In the evening, once hospital visiting hours ended, Song Yu had her assistant reschedule the script meeting for that night.
The script meeting dragged on through the entire night. By the time it wrapped up, dawn had broken, and the scriptwriters had argued nonstop over the adaptation direction before finally calling a truce.
Song Yu made the final call on the direction, then handed off the remaining work to the head scriptwriter to oversee.
She drove off on her own.
She hit the morning rush hour right away. Beijing traffic was gridlocked everywhere, and she came to a complete standstill just two or three kilometers from the hospital.
Lacking patience for it, Song Yu pulled into a parking spot and abandoned the car, opting to walk the rest of the way.
On the way, she passed a flower shop.
The storefront had a quaint, fresh vibe, with a tender green picket fence framing a huge glass window. Inside the window, a vibrant cluster of greenery and flowers bloomed in harmonious colors.
It stood out sharply against the surroundings.
Beijing’s winters were always bleak, with every tree bare and withered, drained of color.
Song Yu stared at the window display for a long time and recognized a couple of the plants, including irises native to Brazil.
She stepped inside and bought a bouquet.
Song Yu didn’t wait by the operating room door. Instead, she sat in the sofa chair in the ward, staring blankly at the empty white bed.
The nurses had confiscated the flowers on her way in, saying they weren’t allowed in the ward area. The room felt even more desolate without them.
Her door stood open. Across the hall, people came and went constantly, hovering around a patient in the opposite room.
The weather was overcast that day, without a glimpse of sun.
Song Yu hadn’t slept all night and was utterly exhausted, so she curled up in the sofa chair, pulling the cashmere blanket Shen Shuzhi had left behind over herself, and drifted off.
But her sleep was far from peaceful, as if a heavy stone weighed on her chest, making it hard to breathe.
In the afternoon, a clattering of carts jolted her awake.
Two nurses wheeled Shen Shuzhi back into the room.
The general anesthesia hadn’t fully worn off yet. Shen Shuzhi lay there with her eyes closed, her brows tightly furrowed.
The VIP ward’s service was impeccable—no help from Song Yu was needed. The nurses efficiently transferred her back to the bed and gave thorough post-op instructions before leaving.
The room fell quiet. Song Yu stood by the bedside, her gaze lowered to Shen Shuzhi’s face. Listening to the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the heavy stone in Song Yu’s chest finally lifted.
As far as she could remember, Song Yu had scarcely ever taken a good look at Shen Shuzhi.
Many people said Shen Shuzhi resembled Song Qiliang and was thus beautiful. But that was mostly because they’d never actually seen her.
Song Yu’s own brows and eyes, in particular, mirrored hers.
Time had etched its marks on Shen Shuzhi slowly. Her features were delicately painted, exquisite in every line, with a tiny beauty mark just below her right eye—barely noticeable at a glance.
It wasn’t until near evening that Shen Shuzhi stirred awake. When she saw Song Yu, she showed little outward reaction, but she must have been pleased; her furrowed brows smoothed out at once.
The husband from the room across the hall stopped by with a bunch of bananas and a couple of oranges. “We’ve got way too much fruit delivered to us—we can’t eat it all. My wife asked me to share some with you folks.”
Song Yu accepted the fruit and thanked him politely.
She set it out on the bedside table, lending the room a touch more life.
Though they shared the room, their relationship had always been distant, leaving little to talk about. Most of the time passed in silence.
Feeling awkward, Song Yu made small talk. “I bought a bouquet on my way in, but the nurses wouldn’t let it come inside.”
Shen Shuzhi was still weak from the surgery, but she managed a faint tug at her lips. “I saw it.”
“You saw it?” Song Yu didn’t believe her.
“The one at the nurses’ station?”
Song Yu was surprised. “But you were still under anesthesia when they wheeled you back.”
“I don’t know. I just woke up for a moment and opened my eyes—there it was.”
Shen Shuzhi asked, “What kind of flowers were they? They looked beautiful.”
“Irises,” Song Yu said.
At that, Shen Shuzhi nodded. Exhausted from the surgery, she fought to keep her eyes open but succumbed to sleep once more.
Song Yu stayed until visiting hours ended, then left.
From then on, every day followed the same pattern: script meetings at night, hospital during the day.
Song Yu did the math and realized that the time she’d spent with Shen Shuzhi over those few days probably exceeded the total from the past twenty-six years combined.
Once Shen Shuzhi fully handed off her work, she stopped thinking about anything at all. The tension she’d carried for half her life suddenly eased, and she found it surprisingly comfortable.
The thing she did most now was what she’d once considered the biggest waste of time: watching TV.
Though she worked in entertainment, she’d never actually watched any of the films or shows her company had invested in.
Now, however, Shen Shuzhi was hooked on dramas—especially a period piece currently hot on CCTV. The hospital lights-out time was early, so she caught the daytime reruns.
When Song Yu arrived in the morning, Shen Shuzhi sat up in bed, eating the nutritious breakfast provided by the hospital while watching TV with rapt attention—even the news broadcast held her interest.
Shen Shuzhi glanced at her from the corner of her eye. “You skipping work every day now?” Though her words sounded like teasing, she was actually pleased.
The Lost Love script adaptation had hit snag after snag. Song Yu had just wrapped a marathon meeting and collapsed into the sofa chair, utterly drained.
“I am working. Those scriptwriters pull shifts—sleep all day, only alive at night.” She had no choice but to burn the midnight oil with them.
Song Yu had always been good at all-nighters, but the one or two months with the Arctic expedition team had messed up her sleep schedule. She got drowsy by seven or eight in the evening.
She propped herself up on coffee and cigarettes, reeking of smoke so strongly that she changed clothes in the car before entering the hospital.
Shen Shuzhi knew how the industry operated. She’d opposed Song Yu entering it precisely because she understood the grueling reality behind the glamour.
Still, she didn’t try to dissuade her. “Well, take it easy then. Don’t end up like me.”
Song Yu lifted her wrist to shield her bloodshot eyes and let out a light scoff. “Hey, wish me a little good luck, why don’t you.”
The TV droned on harmoniously in the background, the news anchor’s voice crisp and precise:
“The Chinese Arctic Scientific Expedition Team returned yesterday aboard the Snowfield Ship, docking at the polar research pier in Shanghai harbor. They completed a seventy-eight-day scientific mission, delving deep into Arctic sea ice and geological studies.”
Song Yu froze for a moment, then slowly opened her eyes, her gaze shifting to the television.
The feed cut from the studio to video footage, revealing vast, desolate expanses.
As the anchor narrated, the camera swept over the immense Arctic Ocean, pushing northward.
On the white ice plain, a group in red Chinese Arctic Scientific Expedition Team uniforms cheered and embraced one another.
Amid the crowd, Song Yu spotted Pei Zhi at once.
The man stood tall and lean, windswept bangs tousling his forehead, his dark eyes deep and intense, thin lips pressed together, jawline sharp and defined.
He stood at the top of the world, gripping a flagpole tightly in his right hand as the five-star red flag fluttered overhead.
The anchor’s voice swelled with passion: “The Chinese Arctic Scientific Expedition Team has once again planted the five-star red flag at 90 degrees north latitude, the North Pole.”
“This marks the Snowfield Ship’s first winter trial navigation of the Northwest Passage, proving its formidable icebreaking capabilities and writing a new chapter in China’s maritime history.”
Shen Shuzhi arched a brow and took a sip of her soy milk. “That guy holding the flag—he’s handsome.”
She’d scouted plenty of pretty faces in her time signing talent; few earned a “handsome” from her.
Song Yu’s lashes trembled faintly. She abruptly lowered her head, avoiding the screen.
Shen Shuzhi, meanwhile, perked up. She grabbed the remote and rewound, replaying the few seconds featuring Pei Zhi several times.
“Didn’t you go to the Arctic with this expedition team not long ago? You must know everyone in there. Who’s he?”
Song Yu raised a hand to tuck back her hair. For some reason, she felt a strange discomfort.
After a long pause, she replied, “The expedition team’s captain.”
“So young and already captain.” Shen Shuzhi sighed appreciatively. “Impressive. Wonder if he’s got a girlfriend. If not, he’d be pretty popular in the team, I’d bet.”
Song Yu pursed her lips. “Maybe.”
Shen Shuzhi pressed, “How old is he?”
“Thirty-two,” Song Yu said offhand.
Shen Shuzhi nodded. “At his age, he’s probably married—or at least feeling the pressure.”
She shot Song Yu a meaningful glance. “Girls have even less time to waste.”
Song Yu caught the hint immediately. “Can we not talk about this?”
She couldn’t help muttering, “Your own marriage is a mess, and you’re still trying to push me into one.”
Feeling stuffy inside, Song Yu didn’t want to see the footage anymore. She stood, snatched the bedside remote, and switched channels to the variety show Director, Please Start the Camera.
The show invited young directors under thirty-five to showcase their work and be judged, culminating in an “Annual Best Director” award.
The program group had approached her half a year ago, but Song Yu turned it down flat upon seeing Song Qiliang on the mentor list.
It was playing a segment now where a group of directors had just finished their short films, awaiting mentor feedback.
Xu Jie wore a gray-blue Zhongshan suit and commented in a leisurely tone. At the end, he turned his head toward the mentor on his right and said, “—Doesn’t he remind you of yourself when you were young?”
Xu Jie had used a form of address beforehand, but it had been muted.
Although the footage had been edited, the man on the right still showed half his face—blurred and censored.
Song Yu recognized him at a glance as Song Qiliang. She instinctively glanced at Shen Shuzhi and saw no reaction from her. Shen Shuzhi simply sat with her arms crossed, leaning against the headboard, her gaze calm and unruffled.
Song Yu cleared her throat lightly and said casually, “Shouldn’t the drama be starting?” Then she flipped through the channels one by one.
The drama was just playing its opening theme song. The female singer’s voice carried the weight of years, her lyrics soft and wistful, speaking of the world’s endless changes.
Shen Shuzhi fell silent for a long moment before speaking abruptly. “Is your aversion to marriage because of me and Song Qiliang?”
“…” Song Yu thought it over seriously before dodging the main issue. “Not entirely. Young people these days just aren’t into getting married.”
“Don’t speak for everyone else—just talk about yourself.” Shen Shuzhi had been a leader for so many years; she saw right through the evasion.
Song Yu fell quiet.
“Want an orange?” She changed the subject, grabbing one from the table.
Shen Shuzhi didn’t respond and pressed on. “Zhou Yan came to see me a while back.”
Song Yu sighed helplessly. “You’re not still trying to set me up with him, are you? We’re not a good match.”
“How do you know if you don’t give it a try?”
“Back when you and Xu Zhouxu went around stirring up trouble, Zhou Yan was always the one cleaning up your messes.” Shen Shuzhi might not have had the energy to keep tabs on Song Yu, but she knew full well everything she was up to. As long as it wasn’t too outrageous, she let her have her way.
“I think you two suit each other just fine—you’re closer to him than you are to me, this mom of yours. You even had to go to Zhou Yan just to get a hospital address.”
“…” Song Yu’s expression froze. “How do you know about that too?”
“You asked him for the address—who else could he turn to but me?”
“And yet back then, you acted all surprised when I showed up, asking how I’d gotten there.”
“What else was I supposed to do? Some things, you just have to play dumb about. You can’t spell everything out too clearly.”
Song Yu paused in peeling the orange.
“Isn’t it better to just be straightforward?” she asked.
Shen Shuzhi took a sip of tea and replied unhurriedly, “Chinese people value subtlety in their speech. Even if that’s what you’re thinking deep down, you can only voice about thirty percent of it.”
“Say too much, and you’ll end up hurting people.”
“…”
Song Yu kept her head down, the orange juice staining her nails yellow.
She thought of Pei Zhi as he appeared on television.
All those people around him, yet he seemed completely out of place, radiating a profound sense of alienation and chill.
In the frigid North Pole, it was as if someone had abandoned him there.
Maybe even twice.
Once in the rainforest, when she had left him behind for the civilized world.
Once in the polar wastes, when she had bluntly rejected any future together—smug in her self-righteous clarity.