Chapter 39

The Moon Runs to Me

“Finally, you’re willing to pick up the phone.” Sister Wen’s voice came through, tinged with exasperation. “It’s been days—calls go unanswered, WeChat messages ignored. If Auntie hadn’t said you’ve been staying home resting, I’d have filed a missing person report.”

Qin Sang had stepped away to a quiet corner for the call. She leaned against the wall, idly tracing the edge of a monstera leaf with her finger, her voice light. “Sorry, Sister Wen. I made you worry.”

Sister Wen sighed. “So you do know how to worry people. Next time, don’t just disappear like that. If something’s bothering you, talk to me. If I can help, I will.”

“Okay.” Her reply was obedient, her smile soft and tranquil as her eyes curved. “I’m not upset—just tired. I needed rest.”

Sister Wen understood. “You’ve been working nonstop lately. You know how it is—if you don’t strike while the iron’s hot and ride the momentum, the buzz fades.”

After Qin Sang’s award win, the work had indeed piled up. Sister Wen had lined up numerous endorsements, magazine shoots, and even variety show invitations—though Qin Sang didn’t care for those, so Sister Wen had turned them all down.

They always worked things out together. Qin Sang had strong opinions of her own, and Sister Wen respected that. So when she insisted on turning down a major director’s film for a third-rate project, Sister Wen had disagreed but didn’t stop her.

Sister Wen was more than an agent—she was a mentor and friend. They’d weathered far more storms together than outsiders could imagine.

Besides, Sister Wen had watched Qin Sang grow up—from an innocent eighteen-year-old to the confident, celebrated star she was today. The journey had been anything but easy.

“How are you feeling after a few days of rest?” Sister Wen had seen how exhausted she was—two months straight without a break. That’s why she’d taken advantage of the National Day and Mid-Autumn overlap to give her a proper vacation.

But the moment Qin Sang returned to Ningjiang, she’d vanished like a fish into the sea. The first two days were fine—work correspondence was normal. Then she went dark. No calls, no messages. If Sister Wen weren’t so tied up, she’d have flown to Ningjiang herself to see what was going on.

Qin Sang’s eyes curved in a smile. She’d had a few drinks, and the warmth made her grin a little goofier than usual. “I’m fine. Really.”

She was fine.

Just a little sad.

She sniffled softly, tilting her head to look at the moon through the window. Ningjiang wasn’t like Jingcheng—less industrial pollution, clearer skies, pristine mountains and rivers. At night, sparse stars hung in the deep blue, the moon bright and pure. The moonlight was so vivid it seemed to dim the stars around it.

She smiled, a little dazed. “Happy Mid-Autumn, Sister Wen.”

Sister Wen was exasperated. “Mid-Autumn was ages ago. What are you on about?”

Qin Sang shook her head gently, stubbornly repeating, “Happy Mid-Autumn. Sister Wen, be happy every day. Without Brother Wu, you still have me, and Xiaoxiao. We’re your family.”

Brother Wu was Sister Wen’s husband. They’d been high school sweethearts, then went to the same university. Their relationship had always been strong. They defied the “seven-year itch” curse and the “break up after graduation” myth—they got married right after college.

Years passed, their love never wavered. As Sister Wen’s career took off, Brother Wu quit his job willingly to take care of her full-time.

Qin Sang had always envied them. But fate was cruel—Brother Wu got cancer, and by the time they found out, it was already terminal. He passed away not long after surgery. Sister Wen had blamed herself terribly.

She’d said over and over: “It’s my fault. I was so focused on work, I didn’t pay enough attention to him. If I’d noticed the signs earlier, maybe he’d still be alive.”

Through it all, Qin Sang stayed by her side. The year after Brother Wu died, they traveled far—to the edge of the earth, Iceland.

Iceland was unique—no strict polar day or night, but in summer, the sun never set. After the winter solstice, a long, endless night descended, so dark it felt like the world’s end.

They were there that winter. Everything was white—snow blanketing the mountains, crunching underfoot. Iceland had entered its permanent night, a darkness that seemed to wait forever for dawn.

The timing wasn’t ideal—aurora visibility was low, and it had started snowing the night they arrived. Thick clouds made it nearly impossible to see the northern lights.

Still, New Year’s Eve in Iceland was lively. No one knew them—they were surrounded by unfamiliar Western faces. Qin Sang accompanied Sister Wen to a concert, then spent the night at a nearby bar. At midnight, the bells rang and fireworks lit up the eternal night.

By the time they returned to the hotel, the snow had stopped. They’d thought they’d miss the aurora—but at 2 AM, half-asleep, Qin Sang heard voices. Sister Wen called, so she went out.

They’d chosen their hotel specifically for aurora viewing—prime location, quiet, few people. Most were hotel guests.

The aurora hung in the sky like a thin, jade-green mist—more translucent than jade, flawless. It danced across the vast, dark sky, shimmering and shifting.

Everyone gasped in awe, pulling out phones to capture the moment—some even had professional cameras.

Sister Wen said, “Sang Sang, do you know? On our anniversary two years ago, he said he wanted to take me to Iceland to see the aurora. I kept saying I was too busy with work. And now I’m here—but alone.”

“You’re not alone. I’m here with you. No matter what, I’ll always be here.”

She’d meant it sincerely. But Sister Wen just smiled and shook her head. “It’s not the same. Someday, when you have someone you can’t let go of, you’ll understand.”

Someone she couldn’t let go of? Qin Sang had stared at the sky, lost in thought. She did. It had just been so long since she’d thought of him—caught up in life, in endless work. She’d been pushed forward, step by step.

Her life was bleak. In rare moments of respite, she was too tired to think—she just wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

“Sang Sang, make a wish,” Sister Wen said. “They say wishes made under the aurora come true. Maybe what you want will be answered.”

Qin Sang never believed in such things. She’d never been lucky—every wish she’d ever made had gone unanswered.

But that night, she felt like trying. She closed her eyes with Sister Wen and prayed silently.

When she opened them, she wasn’t sure if it was real or hallucination.

In the endless snow and mist, she thought she glimpsed a familiar silhouette—a flash among the Western faces, gone in an instant. Probably just her imagination.

She’d heard he’d followed his parents’ wishes and gone into politics. He was probably an outstanding civil servant now—maybe a prosecutor, maybe a diplomat.

He was always excellent, always out of reach. And the last time she’d seen him, someone had been by his side. He hadn’t seemed to mind.

Maybe he was even married by now. They looked so perfect together—that girl was brilliant, far more worthy than she’d ever be. Why hold on to foolish hope?

Years had passed. Everyone moved forward. Who would be so foolish as to stay frozen in place?

She smiled bitterly, looking far into the distance. That winter, on New Year’s Day, she made her wishes.

First, may everyone she loved be happy and healthy.

Second, may Sister Wen soon leave the shadows behind.

Third…

The third wish, she didn’t say aloud. She only prayed silently.

“I hope Classmate Xie, on the other side of the earth, gets everything he wants—warm meals, peaceful days, joy in every season.”

“And in the new year, she would learn to forget. Learn to let go.”

So on that winter night, the first day of the new year, she made one final wish.

She would forget Xie Yuncan.

Completely. For good.

But she didn’t understand—was it a test? Or was God mocking her?

In the very year she decided to let go, fate brought him back with theatrical timing.

She laughed bitterly. She truly wasn’t lucky. None of her birthday wishes ever came true—not even such a humble one.

And yet, she felt a base, guilty thrill. She could tell herself she’d let go, but she couldn’t ignore that secret joy at seeing him again.

She closed her eyes. The lingering emotions still numbed her nerves—they’d surge back at the slightest touch.

So she stopped fighting and let herself drown.

She sighed. “Sister Wen, do you remember what you said—that when I found someone I couldn’t let go of, I’d understand how you felt?”

“I think now I understand.”

Some people—she couldn’t just forget. Because she couldn’t let go, she had to remind herself over and over. But the more she tried, the more the longing consumed her.

Qin Sang leaned by the window, a little dazed, her gaze dropping to the courtyard below. In the deep night, a clear, tall silhouette stood there. The cold moonlight fell on his sharp features, half-lit, half-shadowed.

Perhaps sensing her gaze, he looked up from the darkness—his eyes deep as the night.

Their eyes met.

Qin Sang’s pupils contracted, and the hand holding her phone trembled slightly.