to push his luck, he turned and brushed past her.
The lounge held a number of scholars and professors with little interest in the dumpling-wrapping frenzy. They sat in small groups, drinks in hand, chatting idly—mostly exchanging insights on their specialized fields.
Zhou Yan entered just in time to spot the American professor Jeton deep in conversation with Pei Zhi.
Pei Zhi lounged against the arm of a sofa chair, his eyes downcast. His index finger tapped idly on the chair back, now and then. Out of every three remarks, he’d respond to only one, his impatience practically etched on his face.
The American, thick-skinned as ever, seemed oblivious. He waved enthusiastically at Zhou Yan.
Zhou Yan had met Pei Zhi a few times before, during family visits to the Pei Family. The man reminded him a lot of Song Yu—cool and aloof toward others, seeing through their intentions with quiet acuity. Even Zhou Yan felt a chill when their eyes met.
“Eric, that copper mine report you showed me yesterday—I have doubts about one section. Why don’t you ask Pei Zhi? He’s one of your country’s top geology professors.”
Pei Zhi’s eyelids lifted slightly. His gaze flicked toward Zhou Yan as he demurred carelessly, “I’m no longer involved in geological research.”
Jeton, baffled, pressed, “Why not? No wonder I haven’t seen any new papers from you in years.”
Pei Zhi didn’t reply. He rose and grabbed a can of beer from a table draped in white cloth, cracking it open.
Carbon dioxide hissed as it foamed out.
Undeterred, Jeton kept at it. “You must have worked on sea ice topics for this Snowfield Ship expedition, right?”
“Given the current trends, how many years until Arctic sea ice vanishes entirely in summer?”
Pei Zhi’s brows creased. He gave the man a cool once-over.
Jeton was frank and direct. “Some say no later than 2100, when the Arctic Ocean could be ice-free in summer. But I think that’s too conservative.”
“If the sea ice melts away, the Northwest Passage and Northeast Passage would open up in summer. Maritime trade routes would shorten dramatically, and Arctic oil and gas resources could be exploited on a massive scale.”
“What’s your take?” Jeton persisted. “Last year’s Amazon fires torched nearly half the rainforest, and then Australia’s bushfires—the carbon emissions from those. Could they accelerate the sea ice melt?”
The beer, fetched from the outdoor ice, began to bead with condensation in the warm room.
Pei Zhi listened in silence, his long thumb and middle finger pinching the top of the can, gently swirling the scant liquid inside.
His gaze remained detached. After a long moment, his thin lips parted, his tone laced with disdain and mockery.
“Compared to the sea ice, you’ll be gone sooner.”
Jeton hadn’t expected the barb. Even he could hear the irritation now.
He shrugged and spread his hands. “No need to get serious. Sea ice disappearance is inevitable. In the grand sweep of history, what’s a few years earlier or later?”
Pei Zhi drained the last of his beer and crushed the can effortlessly in his fist.
He nodded offhandedly. “Exactly. So a few years earlier or later won’t matter for you either.”
Jeton’s expression froze. He opened his mouth to retort.
But Pei Zhi had no patience left for the man. He tossed the crumpled can into the trash and left the lounge.
Steaming pots of dumplings emerged one after another from the boilers, but they couldn’t keep up with the voracious appetites.
Yellow River Station rang with laughter and chatter in a babel of languages.
The constant boiling kept the indoor temperature toasty, the air thick with steam that blurred the view.
Unwittingly, Song Yu had been pushed to a corner. She clasped her hands behind her back, the boisterous holiday cheer leaving her ill at ease.
Wu Yue elbowed her way to the serving window, balancing two stacked enamel bowls. She finally snagged two portions of dumplings.
Portions were limited—only five per bowl.
But they were hefty ones, plump with meat filling. The thin skins strained to contain it all, glistening with fat. They looked irresistible.
Wu Yue fought free of the crowd and scanned around. Spotting Song Yu, she headed her way.
“You’re just standing here—you’ll miss out on even one dumpling.”
Song Yu shook her head with a faint smile. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Pork and fennel dumplings are up!” called the auntie at the cafeteria window, ladle in hand.
“Hey, already done? I want the fennel ones.” Wu Yue craned her neck toward the window. The crowd surged again. “Mom always makes fennel dumplings for winter solstice. Thought I’d miss them this year.”
She glanced at her own cabbage-filled portions. “Here, take these two.”
Before Song Yu could refuse, Wu Yue thrust both bowls into her arms and dove back into the throng to claim her fennel dumplings.
Song Yu stood there, dumbfounded, a bowl in each hand.
The cafeteria was jammed. Grabbing a pair of chopsticks, Song Yu went elsewhere to eat.
Yellow River Station had plenty of communal spaces for relaxation, but few suitable spots for dining.
The international researchers in the lounge ignored the cafeteria commotion entirely. They’d turned the gathering into an academic symposium, the air thick with scholarly debate.
Song Yu noticed the loudest voice belonged to an American with reddish-brown hair. Zhou Yan stood beside him. Both were dressed in crisp suits.
Especially that American, who was wearing a double-breasted plaid vest with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit pants, exuding an air of utter elitism as he held forth animatedly on some topic.
Zhou Yan tilted his head to listen, offering responses now and then. It was unclear how much he was actually taking in, but he at least maintained a picture of impeccable politeness.
Song Yu pursed her lips. She had no natural fondness for this American scholar who so ostentatiously broadcast his opinions, nor for Zhou Yan’s thoroughly hypocritical tone.
She slipped quietly out of the lounge, carrying two bowls of dumplings as she headed upstairs. She decided to eat on the second-floor rooftop of Yellow River Station. If they got cold, so be it.
The rooftop of Yellow River Station was wide open, but fortunately there was no wind that evening. The sky was a deep gemstone blue, as if an artist had carefully blended the colors.
White steam rose from the two bowls of boiled dumplings in the cold air.
Song Yu glanced around and noticed several small cabins on the rooftop. The nearest one glowed with warm yellow light.
She approached slowly and heard faint rustling sounds from inside, like someone tinkering with equipment.
The cabin door stood ajar. Song Yu paused at the threshold and immediately spotted a figure in red.
Because they were outdoors, Pei Zhi had flipped up the collar of his Expedition Team jacket to shield his chin. He was slightly hunched over a machine that resembled a telescope, fiddling with it intently. His expression was serious, his thin lips pressed together—he hadn’t noticed her arrival at all.
“What are you doing?” Song Yu asked.
Pei Zhi’s movements paused. He lifted his head and met her gaze for a moment.
“Debugging the hardware on the aurora imaging instrument,” he explained.
Song Yu eyed the machine in front of him. Its lens was very long—over a meter, at least. “Can it photograph the aurora with that?”
Pei Zhi shook his head. “Not yet.”
“These machines in the cabins haven’t been powered on all summer. The software and hardware both need recalibrating.”
At his words, Song Yu felt a pang of disappointment. They said auroras were common in the Arctic Circle, but after all these days, she still hadn’t seen a single one.
Pei Zhi straightened up and brushed the dust from his hands. “What are you doing up here?”
Song Yu held the two bowls of dumplings out in front of her. “Want some?”
Pei Zhi wasn’t particularly hungry.
“Sure,” he said.
He stepped around the various pieces of equipment and headed to the door. “Let’s eat outside.”
“Ah?” Song Yu said. “Can’t we eat in here? It’s so cold out there.”
The second-floor cabins served as the Aurora Observation Room, with strictly controlled temperature and humidity inside. It was far warmer than the exposed rooftop.
“No,” Pei Zhi refused bluntly, without a trace of emotion. “What if you spill soup on the machines?”
Song Yu pursed her lips. “I’m not a child.” Even so, she followed him out of the cabin.
The outdoor temperature hovered around -5 degrees Celsius—not much different from Beijing’s. Song Yu had worn a thin evening gown in weather like this before, so she didn’t truly find it that cold. She wasn’t sure why she was complaining to him about it.
They walked to the edge of the rooftop. From this vantage point, the whole of Ny-Ålesund sprawled below them, its lights sharp and clear, marking the boundary of human activity amid the vast, desolate land.
Song Yu gazed into the distance, entranced. The town was even smaller than she had imagined.
She felt a weight settle on her shoulders and turned to see that Pei Zhi had shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her back at some point.
“If you’re cold, put it on,” he said, taking the two bowls from her hands.
Song Yu tilted her head and blinked.
The red team uniform didn’t seem oversized when he wore it, but on her, it was comically large. Even over her down jacket, it layered on effortlessly, turning her into what looked like a bloated ball.
The jacket still carried the warmth of his body. She sniffed, catching a faint cedar scent in the air. It was pleasant.
“Chopsticks?” Pei Zhi asked.
Song Yu looked up at him.
Beneath the jacket, Pei Zhi wore a smoky-gray turtleneck sweater. In the night, he cut a tall, slender figure. Perhaps because he had been working with delicate instruments, he wore a pair of silver-framed glasses with thin rims perched on his high nose bridge. From head to toe, he radiated a refined, scholarly air.
It was different from the self-important showmanship on display by the American downstairs. Pei Zhi’s poise was something quietly ingrained in him from his past experiences—unhurried, unforced, yet profoundly felt.
Song Yu lost herself for a moment, her eyelashes fluttering lightly. Then she hurriedly looked down and fished the chopsticks from her pocket.
“I only brought one pair. Should I go back to the cafeteria for another?” she asked.
She hadn’t expected to run into Pei Zhi up here, so she’d only grabbed one.
“No need to bother.”
Song Yu blinked at him. “Then how are we supposed to eat?”
Pei Zhi gave her a faint glance. “You mind sharing with me now?”
Song Yu met his eyes and realized what he meant. Her expression froze as some memory surfaced, and a flush quickly crept up her ears.
“Oh,” she mumbled. “You go first, then.”
Pei Zhi took the chopsticks from her. His fingertips were warm as they brushed her palm.
He picked up the first dumpling, cupping the bowl beneath it, and held it to Song Yu’s lips. “Eat it before it gets cold.”
Song Yu didn’t stand on ceremony. She leaned forward and bit into the dumpling.
They were big northern-style boiled dumplings, stuffed full to the brim with her bite.
Handmade and freshly wrapped, the filling was perfectly seasoned—a rare treat in her memory.
Pei Zhi picked up a dumpling and popped it into his mouth. He ate with refined elegance, chewing slowly and silently.
As the warm dumplings settled in her stomach, Song Yu felt her emotions stir unexpectedly.
She sighed. “This is my first time eating dumplings on the winter solstice.”
“Why?” Pei Zhi asked casually. “Doesn’t your family have the tradition?”
Song Yu shook her head slightly. “I’ve never celebrated it with them.”
Holidays were few and far between in her memory. It was only today, seeing everyone bustling around packing dumplings with such cheer, that she realized the winter solstice wasn’t just a solar term—it was a day for family to gather.
Pei Zhi paused.
Though he had grown up abroad with Pei Zhenshan, they always made dumplings together every winter solstice. His father placed great importance on Chinese traditions, as if it were the only way to ease his homesickness.
What was routine—almost mundane—to Pei Zhi was a fresh experience for Song Yu.
“Sorry,” he said suddenly.
Song Yu looked at him and thought she saw a flicker of unease on his face.
“I’m not good at comforting people,” Pei Zhi said. He held the bowl out toward her hesitantly. “Want all the dumplings?”
“…”
“That’s okay,” Song Yu said, waving it off. She was used to it anyway.
If anything, she now regretted saying those extra words—they had weighed down the mood.
She took a deep breath and forced a light tone to change the subject. “Do you think we’ll see the aurora tonight? How come we never spot it?”
Song Yu kicked at a pile of snow swept to the side. Her luck had always been poor; maybe she’d leave without ever seeing one.
Pei Zhi lifted a hand and pointed to a spot. “That’s it right there.”
Song Yu blinked and followed his gesture, tilting her head back to the sky. Amid the gemstone-blue expanse, thin veils of clouds drifted, stars blanketed the heavens, and a harmonious gradient of purple blended seamlessly into it all—like a painter’s ever-shifting palette.
“That purple band of light is the aurora,” Pei Zhi said, gesturing.
Song Yu stared fixedly at the hazy purple streak in the sky.
The thin clouds gradually parted, and the purple grew sharper, flowing like a soft satin ribbon.
She hadn’t realized the aurora she’d longed for was so close at hand. The awe of seeing it with her own eyes surpassed anything photos or videos could convey.
Song Yu gazed in a daze at the breathtaking firmament, forgetting to breathe for a moment.
Pei Zhi turned his face toward her. He wasn’t watching the aurora—he was watching Song Yu. She held her head slightly tilted back, her expression one of utter immersion and focus, as if all the stars in the universe combined couldn’t rival the brilliance in her eyes.
He watched her luminous eyes blink, and his heart pulsed in time with them.
Song Yu was thrilled beyond words. It took her a long while to snap out of it, but she could feel a gaze lingering on her from the side.
She turned her head and met the man’s ink-black eyes head-on.
Their gazes locked.
For an instant, everything stilled.
After a long moment.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
“You,” Pei Zhi said, unflinching.
“…”
Song Yu hadn’t expected her question to be so direct—or his answer even more so. She found herself at a loss.
She lowered her lashes, avoiding his stare.
“Don’t look,” she said.
The man’s gaze burned.
“I’ve been holding back.”