He read it once, then a second time, and even a third time.
Even reading it repeatedly from the same perspective, Song Cheng couldn’t uncover what hidden information it might contain. The most likely explanation seemed to be that over the years, he had secretly cultivated a new hobby: writing novels.
But novels usually had titles, right? If he had named these two characters back then, things wouldn’t have escalated to this point.
Setting the diary aside, Song Cheng picked up a blue train ticket that had fallen out earlier. The city written on it was where he had been stationed after joining the military—a very small place, but with beautiful scenery. Han Congzhou had said that originally he could have arranged for Song Cheng to be in a big city, but Song Cheng insisted on going there.
Looking at the short city name, Song Cheng couldn’t recall any memories associated with it.
In truth, Song Cheng hadn’t told Qin Wunian everything.
At the bar, for some reason, when he inquired about the past few years, Han Congzhou’s expression was no longer so relaxed. The tone of his voice had changed.
He looked at Song Cheng as if what he was about to say wasn’t about his past but something far heavier. Yet, listening to it, Song Cheng didn’t feel the weight.
“…I can’t remember the exact time, but it must have been late June, almost July. You suddenly came to me, and I was very surprised because we barely knew each other. I didn’t even remember that you had seen my speech, and right away you asked if I could arrange for you to join the military.”
At this, Han Congzhou laughed slightly. “I thought you were strange—why would you ask for my help when I didn’t even know you?”
Song Cheng blinked. “But you still helped me.”
Han Congzhou nodded. “Because of your expression at the time.”
Even though he didn’t know Song Cheng personally, looking at him, he could sense that desperate, do-or-die determination—an intense urgency that wasn’t despair. If Han Congzhou had refused him, he would have found someone else. If everyone refused, he would have crawled to wherever he wanted to go.
Song Cheng couldn’t imagine what that situation was like, nor why he had acted that way. He paused, then asked, “Do you know what happened to me at that time?”
Han Congzhou shook his head. “I asked, but you kept saying nothing was wrong. Honestly, I was a bit worried then. I always felt… you’re an extreme person. One day, maybe… you know.”
He made a gesture of cutting his own throat.
Song Cheng: “…”
He really was a mysterious man. The driver Zheng Yi had said his survival instinct was extremely strong, strong enough to give him nightmares. Yet, to Han Congzhou, it seemed Song Cheng had suicidal tendencies, enough to make him seriously concerned.
Because of this concern, Han Congzhou remained mentally attentive. After Song Cheng was settled, he even went traveling, got Song Cheng’s contact information, and would periodically check in. For the first two years, Song Cheng barely said anything; only later did he gradually open up and speak a few heartfelt words.
From being silent to gradually cheerful, and now to how he was today, Song Cheng finally understood why everyone who knew him commented on how much he had changed. How could it be otherwise? Each stage felt like a different person.
Song Cheng reflected: something must have happened to him back then, otherwise he wouldn’t have abandoned Qin Wunian and his studies. But what could have happened?
Thinking of the nightmare he once had, of the particularly tall men and women in it, Song Cheng’s heart sank. Instinctively, he assumed they were the source of his changes—but upon further reflection, that didn’t seem right either.
That nightmare had happened when he was a child, but four years ago he was already nineteen—an adult.
Song Cheng pondered deeply, his expression puckered like a little steamed bun. Han Congzhou watched him for a moment, then suddenly leaned forward and called out:
“Chengcheng.”
Song Cheng snapped out of his thoughts and looked up. “Hm?”
Han Congzhou asked, “Are you living well now?”
Song Cheng paused, then smiled. “Very well, actually. I feel like it couldn’t get any better.”
Seeing this, Han Congzhou smiled as well. “That’s good.”
Meanwhile, Qin Wunian sat backstage, having already drifted off mentally for the fourth time.
Ban Yunfang, after finishing her conversation with others, returned and saw him lost in thought. She couldn’t help but press her hand to her forehead, then walked over and slammed it onto Qin Wunian’s desk, jolting him back. Seeing his eyes clear, Ban Yunfang gave him a warning:
“You already have so many flaws; you don’t need to add more! Work properly—you promised! Dating won’t stop you from making us money!”
Qin Wunian didn’t take her words seriously. “It hasn’t started yet.”
Ban Yunfang said, “I just worry you’ll be like this once it does.”
Sitting beside him, she checked a few messages on her phone. When she looked up again, she noticed Qin Wunian still seemed troubled. She eyed him curiously. “What’s going on? The movie with Director Xue starts shooting next Monday—you can’t come to set in this state. He’s harsher than you; I’m afraid he’ll pin you down and poke your forehead into the ground—you won’t be able to get out.”
Qin Wunian frowned at her. “So soon?”
Ban Yunfang explained, “Yes. The assistant director called this morning. They knew you had no major commitments here. Director Xue only found out yesterday. The location he chose will turn golden next month; once the wheat is harvested, the scene will be bare. To capture the dramatic swaying of the wheat fields, we have to leave immediately. You’re the lead actor, so you can arrive the day of the shoot.”
Qin Wunian had only glanced at the script and asked, “Aren’t I playing a wealthy young man who just returned from studying abroad?”
Ban Yunfang replied, “Yes, but besides being capitalists, your family is also a major landowner. That terraced field is part of your property and a key location. Even though it only appears three times in a two-hour film, Director Xue insists: the lead could be absent, but the fields cannot.”
Qin Wunian: “…”
“I’ll read the script properly tonight,” she added.
“Don’t worry about rushing to understand it. Others haven’t either. Balance work and rest—I don’t want to see you collapse into a hospital again.”
Then she asked, “Did Song Cheng say he wanted a cameo? Is he going?”
Qin Wunian hesitated, then replied, “I don’t know. I’ll ask him when I get home.”
Ban Yunfang glanced at his expression and winked. “You two didn’t have any issues, right?”
Qin Wunian: “No.”
This time, truly, there were no issues. Not only that, it made him feel like he had been pulled back from the edge, giving rise to some incredible thoughts.
Song Cheng had told him that during the four years he was in the military, he never dated anyone. The blank period between them was precisely those four years. Qin Wunian had assumed Song Cheng moved on, even married someone else. But now he said it hadn’t happened—so what was really going on?
Was it exactly as he thought? A misunderstanding? Song Cheng hadn’t married, hadn’t mistaken anyone, and certainly wasn’t the kind of person who would ruin someone else’s potential family.
…
When he let his mind wander to the worst-case scenarios, Qin Wunian’s thoughts raced like a buffed-up engine, conjuring up all sorts of tragic ideas that he immediately assumed to be true, plunging him into sadness. Now, thinking positively, he found himself shrinking back, unwilling to accept that possibility.
Even though his mind was moving slowly, like a snail, several hours had passed, and he had thought through everything—both what he should and shouldn’t think.
Glancing at his phone, he realized he still had two hours before he could go home, making him restless. He clenched his fists, then reluctantly released them, trying to patiently wait for that moment.
Outside, rain fell steadily.
The morning had been sunny, but by noon the sky had darkened. Song Cheng, after putting the diary away, noticed the rain. He had planned to wait until it stopped to take Chengfeng out, but it seemed the rain wasn’t going to let up.
Turning to Chengfeng, he said, “It’s raining. We can’t go out to play.”
Chengfeng immediately whimpered, spun around twice, then dashed to its pile of luggage, unzipping a bag with its teeth. After rummaging through it, it finally found the gear Han Congzhou had bought for it and ran back, tail wagging in excitement.
Song Cheng looked at what it carried. Even though the dog belonged to him, he felt utterly amazed.
This dog had clearly become extraordinary!
Feeling inspired, Song Cheng wanted to go out too. Plus, with everyone carrying umbrellas, he’d be less likely to be recognized—maybe he could even walk around the neighborhood.
With this in mind, Song Cheng quickly dressed Chengfeng in its raincoat, put on his own mask, grabbed one of Qin Wunian’s umbrellas, and stepped outside. Under the porch, he opened the umbrella with a snap.
“Chengfeng, let’s go!”
“Woof woof!”
Meanwhile, Qin Yinian’s meeting had ended the day before yesterday. Some attendees returned the same day, others the next. Qin Yinian, having children at home, returned early, taking a red-eye flight. Ji Xingyuan returned half a day later, and by the time he landed, the pick-up was long waiting outside.
Sitting in the car, Ji Xingyuan brushed the raindrops off his sleeves. At that moment, his subordinate across from him handed over a file.
This was the same person who had previously called Ban Yunfang to inquire about Song Cheng, but after Ji Xingyuan had forbidden him from continuing, he had done nothing more, only quietly keeping tabs on Song Cheng and, incidentally, following Qin Wunian’s fan posts. Every day he would watch the fangirls share content about Qin Wunian, and he felt his head spinning from it all.
Before leaving the country for a conference, Ji Xingyuan had summoned him again, instructing him to immediately finish the investigation that had been left incomplete. He wanted to know exactly what Song Cheng had been up to.
Naturally, the subordinate had no idea how quickly Ji Xingyuan could change his expression—faster than turning a page. Having been warned before, he no longer dared to voice opinions and instead worked diligently, clinging to his high salary in the hope that Ji Xingyuan would appreciate his obedience and not fire him.
Ji Xingyuan didn’t even lift his head as he took the file and began to read.
In this era, tracking someone usually meant starting with their financial flows and online traces. The subordinate was quite capable: he had found Song Cheng’s current phone number and even his bank card. The account had little activity, only occasional takeout orders.
It was through this that Ji Xingyuan discovered where Song Cheng was currently living. Clearly, this was not a place Song Cheng could afford on his own—he was staying in Qin Wunian’s house and, most likely, living with him.
He flipped through the pages, stopping at the third page—then there was nothing more.
He lifted his head. Seeing this, the subordinate quickly explained, “Earlier information couldn’t be found. Song Cheng returned by train; I tried to find which train he took, but the details seem to have been protected. Forcing it could draw unwanted attention.”
Ji Xingyuan paused slightly, a thought occurring to him. He hummed softly, then lowered his head without scolding the subordinate.
The subordinate exhaled in relief, continuing to sit upright and waiting for Ji Xingyuan’s reaction.
The first two pages were largely unremarkable. The real value was on the third page. Upon reading a particular line, Ji Xingyuan’s gaze froze.
“Was he hospitalized?” he asked.
The subordinate nodded, his pupils slightly dilated, showing his excitement. “This was the day he got off the train. He had a car accident, and someone took a photo of the scene. Here, take a look.”
The photo hadn’t been printed; it was on the phone. Ji Xingyuan took it, examining the accident scene surrounded by a crowd, with a white ambulance parked to the side. After a few seconds, he looked up. “Any more?”
Subordinate: “That’s all the photos. This morning, I went to the hospital to check on Song Cheng’s recovery, but his attending physician was off today. The nurse said that his physical health is fine, but the accident left him with aftereffects.”
Ji Xingyuan: “What kind of aftereffects?”
The subordinate couldn’t help smiling slightly—a subtle gesture, but Ji Xingyuan caught it.
He watched as his subordinate answered, tinged with excitement, “He has amnesia.”
Ji Xingyuan froze.
The rain continued relentlessly, neither lessening nor growing heavier, fine as cattle hair, falling in a constant drizzle. Song Cheng held Chengfeng’s leash, watching the little dog happily prance in the rain. The streets were sparse, Song Cheng’s face shielded by an umbrella, unnoticed by passersby.
After so many days, he could finally breathe the fresh outdoor air. Chengfeng was joyful, and Song Cheng shared in that joy.
He bought himself a cup of tea and a small box of yogurt for Chengfeng. Squatting under the rain canopy of a tea shop, he watched as Chengfeng’s tongue rolled and the half box of yogurt vanished in an instant.
The smile on Song Cheng’s face stiffened slightly.
He suddenly realized that Chengfeng could eat quite a lot.
But the earnings from the variety show had already been deposited into Song Cheng’s account, adding a zero to his savings. With so much money, he could easily provide for Chengfeng’s meals, even if it meant every meal was just yogurt. Thinking this way, his smile returned to normal. Once Chengfeng licked the last drops, Song Cheng stood and tossed the empty yogurt box into a nearby trash bin.
They had been out long enough; soon, Qin Wunian would return. Song Cheng began slowly heading back with Chengfeng. Most dogs might grumble at this point, but Chengfeng was well-mannered. After a month apart, it happily accepted whatever Song Cheng offered, even chewing carrots with enthusiasm.
The rain tapped steadily on the umbrella. Such weather often reminded Song Cheng of the only two life fragments he could recall—both connected to rain, both connected to Qin Wunian.
Although not every rainy memory was pleasant, Song Cheng still loved rainy days.
One person, one dog, walking leisurely, they passed a train station. Song Cheng noticed a man under a □□ umbrella standing nearby. Unlike Song Cheng, half of the umbrella was tilted, revealing the man’s full face.
Refined and noble in appearance, his clothes clearly more expensive than the passing cars, Song Cheng’s gaze lingered—not due to his looks, but out of curiosity at such a person waiting for a bus.
Song Cheng didn’t think much of it and tugged Chengfeng closer, avoiding getting the wet tail fur on the stranger’s legs.
After that, Song Cheng walked away without looking back.
Ji Xingyuan watched his departing figure. After a moment, he crossed the street. His subordinate opened the car door, and soon the street was completely empty.