“This is the only photo Fang’er and I ever took together, and we had to force her into it,” Zhang Rong’s voice came softly like flowing water. “Fang’er was quirky, especially against having her photo taken. But thankfully, we have this one, so I have something to remember her by.” Fu Xiaotang looked at the person in the photo, whose eyes seemed to speak, dark and slightly mocking yet indifferent, but deep down, there seemed to be a profound sadness. Meeting those eyes, Fu Xiaotang felt a complex mix of emotions—tenderness, sorrow, regret, and longing. If only the person in this photo were still here, just to look at her, touch her, and talk to her. After a while, Fu Xiaotang sniffed and looked up at Zhang Rong, “Can you tell me about her, about your times together?”
Zhang Rong’s face softened into a vague but beautiful smile, smoothing the hard lines of his face. He seemed to revert to his youthful, ambitious self from twenty years ago. “Our meeting with Fang’er was quite serendipitous. We were working at a small bar; I played the saxophone, and Yingdi danced. We had lost our parents young and had to fend for ourselves. One day, we saved a drunk girl, alone and unconscious, from being taken advantage of at the bar. I lied that she was my friend to get her out, and I lost my job for it. But when she woke up, she slapped me because she thought I had changed her clothes when she was drunk. Even after realizing it was a misunderstanding, she neither apologized nor thanked me, just stared at me with those fiery eyes.”
