Late January.
It was the coldest stretch of winter in Beijing. A massive snowfall had blanketed the city for three straight days, piling up thick layers that turned to slushy muck under the tires of cars and the tread of countless feet.
The film Lost Love had wrapped production.
Shen Shuzhi’s surgery had gone beautifully. The tumor was removed cleanly and completely, and with checkups every six months afterward, her survival rate was excellent as long as it didn’t recur.
The morning after the wrap party, Song Yu got a call from the CCTV documentary crew, asking about her availability going forward.
“Director Song, are you there?” The voice on the other end was polite and professional.
Song Yu had tied one on the night before and was still deep in the fog of a hangover. She sat up in a daze.
“For the Arctic documentary—after your expedition trip, do you have any fresh ideas or themes? We could set up a time to brainstorm.”
Song Yu sat there on the bed, blank.
The curtains in her bedroom were still drawn. The air was frigid, but the sky hung gray and heavy overhead.
Snow had fallen steadily through the night, and beyond the window stretched an endless sea of white, as if the whole world had hushed into silence.
For a moment, staring at the scene outside, Song Yu felt disoriented, like she hadn’t come back from the Arctic at all.
“No need to meet. It’s all finalized. I’ll have my assistant send the shooting script over.”
The caller paused, surprised by her efficiency. Past collaborations with outside directors had dragged on forever with endless back-and-forth.
“When can the crew head out?” Song Yu asked.
She sounded ready to grab her team and go at a moment’s notice.
“Well, not until polar night ends in March at the earliest. Otherwise, there’s nothing to film up there.”
“Or does Director Song want to capture polar night?” The voice turned hesitant.
“Uh.” Song Yu scratched her head. “No, I forgot about that.”
The crew member caught her grogginess and wrapped up the logistics briskly, smart enough not to press further.
Before hanging up, he added casually, “Oh, right—the Arctic Scientific Expedition Team’s doing a wrap-up report at Jingbei University tomorrow. If you’ve got time, you should drop by.”
At that, Song Yu’s heavy eyelids lifted. She came fully awake. “Got it.”
The Arctic Scientific Expedition Team’s summary report took place in a massive auditorium. The first two rows were reserved for the participating scholars, professors, and university brass, each seat marked with a nameplate.
Song Yu arrived right on time, only to find the place packed. It was mostly young students, many clutching notebooks and pens.
With the crowd overflowing, latecomers like her had no seats and were ushered to stand in the aisles.
Staffers in blue vests directed the flow, keeping the entrance clear.
Song Yu found a spot leaning against the wall in a corner.
The crew had saved her a front-row seat, but she had no intention of going down there. She didn’t want to risk bumping straight into Pei Zhi.
“Song Yu?” A bright, cheerful female voice cut through the noise.
Song Yu looked up. Wu Yue stood in front of her.
Wu Yue wore the same blue vest, her hair pulled into a high ponytail, her face lit with excitement.
“I figured you’d be swamped with work and skip it.”
She glanced around, scanning the dense crowd for an opening.
Worried they’d get separated, Wu Yue grabbed Song Yu’s hand. “Come on, I’ll get you seated downstairs.”
With no escape, Song Yu let herself be led down.
The front rows were nearly full. Chief Scientist Professor Xu sat with the university president, their heads bent close in murmured conversation.
“Here, your spot.” Wu Yue fished her phone from her pocket and checked the time. “It’s starting any minute. You sit; I’ve got things to handle.”
With that, she darted off to keep order in the hall.
The front row filled up completely, leaving just two seats on the end open.
Song Yu lingered in the aisle as people streamed past, then quickly dropped into the chair to get out of the way.
Only then did she notice the nameplates on the table: hers straight ahead, and to her right, “Pei Zhi.”
Song Yu: “…”
Of all the luck. Speak of the devil.
“Our report is about to begin. Please stay quiet and silence your phones,” Wu Yue announced into the microphone.
The lights dimmed. A massive screen behind the podium flickered to life, and a video began to play.
Song Yu shoved her nameplate into the drawer beneath the table, yanked her coat’s hood up over her head to shield half her face, and huddled deep into the plush seat—an ostrich with its head in the sand.
Screenlight played across her features. The footage was expedition shots from the Arctic: frame after frame of beauty so stunning it stole the breath, plunging viewers into a pristine, empty world of white.
Much of the material had come from Song Yu’s team.
Back home, she’d been slammed between prepping the movie and bedside vigils at the hospital, so she’d handed off the footage delivery to her assistant.
The short film wasn’t just gorgeous landscapes. It captured the team’s daily grind.
A blizzard howled across the screen, visibility swallowed in the whiteout as expedition members struggled to salvage equipment.
The camera shook violently; whoever held it was clearly on edge, jerking angles wildly, unsure what to capture.
Suddenly, the lens whipped upward through the thick snowfall. High above loomed the meteorological station, swaying ever more violently in the gale, on the verge of collapse.
The view snapped downward.
“Get clear—!” The cameraperson abandoned filming to shout a warning at the tower.
Song Yu froze. She recognized the voice: He Fu.
Three figures stood around the base of the station. At his yell, they bolted outward.
But after just a few strides, the man in front halted. He tilted his head, eyeing the teetering structure high above. In that split second, he made his choice and plunged back into the storm.
“What the hell is Captain Pei doing?” He Fu’s voice cracked with panic.
The familiar name jolted Song Yu. Her gaze locked on that lone red figure bucking the blizzard.
Visibility plummeted in the snow; he vanished almost immediately.
He Fu swore. “The met station’s coming down right on us!”
He spun and ran. The footage turned chaotic, shaking harder, aimed blindly at the ground.
Song Yu stared, unblinking. She knew everyone made it out fine, but tension coiled in her gut anyway.
Those few seconds stretched into eternity.
Then—”Boom!”
The tower crashed down, veering just enough at the last moment to miss the cluster of personnel and gear. It slammed into open ground.
A plume of powdered snow billowed like smoke.
The lens steadied, refocusing on the wreckage.
Long moments passed.
Slowly, the man emerged from the haze, back slightly bowed. His red Chinese Arctic Scientific Expedition Team jacket blazed against the white. In his arms, he cradled a piece of scientific equipment she couldn’t name.
Without breaking stride, he set it safely aside and dove back into the rescue effort.
The unrelenting blizzard swallowed him whole. His silhouette faded from view.
The camera pulled back gradually until the short ended.
End credits rolled, listing the creators.
He Fu’s name popped up several times. In the special thanks, Song Yu spotted her own.
Thunderous applause filled the auditorium, launching the report with this vivid plunge into the Arctic.
The presentations ran a full four hours.
Each research group delivered exhaustive breakdowns.
Students from every discipline packed the hall, peppering speakers with questions. Without the host reining in the clock, each segment could’ve dragged half an hour.
Song Yu couldn’t follow the technical jargon. Sleepy eyelids warred until she nodded off completely for the back half.
She blinked awake only as Chief Scientist Professor Xu delivered the team’s closing remarks.
A quick glance at the seat beside her: empty. Pei Zhi never showed, though his name had come up countless times.
The crowd filtered out bit by bit. Song Yu stayed put, waiting for Wu Yue to wrap her cleanup so they could grab dinner at some spot nearby.
Wu Yue methodically stacked the nameplates, row by row.
As she passed Song Yu, she called, “Almost done!”
Song Yu waved it off. “No hurry. Take your time.”
Wu Yue piled the nameplates on the table—printed sheets pulled from their slots, each bearing a name.
Song Yu’s eyes drifted to the top one. She pressed her lips together and asked offhand, “So why didn’t Pei Zhi show today?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Wu Yue glanced up, then kept at it. “Teacher never came back from the Arctic.”
With the expedition over, she’d switched from calling him Captain Pei to Teacher again.
Song Yu blinked, caught off guard. She remembered the team returning two months back.
Wu Yue finished up, shrugged off her vest onto a rack. “All set! Let’s go—I’m starving after busting my ass all day.”
The bubbly girl hooked her arm through Song Yu’s and bounced toward the exit.
At the door, they ran into a familiar face: He Fu, holding a black umbrella as he helped his mentor, Professor Xu, into a waiting car.
Wu Yue waved at him excitedly.
He Fu turned around. His gaze landed first on Song Yu standing nearby, lingering for a moment before shifting to Wu Yue.
Wu Yue grinned. “It’s rare for you to drop by. Want to grab dinner together?”
He Fu’s expression grew complicated at her words. He glanced at Song Yu again.
Song Yu met his eyes with calm frankness. She neither echoed the invitation nor refused it. Eating or not was entirely up to him.
He Fu gave a helpless twitch of his lips. “I’ll pass. I’ve got things to handle.”
He shoved the umbrella from his hand into Wu Yue’s grasp. “Snow’s coming down hard tonight. You two take it.” With that, he turned and plunged into the curtain of falling snow, striding off into the distance.
Wu Yue tilted half the umbrella toward Song Yu and shot her a knowing look. “Tsk tsk. How’s he still not over it?”
Song Yu met her teasing gaze and arched an eyebrow. “How’d you know?”
“Hey—” Wu Yue lifted her chin with smug satisfaction. “What don’t I know? You know what I’m studying.”
“After all, I didn’t spend all that time on the Snowfield Ship community structure project for nothing. If I couldn’t even map out everyone’s relationships, I’d get reamed during the report.”
“You’re tricky to read, but He Fu? Easy pickings.”
Song Yu couldn’t help laughing at her self-satisfied air. She let out a soft scoff.
Just then, Wu Yue’s phone rang from the pocket of her coat. She handed the umbrella to Song Yu. “Hold this for a sec.” Then she answered the call.
“Senior Brother, what’s up?”
Zhang Cheng’s voice came through from the other end. “Did you submit the group funding application?”
“I did,” Wu Yue answered without thinking.
“Then why hasn’t the funding shown up yet?”
Wu Yue tilted her head and grumbled, “No way. I applied forever ago.” Then it dawned on her. “Shit, it’s probably stuck at the boss’s approval stage.”
She had a habit of switching up how she addressed Pei Zhi. On the Snowfield Ship, it was Captain Pei. During research reports, it was Teacher. When she needed money, it became Boss. It changed by the hour.
Zhang Cheng pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re always forgetting something. We’ve got the field survey in Guangxi next week. The approval process won’t finish in time.”
University funding approvals had to snake through several layers of bureaucracy. It usually took at least ten days to half a month.
Wu Yue checked the time on her phone, her mind whirring. “Relax, Senior Brother. I’ll head to the admin building right now, push through the initial approval, then hunt down the teachers one by one for theirs.”
She hung up and looked at Song Yu with genuine apology. “Sorry, something came up last minute…”
“No worries,” Song Yu said. “I’ll tag along. Won’t mess up dinner plans.”
Jingbei University’s admin building had an old-school architectural style, the kind that spoke of long years of history.
By now it was six in the afternoon, and nearly all the professors had cleared out.
The corridor lay quiet and dimly lit, with slivers of light leaking from the occasional office door.
Song Yu found herself breathing more softly, not wanting to disturb anyone.
Wu Yue toned it down too, a far cry from her boisterous chatter on the walk over.
She stopped in front of the innermost door, squatted down, flipped up the small entry mat, and fished a key from beneath it. With practiced ease, she unlocked the office door.
Song Yu watched, wide-eyed. She whispered, “Can we really just go in like this?”
Wu Yue waved her off casually, as if it were routine. “No problem. The boss hardly ever shows up here all year. We handle all his approvals for him.”
She grinned. “Saves a ton of hassle. Other departments have to argue with their advisors for ages.”
Wu Yue strode right in.
Song Yu hesitated for a second before following. She took in the full layout of the office.
The room wasn’t big—maybe seventy or eighty square feet.
Nothing stood out in the furnishings. The reception area held a tea table and a black sofa. A solid wooden desk sat by the window, topped with an outdated computer monitor that radiated plain frugality.
Beyond that, there was nothing superfluous. You could take it all in at a glance.
Wu Yue flicked on the light and circled behind the desk. She bent down and hit the power button on the computer tower.
Her fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the desktop.
Song Yu wandered slowly around the office, head cocked as she examined her surroundings.
Back when she was in school, she’d done assignments on staging scenes, where every detail betrayed the owner’s personality.
Personal touches were scarce here. Aside from the standard setup, the only addition was a row of hefty academic tomes on the wooden cabinet—books in all sorts of languages.
Song Yu inhaled. A faint cedar scent hung in the air, crisp and subtle.
The office felt just like its owner: immaculately clean, effortlessly free-spirited, unburdened by material desires.
Wu Yue stood by the desk, frowning as the computer booted up. She muttered under her breath, “Why’s there a password now? There wasn’t one before.”
She tried 000000 and 123456. No dice. She whipped out her phone and dialed Zhang Cheng.
“Senior Brother, what’s the boss’s computer password?”
Zhang Cheng recited a string of English letters over the line.
Wu Yue blinked. “Huh?”
He repeated it.
She still didn’t catch the word. She cranked the phone volume to max and switched to speaker, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Can you spell it out?”
Zhang Cheng’s exasperated voice filled the room as he spelled it letter by letter. “S-W-E-E-T… B-E-R-R-Y.”
Wu Yue typed it in and hit enter. The screen unlocked. “Got it! It’s open.”
Zhang Cheng couldn’t resist a jab. “How the hell did you get into Jingbei with that level of English? Couldn’t even parse a basic word.”
Wu Yue pulled up the academic system while firing back, “I just blanked out for a second. Thought I heard wrong. Who knew the boss would pick something like that for a password…”
Inwardly, she thought: Sweet Berry? Totally not his style.
Song Yu lingered by the cabinet, barely registering Wu Yue’s fussing or the phone conversation.
Her attention snagged on the top shelf. The books didn’t quite fill the space, leaving a narrow gap of five or six centimeters—a hidden nook.
Tucked inside sat a small celadon dish holding two shadowy objects. The dim light made them hard to make out.
Curiosity won out. Song Yu reached up and lifted the dish.
Two shriveled berries lay peacefully within.
Song Yu stared at them, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She plucked one up and pinched it between her fingers.
In the bone-dry northern winter, these berries—nearly two years old—had long since dried out completely. Their original color had faded away. The slightest pressure reduced it to dust and fibers.
Wu Yue wrapped up the funding approval and looked up—just in time to see Song Yu cradling the little dish, crumbling one of the berries to pieces.
“Holy shit—” Wu Yue yelped, bolting over.
Song Yu hadn’t meant to destroy it just by picking it up. Bewildered, she turned to Wu Yue.
“We’re screwed,” Wu Yue groaned, hands clamped to her forehead. “I’m toast. What now? Teacher’s gonna kill me when he sees this.” The computer password flashed through her mind, amplifying the disaster. Her face crumpled in despair. “He might even block my graduation!”
“…” Song Yu floundered. “Come on, it’s not that serious. Aren’t these just two leftover blueberries you forgot to throw out?”
Wu Yue shook her head vigorously. “No, these are acai berries. Teacher brought them back from Brazil.”
“You have no idea the hassle.”
She let out a long sigh, settling in for a story. “You can’t bring foreign fruit on international flights. To smuggle these two back, he jumped through approval hoops for ages.”
“And our department has strict rules against bringing back any local flora from field surveys. As a professor, he had to set an example, so the reports and penalties were even tougher.”
Zhang Cheng had handled all that paperwork. Wu Yue had only heard about it secondhand, but it sounded like a nightmare.
“Once, the cleaning lady thought they were trash and threw them out,” Wu Yue said, pausing to glance at Song Yu. “Get this: my advisor dove into the dumpster to fish them out.”
“For two tiny berries.” She shrugged. Wu Yue still couldn’t wrap her head around it.
Song Yu listened in a daze. Suddenly, the little dish felt impossibly heavy in her hands.
“When’s Pei Zhi coming back?” she asked.
Wu Yue’s mind raced with damage-control schemes for Song Yu’s blunder. “Senior Brother made it sound like not for a year or more.”
Then her eyes lit up. She smacked her right fist into her left palm. “Wait—yeah! I’ll grab some acai berries, dry them in the dehydrator, and swap them in. Problem solved.”
Acai berries went by the common name Brazil berries too.
“Trouble is, they’re not easy to find here. But Taobao might have them.” Wu Yue pulled up the app and started searching.
Song Yu pressed her lips together, eyes fixed on the surviving berry. For some reason, a powerful urge welled up in her chest.
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“Probably Oymyakon. Teacher heads to that village every year for a stretch, studying the Yakuts.”
“But it’s not so certain after that. He’s always off doing research all over the world—who knows where he’ll head next, and we can’t even contact him.” Wu Yue swiped across her screen, searching on Taobao for what felt like forever before finally furrowing her brow. “Why do they only sell acai berry powder? No fresh fruit anywhere.”
“Forget it, stop looking.” Song Yu spoke up. “It wasn’t you who broke it anyway. I’ll apologize to him myself.”
“Oymyakon, right?” She pulled out her phone and contacted her assistant to book a flight.
Wu Yue froze at those words, taking a moment to process them. “Y-you don’t have to go all the way out there on purpose, do you?”
Song Yu returned the small dish to the cabinet, where it slipped into the shadows and concealed the worries its owner had never revealed.
She drew in a deep breath. “I do.”