“Dear Xiao Dao,
When we arrived in Stratford, it was overcast, unsurprisingly. Shang Shao said that this little town, the birthplace of Shakespeare, was the most famous tourist trap near London. I couldn’t help laughing when I heard him say that. But thinking that you staged the premiere of The Ambitious One here, I still felt a surge of emotion and pride at everything you’ve achieved.
We’re sitting for a while at the café by the theatre. Perhaps because I’m Asian, the owner struck up quite a conversation with me about the congratulatory flower baskets that wound all the way from the theatre up the slope. He said that this place had been putting on dull, cookie-cutter productions for far too long, and that only The Ambitious One, that year, had really lifted his spirits. Two years have passed, but I thought I had to pass those words on to you. I thanked him on your behalf.
There’s one other thing I don’t know if Shang Lu has ever told you, and I suspect you’ll laugh at this too. Shang Shao says that, in Britain, not loving Dickens is a more serious act of heresy than not believing in the established religion. Shakespeare may belong to the whole world, but Dickens definitely belongs to Britain. Unfortunately, the only one of his books I’ve read is Oliver Twist, and that was an abridged children’s edition. So, on our way back from Doughty Street to Claridge’s, Shang Shao read The Pickwick Papers aloud to me before I went to sleep. His elegant English accent has a rather hypnotic effect, and I slept wonderfully. So naturally, when he refused to read to me again the next day, I begged him for ages.
In London, of course, I also visited the even more famous tourist trap, Covent Garden. Its market was crowded and vibrant. I saw women carrying wicker baskets on their heads, piled high with apples, just like something out of a European genre painting. I wonder if they were putting on a show especially for the tourists? In any case, we were only passing through. I followed behind Shang Shao, holding his hand, and we simply walked through the market before turning into a little alley.
There used to be a church here. Compared with those Gothic spires that seem to reach all the way into the clouds, it was remarkably plain and unassuming – or perhaps simply easy to overlook. The long corridor walls were lined with numerous plaques. The names meant nothing to me until, at the very end, I saw Vivien Leigh’s name engraved on a large slab of grey marble.
The inscription was incredibly simple:
Vivien Leigh, 1967
I remembered that she died in London’s West End in 1967, not far from here, while she was still rehearsing for a production. Her ashes were scattered beside the little lake she had loved most in her lifetime. She was not buried at Westminster.
Shang Shao is not someone who pays attention to film or theatre. I’m quite certain he came here for me. The bustle of Covent Garden felt very far away; there was hardly anyone here, and we stood there for a long time. He told me that the plaques recorded the lives of famous British playwrights and actors. This was a little church that belonged to actors, and he had brought me here.
I’m rather ashamed to say that it was only when he told me, as we were leaving, that Covent Garden was the inspiration for Shaw’s Pygmalion, that I learned about it. I’ve read far too few books, and I often find myself wishing I could stop and catch up. Please ask Shang Lu to make me a long reading list. Tell him it’s his sister-in-law asking, so he’s not allowed to complain.
Back to Claridge’s. The team of butlers here knows Shang Shao even better than I do. They know all his preferences, including how much honey should be drizzled over his muffins, how much gin should go into his martini, and the order in which he reads the newspapers every morning. (They’re placed on a golden tray, folded and arranged in order, neater than freshly minted banknotes.)
Shang Shao said that when you and Lulu came to London, you often stayed here too, as did Xiao Wen and Uncle. On the day we left, he chatted for a while in the lobby with a European man whose female companion was exceptionally beautiful. Only later did I learn that the man was the king of some country. (Not Monaco.) I’m going to need some time to get used to this sort of life. And I have to protest to you – so this is the kind of extravagant, pleasure-filled life you used to live! No wonder you never told me. It really would have been bad for my mental state.
I should get up now. See you when we’re back home. I’ll send you more pretty postcards.”
Ying Yin folded the three pages of letter paper, slipped them into an envelope along with a postcard decorated with Austin roses, and posted it through the letterbox.
“Do you think it might get lost?” she asked, always thinking ahead.
“No,” Shang Shao said fairly. “But perhaps by the time you get home, he still won’t have received it.”
“I think my hand’s about to fall off.” Ying Yin rubbed her wrist.
Seeing this, Shang Shao naturally took her hand and began massaging it for her.
Apparently, some tourists had recognized them, so there was no avoiding the occasional covert photo. The security guards, dressed in shirts, communicated with one another through their earpieces. They kept a discreet eye on things, and whenever they spotted someone recording a video, they would approach and politely ask them to respect their privacy.
They visited not only the places mentioned in the letter, but also Cambridgeshire.
It was a small city, and the distinction between the city and the university was not particularly pronounced. As they strolled along the River Cam, all Ying Yin could see were neatly manicured lawns. Those sitting on them reading, chatting, or having picnics could have been students or tourists – it was impossible to tell.
The front court of Trinity College was vast and imposing, with magnificent sculptures and a fountain standing at its center. A person standing there, surrounded by the brilliant legacy of the great thinkers who had once walked these grounds, could not help but feel a profound sense of awe and reverence.
“Cambridge’s colleges aren’t divided according to academic disciplines. Trinity actually has more than twenty different subjects. I studied philosophy and law here.” Shang Shao explained it to her in his unhurried manner.
Outside the college, a crowd of people were taking photographs of a tree.
“Is this tree really that famous?” Ying Yin asked.
Shang Shao glanced over, then remembered to explain. The corners of his lips lifted in a smile. “Very famous. Apparently, it once hit Newton.”
Ying Yin’s eyes widened. Her first reaction was: “What a long-lived tree!”
Shang Shao seemed to remember something. He slipped an arm around her and said, “I remember passing by here once and hearing a fellow Chinese visitor put his palms together and make a wish. He said, ‘Please, Newton, bless me with a long life.’”
He lowered his head and pinched Ying Yin’s cheek. “How are you just as practical as he was? Though he also asked Newton to bless his grandson with intelligence and quick wits. He was very sincere about it. I suspect Newton might actually have listened.”
Ying Yin admitted, somewhat sheepishly, “I used to pray to Confucius before exams too. Does that count as Chinese and Western traditions joining forces?”
Shang Shao followed her line of thought for a moment before humoring her with a playful answer. “If that’s the case, then everyone here really does have their own way of doing things. Poets can pray to Byron, philosophers should pray to Russell, and Wittgenstein would work too, of course. But he isn’t classical enough. And for Trinity, if you aren’t classical enough, you aren’t elegant enough.”
It really was elegant here. As they walked around, both the students and professors were dressed in an unmistakably English style. Yet there was also a strong sense of elitism to that elegance, making you feel that they wouldn’t waste their time talking idly about the weather, but would instead be discussing physics, astronomy, and linguistics.
Ying Yin told Shang Shao how she felt about it. He listened for a while with a slight furrow between his brows, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Then, instead of responding to what she had said, he suddenly remarked, “We have a tradition here called the weekly formal dinner. Besides wearing formal attire, you also have to wear a gown from your college over it.”
Ying Yin followed his words and pictured it in her mind.
“In the dining hall, several long tables are arranged side by side, with students seated facing one another. The professors and doctoral supervisors sit at the high table at the very front, wearing long academic gowns. Before dinner begins, there’s a religious prayer and a short speech. We sit below, as though listening to a sacred voice.”
Ying Yin pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh. “It sounds so ceremonial.”
Shang Shao put both hands into his trouser pockets and inclined himself slightly. “When it comes to a ceremony like that, some people find it noble, while others think it’s ridiculous.”
“So which do you think it is – noble or ridiculous?”
Shang Shao smiled and gave a slight nod, his posture impeccably gentlemanly. “You tell me.”
He took her punting along the River Cam, cycled with her through the narrow lanes paved with cobblestones, and bought Ying Yin a strawberry-and-cream waffle cone from a red-and-white ice cream and hot dog cart.
It started raining. Shang Shao held the Times over her head to shield her from the rain, and they hurried in a little jog beneath the magnificent chapel of King’s College, taking shelter beneath its towering Gothic portico.
Ying Yin’s knitted cardigan was soaked through, along with the sundress she was wearing underneath. Shang Shao crumpled the newspaper in his palm and pressed one hand against the wall. He lowered his eyes to look at her for a few seconds before leaning in, his body and his kiss both radiating heat as they pressed against her.
The rain came down hard, turning the lawns into a misty haze.
At times like this, Ying Yin was utterly hopeless. It was as though she had forgotten how to breathe, left gasping for air as his lips and tongue left her breathless.
His shirt was wet too, clinging almost translucently to his body, revealing the shifting contours of the muscles in his shoulders and arms beneath.
“Tell me one of the most rebellious things you did here.” Ying Yin tilted her face up, her palm resting against his chest as she felt his heartbeat pulsing through his body.
“Stayed single while I was in the brotherhood. And, now, kissing you.”
Ying Yin rose onto her toes and hooked her arms around his neck, and he kissed her until there was barely any space between them.
Only when they finished did they realize that someone had appeared beside them at some point. The two sides stared at each other for a moment before Shang Shao raised one corner of his lips and said calmly, “What awful weather.”
The British had talking about the weather practically hardwired into their instincts. “Yeah, the weather is so terrible…”
Hmm?
Something was off.
When they glanced over again, the two people beside them were already running away, trying to hold back their laughter as they disappeared into the rain.
The car was parked not far away.
With a bang, the door sent up a spray of mist. When they got inside, their soaked bodies left dark and light patches of water on the leather seats. Neither of them cared. Ying Yin straddled him, and because her rain-soaked knitted sweater was difficult to pull off, she only managed to peel it halfway up, exposing her rounded shoulders still beaded with rainwater. The thin straps underneath had slipped askew.
Outside, the rain was pouring down. The streets emptied in an instant, while beneath the awnings of the restaurants, people stood with cups of coffee in their hands, patiently waiting for the rain to stop.
The driver was summoned by a phone call. By the time he got into the car, the heated atmosphere inside had been restrained, leaving behind only the ambiguous scent of perfume – the fragrance brought out by body heat and kisses. Once they were taken back to their hotel, showering and everything else were taken care of along the way. Shang Shao was very careful, having followed the doctor’s advice and daring not to try anything risky again. He put on a condom and whispered clearly into her ear, “I’m going in.”
They headed south into the Cotswolds, entering the English countryside, entering the soul of England.
June was the height of the English summer, when the climate was at its finest and the scenery especially pleasant. The meadows were lush and abundant, and flocks of sheep drifted down the hillsides like clouds. Along the country lanes, white lace flowers swayed freely in the breeze.
The Cotswolds was home to countless beautiful villages and little towns, as well as the country estates and castles of aristocrats and the wealthy. Those honey-colored stone houses and rows of terraced homes had remained virtually unchanged since the reign of Elizabeth I. Only the climbing vines changed with the seasons, flourishing and withering year after year.
They followed the country lane deeper into the rolling hills, until a black wrought-iron gate slowly swung open, the rich fragrance of Austin roses filling the evening breeze. It was an estate complete with a tennis court, helipad, and riding grounds, all prepared for their arrival.
The lighting inside the estate was dim, illuminated here and there by solid-brass table lamps. Oil paintings covered the oak-paneled walls.
The four-poster bed was wonderfully classical, with velvet curtains hanging from the canopy, giving it a distinctly regal feel. When it was time for bed that night, Ying Yin was curious and, ignoring Shang Shao’s attempts to dissuade her, insisted on drawing the curtains closed. After sleeping for a while, she became so hot and flushed that anyone seeing her might have thought she was up to something scandalous.
She could no longer sleep and asked Shang Shao to read her a story.
What storybooks did they have here? He read her Heidegger for a while from the book he had brought with him, but Ying Yin climbed onto him and complained in a muffled, nasal whine, “I want a story.”
He opened the bedside table and found an English edition of Pride and Prejudice inside.
How fitting, since this was precisely the region where Jane Austen was born.
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’” Shang Shao opened the old, worn pages and read the original aloud to her, “‘that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.’”
He hadn’t even finished reading about the Bennet household’s morning before Ying Yin had already fallen asleep. She had kicked the covers aside, her lace-trimmed nightdress bunched around her thighs. Shang Shao’s large hand rested against her waist, and he kissed her lips, giving her a goodnight kiss to make up for the one she had missed.
Their days here were so utterly idle that the sheer idleness began to make them feel guilty.
They watched the morning mist at dawn, the sunset in the evening, and took shelter from the midday sun in the shade. The estate staff would prepare a picnic basket for afternoon tea, filled with sandwiches, thick English cream, a thermos of iced tea, and sweet peaches.
Sometimes they didn’t take the car at all, but went out on bicycles instead.
Whenever Chinese tourists recognized Ying Yin, she would good-naturedly stop, planting one long leg on the ground, and patiently sign autographs and take photographs with her fans.
Sometimes they wanted a group photo, but couldn’t find anyone nearby to hold the camera. Their eyes would turn towards Shang Shao, only to be intimidated by his identity and imposing presence.
The carefree atmosphere of the countryside did nothing to diminish the refined elegance and aristocratic bearing of the man standing before them. So even when he volunteered to help, all he received in return was a string of thoroughly flustered refusals.
“No, no, it’s fine. We – we can do it ourselves…”
After it happened once or twice, Shang Shao learned to step back a little, temporarily leaving Ying Yin to her fans.
“Are you two on your honeymoon?” a Chinese student studying abroad who had come here to escape the heat asked.
“No,” Ying Yin replied with a smile, answering openly, “We’re not married yet.”
“Are you choosing a church here in Britain?” the student asked again.
Ying Yin pressed her lips together, smiling without answering. She winked at her. “Shh.”
The man some distance away was completely unaware of this conversation, gazing absentmindedly at the shadows of trees falling across the river.
The British have an almost obsessive passion for gardening. Nearly every household has a beautifully arranged English-style flower border, and by the end of June, the flowers were in full bloom.
They accidentally wandered into a honey-colored stone cottage, where an elderly lady welcomed them warmly. She was dressed with considerable style: Mary Jane shoes, a skirt, a crocheted cardigan, and reading glasses hanging around her neck on a silver chain.
Beautiful people were always treated well. The old lady took Ying Yin around her garden, showing her the flowers and teaching her their names. The one growing in the corner of the house was called Ambridge and had an especially strong fragrance. The one in shades of pink was called Olivia. The white flower box was planted with Juliet, and opening it each morning put her in a good mood.
Over a cup of Earl Grey, the old lady suddenly mentioned that there was an ancient church nearby.
“How ancient?” Ying Yin asked. She had learned the British way of drinking tea: saucer in one hand, fingers curled around the cup handle with the other, leaning against the little mint-green door of the house.
The old lady couldn’t remember. She went back inside, put on her reading glasses, and squinted at a book for a while before turning to a particular page.
“1390.”
Ying Yin blinked. “1390?”
What dynasty would that have been in China?
“It has an astronomical clock. Since 1390, it has struck every fifteen minutes, without ever missing a chime or being late.”
Ying Yin asked her for the address.
The old lady wrote it down on the back of a seed catalogue advertisement. On the front was an announcement from an English Austin rose company for autumn seed reservations.
As for the matter of the wedding, Ying Yin’s plotting had been remarkably subtle.
Perhaps this was what they meant by: “With the best teacher, you get the best student.”
The wedding dress had been chosen back in Ning City: silk satin, with a soft, flowing veil. It was an antique haute couture piece. She had Junyi find someone to handle it, personally having it flown from Ning City to London, then driven from London all the way here.
The estate was large enough to conceal her little secret in pure white.
That morning, the fog was thick, spreading across the river.
Shang Shao thought he must have had some kind of intuition. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have dressed so perfectly for the occasion: a light-blue suit, a white shirt, and a pocket square patterned with botanical motifs neatly folded in his breast pocket.
He was on the phone as he turned past a landscaped privet tree and walked along the brick path lined with roses, where he caught sight of the front entrance of the quaint old church.
God knew, he thought Ying Yin was planning to surprise him for his birthday.
Because July 3 was his birthday.
Inside the church, only a few local residents were there, sitting quietly in contemplation or bowing their heads in prayer. Morning light filtered through the rose-patterned stained-glass windows. It was a clear day, and on the altar, glass flower vases and pale-yellow candlesticks filled the air with fragrance.
The priest came out and asked him, “Sir, are you the one who booked the wedding ceremony?”
Shang Shao’s brows drew together slightly. With a polite yet distant smile, he said, “Sorry, but…”
His voice trailed off at the priest’s stunned expression and a soft gasp from somewhere inside the church.
For a second, everything was silent.
Shang Shao turned around. Against the light, he unconsciously narrowed his eyes and saw the long aisle stretching toward the source of the light.
From the bright morning glow, Ying Yin appeared, holding a bouquet in both hands, walking out of the white light and into Shang Shao’s sight.
The live orchestra began to play.
The wedding march.
The orchestra’s grand, sweeping music made the stillness inside the church feel solemn and sacred.
Ying Yin looked a little pleased with herself, the corners of her lips lifted high. Step by step, she walked to the music, composed, graceful, and dignified.
Shang Shao looked at her. He was clearly smiling as he shook his head, yet his gaze was so warm and tender.
He couldn’t bear even to blink.
Under his gaze and the attention of everyone around them, Ying Yin walked up to him. She bit her lip and asked softly, “Do I look good?”
The satin fabric was cut in a strapless style, with delicate horizontal pleats wrapping around her upper body. Each fold caught the light with a soft, pearlescent sheen. Rather than the sweeping train so common on wedding dresses, the skirt was a figure-hugging mermaid silhouette, its long fishtail trailing across the floor like a white wave.
It was obvious that Ying Yin had gone to great lengths to dress for the occasion. She had even dusted highlighter over the hollows of her shoulders, her collarbones, and the tops of her shoulders. Her hair was arranged in the simplest low chignon, secured and adorned with a pearl hairpin.
Beneath the veil, her features were soft and beautiful, her makeup applied with just the right touch. But she had actually forgotten to put on blush.
The color in her cheeks came naturally, blooming from shyness, nervousness, and sheer excitement.
Shang Shao curved his lips into a smile. His gaze moved slowly and gently over her from head to toe, and he let out a soft, almost breathless sigh.
“Beautiful.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, almost beyond his control.
She was his incomparable bride.
The priest held the Bible in his hands, his gaze sweeping around the church as he began the wedding ceremony in English.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today we have gathered here to witness the marriage of Mr. Shang Shao and Ms. Ying Yin.”
A glint of kindly mischief shone behind his glasses.
“Without a doubt, this is a wedding born of a sudden impulse. But who could say that makes it any less memorable? From this moment onward, these two newlyweds will step into their shared destiny and open the door to a brand-new chapter, receiving, under God’s will, a pure and beautiful happiness like the first light of dawn and the morning dew.”
“Mr. Shang,” he said, turning to Shang Shao, “do you take Ms. Ying Yin to be your wife, to stand by her through wealth and poverty, in sickness and in health, and to remain devoted to her, with the resolve to grow old together?”
Shang Shao’s voice was steady and unwavering.
“I do.”
He had rehearsed those words a thousand times in his dreams.
The priest turned to Ying Yin. “Ms. Ying Yin, do you make the same promise? That neither poverty, illness, nor any of life’s turbulent currents shall ever tear you away from his side, and that you will remain with him until death separates you?”
A wave of emotion rushed to the tip of Ying Yin’s nose. She tightened her grip around the bouquet, her lashes curving delicately as she said, “I do.”
A smile appeared on the priest’s face before he composed himself and solemnly continued. “Please exchange the rings, symbols of your love and commitment to one another.”
Shang Shao laughed softly and asked, almost without hope, “Little girl, did you come prepared?”
Ying Yin’s eyes shone as she confidently opened her palm –
A tiny jewelry box of deep-blue velvet, warmed by the heat of her hand.
“Of course.”
She was practically bursting with pride.
The lid sprang open, revealing two wedding rings nestled one behind the other. Both were platinum-toned, with a continuous band of pavé diamonds running around the center. Engraved on the inside of each band, their names were joined together intimately, along with today’s date.
Under the priest’s watchful gaze, they placed the rings on each other’s fingers.
This was the first time Ying Yin had ever put a ring on Shang Shao’s finger. His hands were beautiful – she had known that for a long time. His ring finger was so long and slender, and now, with the ring resting upon it, it would belong exclusively to her from this day forward.
Ying Yin smiled. Her fingertips trembled as she held the band, and as she solemnly and slowly pushed it into place, tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Shang Shao,” she instinctively whispered, saying his name.
“Now, you may kiss the bride.”
The priest closed the thick Bible with its deep-blue silk cover and nodded to Shang Shao.
He gently lifted her veil, then carefully arranged it behind her again.
He gazed deeply into her eyes. Usually, his eyes were as deep and misty as a mountain shrouded in fog, but now the smile in them, along with his possessiveness and infatuation, was so unabashedly clear.
It was enough to make Ying Yin’s knees go weak.
After a long moment, Shang Shao curved his lips into a smile and offered a silent expression of admiration – just as Ying Yin had imagined he would in her fantasies before falling asleep each night.
“You look like a dream today.”
He bent down, tilting his face as he kissed her, solemnly and passionately.
The bells began to ring. The solemn, resonant chimes dating back to 1390 drifted melodiously across the river, the clouds, and the vast open meadows.
This was by no means a quiet wedding.
Villagers from near and far gathered around, offering them drinks, dancing with them, and showering them with layer upon layer of rose petals. As for Ying Yin’s plans to give up alcohol, they seemed to have ended in spectacular failure on this particular day. Clutching a bottle of wine, she tapped herself on the head.
“What a rip-off. I should’ve waited until after the wedding to quit drinking.”
There probably wasn’t another bride who drank quite as freely as she did: gin, martinis, sherry, absinthe, beer, all kinds of cocktails. She threw herself into Shang Shao’s arms, a lovely, slightly goofy expression appearing on her face from the alcohol.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Why would I be?” Shang Shao half-supported, half-cradled her.
“Don’t you think it wasn’t solemn enough?”
“I thought it was very solemn.”
“Don’t you think it wasn’t extravagant enough?”
“You’ll have plenty of chances to be extravagant.”
“Don’t you think…”
“Ying Yin.” Shang Shao steadied her by the shoulders. Beneath the starry sky, his gaze was warm and gentle. “Today is my birthday.”
“Hm?”
“Baby, today is my birthday.” Shang Shao said it again. “You married me on my birthday.”
“Wasn’t it… May?” Ying Yin looked dazed, her thoughts turning sluggishly. “Uncle Kang said it was May… what was it again?”
Shang Shao’s eyes were full of helpless affection. “That’s the lunar calendar.”
“…”
Ying Yin stared at him for a while in the moonlight. Then she suddenly sobered, looking utterly flustered and disbelieving. “I didn’t prepare a present.”
Guilt surged through her.
“Today itself is the present. Everything – the weather, the orchestra in the church, those flowers, this wine. And you.”
What better gift could there be than marrying him today? Even with all the world he had seen and all the breadth of his imagination, Shang Shao could not have dreamed of anything better.
From this day forward, his world would no longer be colored by indifference or boredom. It would forever be vibrant and full, because of her.
Perhaps because she had drunk far too much, Ying Yin sent photos from their wedding one by one to their friends, relatives, teachers, and mentors. Clutching her phone, she announced each word through a voice message:
“I got married!”
She could barely stand upright, yet there was no way Shang Shao could stop her.
So the next morning, when Ying Yin woke from her hangover and saw the long list of messages she had sent, there was only one thought in her mind:
I’m screwed.
She had even sent one to Li Shan.
Li Shan replied with an email. Attached was a video.
Ying Yin had no idea what it was. She simply read Li Shan’s plain, understated letter, word by word.
Xiao Yin,
I have been directing for more than forty years. On and off the stage, in life and in living, in reality and in stories, I flatter myself that I have seen a great deal.
I often tell actors that in dreams, one does not know oneself to be a guest. It is both fortunate and unfortunate. Sometimes, the life you live inside a film is like the heavy shell of a snail. You actors are so soft and vulnerable, yet you have to carry a shell that does not belong to you, making your way forward at an agonizingly slow pace.
I have often carried a sense of guilt toward you. I frequently wonder what that New Year’s Eve would have become if he had never come. Even imagining it makes my heart tremble.
I have never seen a love like yours. Behind the camera, I am often astonished by my own hardness and ruthlessness. Yet every time I watched the two of you, I was equally unable to believe how deeply moved I could become.
Mercy is my enemy, but I lost to the two of you. Or perhaps I should say that your love became my salvation.
I had Zeiss record these images on set. The very first thing I thought of after we wrapped was editing these fragments together. That impulse even became something of a mission.
When should I give them to you? Originally, I thought it should be when you won an award. But today, I know this is the moment when they belong with you.
Wishing you a happy marriage, and a lifetime of love together, growing old side by side.
Still dazed, Ying Yin opened the video.
It was footage from their time on the set of When Snow Melts It Turns Green.
Behind the scenes, beneath the studio lights, Shang Shao held her again and again, covering her eyes, whispering gently into her ear, kissing the corners of her lips and her earlobes over and over. With a calm, unwavering certainty, he drew her out of the world of the story and brought her back to him.
Of course, there were moments when he choked up too. The movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. His eyes squeezed shut in despair. Then, when he opened them again, the clarity and determination had returned to his gaze.
The perspective of an outside observer was clear and profound.
Scene after scene, frame after frame, Ying Yin watched with a smile, then watched with tears. She covered her lips with one hand as hot tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks, streaming between her fingers and soaking the wedding ring on her finger in tears that were both burning and full of laughter.
Shang Shao pressed a hand to the back of her neck and rested his forehead against hers. In the silent footage, he wiped away her tears and smiled. “Don’t cry.”
He said, “We’ll be happy together for the rest of our lives.”
[The End]
Translator’s Words:
15 extras to come! I will be uploading two extras per day.
