Letter from Hong Kong Chapter 16

Junyi squatted by the door waiting for Ying Yin, and didn’t move until past eleven at night. When she saw the Mercedes stop, she ignored her numb legs and hobbled over as fast as she could.

But Ying Yin got out of the car alone. Junyi peered inside. “Didn’t Mr. Shang bring you back?”

Ying Yin turned, thanked the driver, and walked toward the steps in front of the door. Once at the doorway, she looked up at the bright moon.

The wind was strong that night, scattering the thick clouds. The moonlight was distant but clear.

As Ying Yin’s personal assistant, Junyi lived and ate with her. Knowing that Ying Yin liked to take baths, she went ahead to run the hot water. Above the sound of the rushing water, she asked, “So what did Mr. Shang take you to do tonight?”

“Mm… shopping.”

“What?” Cheng Junyi’s eyes widened. “He gave you a gift?”

“Not exactly. It counts as something between him and Song Shizhang.”

Junyi gasped. “He likes Song Shizhang?!”

Ying Yin looked utterly speechless. “You should just go take a shower and go to bed.”

The gift Shang Shao had given her was so valuable, but she didn’t bother to take it out and hide it right away, nor did she admire it over and over again, unable to let it go. Instead, she just left it in her evening bag. Only after finishing her bath and drying her hair did she tie her robe and hold the small velvet ring box in the palm of her hand.

She held it there, kneeling on the soft bed. Beneath her knees were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, glowing with a silky sheen – grass-green, like long, swaying meadows under the spring sun.

When Junyi pushed the door open, she saw Ying Yin holding the small square box in her palm level with her forehead, staring at it without blinking.

“What’s that?”

“A box.”

“I can see it’s a box. What’s inside?”

“A ray of moonlight.”

“Who gave it to you?”

“The moon.”

Cheng Junyi walked to the window, looked up at the moon, and said, “It’s not full tonight. Wait until it is, then ask it to give you another one.”

Ying Yin rolled over and lay flat on the bed, pressing the box against her heart. “There won’t be another one. A full moon begins to wane. I prefer this kind of imperfection.”

The mistress and her assistant went on talking at cross purposes for a while. Then Junyi made the bed for her. “You should get some sleep. You have to drive back to Ping City tomorrow.”

Ying Yin asked her, “Is the trending topic gone?”

She couldn’t even be bothered to check herself.

“Gone. Mai Anyan had someone post a photo of you and Cai Beibei laughing together. You’re even making eye contact in it – looks pretty genuine. Fans are already leaving comments saying how much you admire each other and how well you get along. The rumor fell apart on its own.”

Ying Yin felt a little relieved. “No new moves from Cai Beibei?”

“It’s not like she can actually come out and say you stole the lead role from her. Who’s nobler than whom? She had a baby for the director. You, at least, haven’t given Song Shizhang anything at all.”

After saying that, Cheng Junyi knew she had misspoken again. She gave her own mouth a light slap, then cautiously stole a glance at Ying Yin’s expression.

Ying Yin just smiled. “You’re right. Who’s nobler than whom? But here’s the thing – if Director Fang’s film hadn’t been forced on me by Song Shizhang, if Mai Anyan hadn’t insisted on taking it, and if I had any say in which films I take, I wouldn’t have shot it. Even if Director Fang brought it right to my door, I’d have said no.”

“This is his final masterpiece,” Junyi said solemnly. “He spent ten years polishing it.”

“So what? It’s just a run-of-the-mill commercial film. He just wants to make a big splash before he retires and get people to acknowledge his commercial chops.”

Junyi finished making the bed and tore open a pack of steam eye masks. “The movie’s done. No more talking about him. Go to sleep.”

Ying Yin slid under the covers, fished out her phone, hesitated for a moment, and then sent Shang Shao a text.

Her wording was very restrained: [Mr. Shang, just saying good night.]

Shang Shao replied before she could put down her phone: [Good night.]

Junyi saw it clearly from the side and asked, “Why don’t you add him on WeChat?”

“How could I intrude like that…”

Junyi tapped the screen. “I sent a friend request.”

“What?” Yingyin sat bolt upright in bed. “What are you doing! He’s a chairman, his WeChat is full of important work matters. There’s no way he’d have time…”

Junyi glanced at the phone again. “Accepted.”

“…”

Junyi handed the phone to her. “Turns out you can search for a WeChat ID with a Hong Kong number too. Mr. Shang’s WeChat name is Leo, and his profile picture is a whale tail.”

Ying Yin said, “I have eyes.”

In the deep blue of the ocean floor, a blue whale’s tail glided past – profound, cool, gentle, reminiscent of his eyes.

Shang Shao had accepted Cheng Junyi’s friend request. The first message on the chat was Junyi’s auto-greeting: [Hello, I’m Junyi, Yingyin’s assistant.]

To her surprise, Shang Shao actually replied: [Hello.]

Just a word, yet they carried an inexplicable air of condescension that made one feel flattered.

Junyi knelt on the bed with one knee and watched as Yingyin typed in the chat box: [She came home very happy tonight. Thank you.]

Junyi said, “Huh… I wouldn’t have said that.”

“Then what would you have said?”

“I would have said, ‘Did you give her a ray of moonlight?'”

So she understood everything.

That was close. Ying Yin’s face flushed. She thought to herself, Good thing I didn’t let you do the talking, or you’d have sold me out completely. With an air of righteous justification, she confiscated the phone. “Let me play with it for a while.”

But apart from replying with a “You’re welcome,” Shang Shao said nothing more. Ying Yin didn’t disturb him and instead clicked into his Moments.

Most of what he shared were posts on finance and tech news, with only the occasional glimpse into his personal life – clouds, trees, wind, the sea.

Perhaps he assumed no one would have the patience to scroll through so much dry content page after page, which was why Shang Shao hadn’t set any restrictions like “visible for the last six months” or “visible for the last year.”

Ying Yin didn’t know how long she had been scrolling. Just as she was about to go to sleep, she came across a photo.

It was the back view of two people in a sunlit garden. The lawn stretched out endlessly before them. He was holding someone in his arms, carrying them sideways as he strode forward.

The girl had a petite figure, her hair tied in a neat ponytail. Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her face buried in his chest.

Ying Yin didn’t know who took the photo, but it was beautifully shot. Even though it was just a back view, you could feel that he was smiling.

So Mr. Shang had loved someone before.

This was what he looked like when he loved.

She always felt she couldn’t imagine him smiling with genuine happiness. That was only natural – she had never seen him truly happy.

Ying Yin locked the screen, turned over, and closed her eyes.

Shang Shao was in his thirties, born into wealth and status. It was perfectly normal that he had loved one or two people, dated one or two people. So what? She had loved people too.

A pebble had been tossed into her lake. That pebble sank straight to the bottom, but the ripples it left behind were very faint. And yet, beneath the calm surface, there were deep currents stirred by the pebble’s descent.

Ying Yin waited for the lake to return to stillness so she could fall asleep peacefully.

Cheng Junyi came to wake her the next morning. It took three tries before she finally managed to pull Ying Yin out from under the covers.

“Another half an hour,” Ying Yin mumbled, clutching her pillow with her eyes shut.

“No way! Auntie will scold me!”

“Then I’m not going!”

“Then I’ll call and tell Auntie that.”

Ying Yin sat bolt upright in bed, instantly awake. “Don’t!”

She pushed up her eye mask. Outside, the sun was shining brightly. She squinted, yawned, and stretched, revealing faint dark circles under her eyes.

The drive from Ning City to Ping City took two hours. Junyi drove while Ying Yin dozed. When they arrived, it was a villa complex that showed its age – red brick houses, glazed tiles, a courtyard paved with bluestone slabs with moss growing through the cracks. Fertilizer was steeping in the flowerpots by the gate, and a branch of frangipani stretched diagonally out of the yard.

Ying Yin was wrapped up tight in a bucket hat, black-framed glasses, and a face mask. She glanced around nervously as she rang the doorbell, while Junyi kept lookout. The two of them looked like burglars in broad daylight.

After a moment, the iron gate opened, and a stylishly dressed woman came out.

Her elegance was immediately apparent – a tweed jacket over jeans, a pearl necklace wound three times around the neck of her black top. Above that, Chanel earrings adorned her ears. Her short, chin-length hair was dyed a light brown and styled with French bangs.

Cheng Junyi greeted her respectfully. “Auntie.”

Ying Yin walked over and hugged her. “Mom.”

Ying Fan had started out as a real estate saleswoman. In that crazy, gold-rush era of real estate, she was the beautiful face of the sales office. But she was never good with sweet talk – she just looked at customers with her big eyes and smiled. Buyers from Hong Kong and Macau, who had come to the mainland to speculate on properties, would buy an extra floor just because of her smile, and then ask her, “Miss Ying, are you free tonight?”

Ying Fan knew how to monetize her beauty, but she wasn’t prepared to rely on it for the rest of her life. Her answer was usually no.

“You’re a little late. Did you oversleep?” She took off Ying Yin’s hat and stroked her hair.

“Filming just wrapped. I’m still recovering.”

The household employed a nanny to take care of Ying Fan’s daily needs. Ying Fan herself mostly just read books and tended to her flowers. Square dancing was popular in the villa complex too, but the local version was more upscale – ballroom dancing, tango, Latin. Ying Fan went a couple of times, found it too noisy and undignified, and half-heartedly stood up her dance partners a few times. After that, no one asked her anymore.

The aroma of chicken soup drifted from the kitchen – clean and fragrant. Ying Yin hadn’t eaten breakfast, so she asked the nanny to serve her a bowl to tide her over.

She leaned against the doorframe, holding the bowl. It was hot, so she placed a silk handkerchief underneath it as a pad. Ying Fan gave her a look of playful disdain, smiling at her lack of poise.

“I asked you about that trending topic last night, and you ignored me.”

“I’m on the trending searches every few days, and you ask me every few days. Do I have time to reply to all of them? They’re just trivial things. You worry for nothing.”

“Mm, ‘trivial things’ – always with that Mr. Song.” Ying Fan’s words carried a hidden meaning.

Ying Yin lost her appetite. She turned and went back to the dining room, setting her bowl down.

“Mr. Song came to visit not long ago when he was in Ping City for an exhibition. He even came by the house for a meal.”

Ying Yin whipped her head around. “How come I didn’t know about that?”

“Does he need to notify you just to come visit our home? You haven’t notified me about where things stand between you two, either.”

Ying Yin was fuming. “I’ve told you, it’s just for show between him and me. We haven’t even held hands!”

“Why are you reacting so strongly?” Ying Fan was baffled. “When I mentioned Song Shizhang before, you never reacted like this. What, did you have a fight?”

“I’m not close with him. There’s nothing to fight about.” Ying Yin’s face was expressionless.

“Well, the other day when he came over, I showed him the room you lived in as a child. He was completely fascinated.” Ying Fan continued as if to herself.

“I lived in a shantytown as a child! It’s been torn down now and replaced with the Asian Bank building! You can take him on a tour of the Asian Bank lobby!”

Caught off guard by Ying Yin ripping open that old wound, Ying Fan’s expression faltered. She looked flustered and anxious, yet her face somehow grew even colder.

Ying Yin had braced herself for this. Every time she came home to visit, they could barely exchange two warm words before the sniping and fighting started. She felt sorry for Ying Fan and cruel herself all at once. So she simply gathered her bag, stormed up the stairs in a few steps, and slammed the door shut with a bang.

Her room was beautiful.

Books as far as the eye could see, pink dolls, a mountain of stuffed toys – “the knitted dress little Ying Yin made with her own hands” – photographs from her dance classes, her hair tied up high, a black leotard, her legs stretched perfectly straight.

But this was never truly her room.