That summer, the cicadas’ cries were maddening.
The weather was unbearably hot.
Behind the teaching building of Anchuan Chūzhōng, the small grove rarely visited by anyone retained a rare, precious coolness, thanks to the dense shade of the trees.
“So, you’re really going to the city for that summer camp next week?”
Xià Wǎnguī’s voice was muffled, drifting from behind Huá Qí’ān.
She was wrapped around Huá Qí’ān like a giant koala, arms encircling her neck, chin resting in the hollow of her shoulder.
Her warm breath puffed gently against the sensitive side of Huá Qí’ān’s neck, sending a ticklish shiver through her.
Huá Qí’ān was squatting on the ground, watching a line of ants moving house with interest.
When she heard this, she only replied absentmindedly, “Mm.”
That summer camp was a city-sponsored exchange event for outstanding students.
It lasted a week, covering food, accommodation, and transportation—all nearly free.
That alone was a huge draw for Huá Qí’ān.
And she could broaden her horizons a bit—there was nothing bad about it.
“But… I applied too. Teacher said my grades were just a little short, so I wasn’t chosen.”
Xià Wǎnguī’s tone carried a barely detectable note of grievance, and her arms tightened a bit more around Huá Qí’ān’s neck.
“You’ll be going alone. Isn’t that boring?”
“It’s only a week. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Huá Qí’ān reached up and patted the arms wrapped around her, as if soothing a spoiled kitten.
However, this comfort had no effect.
“A week?”
Xià Wǎnguī’s voice suddenly rose.
Then it dropped, as if she was struggling to contain some emotion.
“A week is a long time! Seven days, one hundred and sixty-eight hours… You’ll meet so many people… You’ll eat with them, sleep with them, chat with them…”
Her voice grew softer and softer, until the last words nearly faded into the air, yet they carried a chilling undertone.
Huá Qí’ān’s heart skipped a beat.
She finally snapped out of her fascination with the ants’ migration.
She wanted to turn and look at Xià Wǎnguī’s expression, but the other girl tightened her hold, pressing her cheek firmly against her own shoulder so she couldn’t move.
“Wǎnguī, you’re hurting me…”
“Hurt?”
Xià Wǎnguī let out a low laugh near her ear, but there wasn’t a trace of humor in it.
“You’re making me hurt for a week too, Qí’ān.”
Before Huá Qí’ān could react, Xià Wǎnguī released her.
But as soon as she stood up, Xià Wǎnguī shoved her hard against the thick trunk of the camphor tree behind them.
With a muffled thud, her back slammed into the rough bark, sending a sting through her skin.
Xià Wǎnguī braced her arms on either side of her, trapping her completely between herself and the tree trunk, creating a tightly sealed, oppressive space.
They were so close.
So close that Huá Qí’ān could clearly see the beautiful, always-smiling peach blossom eyes of Xià Wǎnguī now roiling with a stormy, dark obsession she couldn’t comprehend.
[…Are you trying to leave me again?]
Xià Wǎnguī stared at her, asking slowly, word by word.
There was no light in those eyes, only an endless, devouring darkness.
In that instant, the scene flickered.
As if distant memories and the present moment overlapped.
That damp, sticky smell coiled around her body once more….
When Huá Qí’ān jerked awake from that suffocating, sticky old dream, daylight was already streaming outside the window.
She sat up abruptly in bed, her heart pounding wildly in her chest, almost leaping from her throat.
Cold sweat soaked her pajamas, clinging stickily to her back and bringing an uncomfortable chill.
She gasped for air, trying to steady her thundering heartbeat and quell the rising nausea.
This time, it felt more real—more intense—than any before.
She looked down at her wrist.
A few ambiguous red marks, as if bound by rope, faintly appeared on her pale skin.
She brought her wrist to her nose.
That familiar, salty stench mixed with dampness and decay invaded her nostrils aggressively.
It wasn’t a dream.
Everything from last night—wasn’t a dream.
That “Nǚguǐ” entangling her had violated her once again.
And this time, it was even more brazen.
A shame and anger she couldn’t put into words flared up inside her like wildfire, burning through her limbs and bones.
Her whole face flushed crimson.
She couldn’t endure this helpless, violated passivity any longer.
Huá Qí’ān threw off the covers, almost jumping down from her bed.
Her movements were so rushed she stumbled a little.
She opened her suitcase in the corner, too impatient to even enter the cramped bathroom.
Right there in the empty dorm room, she quickly stripped off the pajamas bearing ambiguous stains.
The sticky feeling made her skin crawl.
She balled up her pajamas and the soiled underwear from last night, shoving them fiercely into the dirty laundry bag at the bottom of her suitcase, as if that could vent her anger.
But in truth, it was only psychological comfort.
Changing into clean clothes, Huá Qí’ān felt her chaotic thoughts clear a bit.
No more.
She couldn’t go on like this.
She walked to her desk and sat down, forcing herself to calm down.
She had to find out who that Nǚguǐ was.
Since the other party was so obsessed with her, always saying, “You forgot me,” and “You’re trying to leave me again”…
Then, it was almost certainly someone she’d known in the past.
Moreover, her sixth sense told her the other must be her peer.
The temperament and voice—it all gave her that feeling…
The range of suspects narrowed quickly.
Huá Qí’ān dug out several old class yearbooks from the hidden compartment in her suitcase.
From elementary to high school, not one missing.
She never really looked at them, but from Anchuan to Hanyang, she’d still brought them all along.
Who would have thought they’d be useful now?
Perhaps these were her only links to the past she’d long abandoned.
She only needed to know if any of the girls she’d known had died.
It sounded cold and ruthless, but for Huá Qí’ān right now, it was the most straightforward and effective investigation method.
But it wasn’t simple.
Times had changed—there was no way she could know the current status of every classmate out of thin air.
So she resorted to the most direct—and perhaps “underhanded”—method she could think of: Making prank calls.
Texting wouldn’t work; most people wouldn’t reply, or it would just get filtered as spam.
Not reliable.
Phone calls, though—if she made up a good excuse, maybe the person on the other end would chat a bit.
She opened her high school yearbook and started dialing the cell numbers listed, one by one.
It was already nine in the morning on a workday.
Most people would be awake by now.
“Hello? Is this Wáng Xiǎomǐn?”
“Yes, this is. Who’s speaking?”
“Uh… Sorry, wrong number.”
Hang up, block, next one.
The process was mortifyingly awkward, but luckily, her SIM card was new and no one would recognize her number.
If they admitted who they were, she’d hang up immediately; if they were vague, she’d chat a bit longer to dig for clues.
She’d been in the science class—there weren’t many girls to begin with.
So the calls weren’t too many.
“Hello? Is this Jiǎng Xuě?”
She dialed another number.
“You’re… Qí’ān?”
On the other end was a surprised and hesitant voice.
Huá Qí’ān’s heart skipped a beat.
She had only said one line, yet was recognized instantly.
“Where have you been all these years? After college entrance exams you just vanished…”
…
“No, you’ve got the wrong person.”
Expressionless, Huá Qí’ān cut off the call and immediately added the number to her blacklist.
Was her voice really that recognizable?
Some girls seemed to be in class at this hour.
So she called several more times, but still got through.
After confirming with all the girls in her class…
The result disappointed her—all of them were alive and well.
Though feeling disappointed wasn’t exactly moral.
In fact, over half recognized her voice and warmly asked about her life, as if their friendship—long since severed unilaterally by her—had never faded.
Huá Qí’ān could only deny, hang up, and block again and again.
If it wasn’t a high school classmate…
Could it be someone from Chūzhōng?
Her high school social circle had broadened for personal reasons…
But her current ability only let her check classmates she was close with.
For Chūzhōng classmates, things got trickier.
Too many years had passed—most didn’t have cellphones back then.
The information in the yearbook was long outdated.
Just as Huá Qí’ān was at her wit’s end, a bold thought flashed in her mind.
She’d take another approach.
She turned to the last page of the yearbook, where the homeroom teacher’s contact was printed.
Unlike students, adults like homeroom teachers rarely changed their phone numbers.
Huá Qí’ān’s finger hovered over the familiar number for a moment.
She remembered that her Chūzhōng homeroom teacher’s surname was Zhāng—a gentle middle-aged woman who had always taken good care of her.
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