Changdong first returned to the hotel. Over these past days, his mind had grown calm—he wasn’t in a hurry to report to Yexiaoxi: it was she who had journeyed all the way from Xi'an, watching three performances of Shadow Puppetry with him, carrying a magazine that contained an article about his "scandal," and holding a strangely eerie photograph concerning Kyangyang. She must surely have something to ask of him—only she was deliberately vague. He didn’t want to be led around by others’ expectations; the burial matter had been settled two years ago now, so there was no need for urgency. When he opened the door and entered his room, he noticed a brochure tucked under the door crack—so he bent down and picked it up, then tossed it into the trash can. It was still early for bedtime. Changdong opened the stage box, took out a piece of finely polished leather, and began carving a Shadow Puppet. A full table of tools stood ready; the variety of chisels alone included round, half-round, plum-shaped, human-leaf, star-eye, and others—each used with precise motions. As he pushed and guided the leather surface, the rhythm of the face-patterns seemed to echo in his ears—"Willow leaf brows, apricot-like eyes, cherry-sized lips… gradually…" It is said that Shadow Puppetry originated during the Han dynasty. Emperor Wu of Han, longing for his beloved consorts Li Fu, summoned a master to summon her spirit. At night, lamps were lit and curtains drawn—on one side, he could only watch as the image of Li Fu danced upon the fabric under flickering candlelight. Over time, this tradition reached ordinary folk—the art of Shadow Puppetry emerged. Li Fu passed away; Emperor Wu did too; the master died—and yet, the puppetry lives on, enduring right up to today. Most things in life that have form or lack form outlast people—so people often feel quite lacking in vitality. As Changdong continued carving, his fingers grew stiff from cold—the temperature at night kept dropping steadily. Even with the air-conditioning set to maximum warmth, it offered no real relief. He wrapped both hands around his mouth and blew warm air into them before rubbing them briskly—then suddenly, his gaze fell upon that very brochure in the trash can. —How beautiful! Isn’t she just a service provider? Changdong knelt down and picked up the card. After a pause, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number listed on it. The person answering was professional: “Mr. What kind of service would you prefer? Thin or fuller-bodied? Pure or sexy? We can filter options ahead of time to avoid disappointment upon arrival.” Changdong thought for a moment: “Lean type, pure—though perhaps a bit more sensual?” He wasn’t certain what type Yexiaoxi belonged to. She seemed like an upright pendulum—sometimes leaning left, sometimes right—but always acting as if she were masking something deeper, her true essence barely concealed. — The woman who came was named Sunny. When she received the call, she was in the card game room next door, just finishing a round with her sisters. She grabbed her handbag and rushed off. Once inside the elevator, she pulled out a small mirror to apply lipstick, touch up her lips, and refresh her makeup. As she stepped out into the hallway and made her way toward Changdong’s door, two of her shirt buttons had been undone—revealing the soft pink lace edge of her bra—and she smoothed out her little skirt. When she finally pressed the bell and offered a professional smile, she paused slightly upon seeing the door open. Changdong said simply: “Come in.” Sunny stepped inside, her eyes drifting toward the tea table where an array of more than ten chisels gleamed with a cool, sharp light—her heart sank even further. She was used to guests who were large-shouldered, balding, or breathless—but Changdong stood out: not only young and handsome, but also seemingly reserved, clean-cut, quiet, and especially so when he hadn’t rushed into the room yet. Sunny swallowed a lump of saliva. The previous week, their manager had organized them to watch a Korean film—about a series of obsessive killers who targeted women in entertainment—reminding everyone to stay alert. Afterward, she’d been plagued by vivid nightmares ever since and now felt constantly on edge. She stammered slightly: “Would you mind if I just… wait here?” Changdong didn’t answer immediately. He stood still under the sunlight, which warmed one side of his face. Sunny watched him—her eye corners naturally arched upward, her eyes shifting with a subtle glint that often suggested she held many hidden thoughts. Her smile was warm yet enigmatic—nine out of ten people would find her harmless. After recognizing him, her expression deepened slightly and she opened up first: “You’re not pretending to be old, are you? That seems quite handsome.” She then pulled a canvas folding chair from the car, wiped off the dust on its surface, and tossed it toward Changdong. Changdong reached out with one hand to catch it—then without sitting, drew forth that very photograph from his pocket. Sunny laughed lightly: “So quickly we’ve moved into business? I didn’t even get a chance to offer you a slice of watermelon.” She took the photo, held it between her fingers, and tilted her wrist so that the front face faced Changdong directly. “Do you not suspect this photograph is fabricated by me?” Changdong replied: “Women have an acute intuition—when I planned to propose to Kyangyang, I never told her. Yet she sensed it immediately and bought a new dress specifically for this occasion.” “That evening, in the tent at the campsite, she wore that dress for the first time and asked me if I thought it looked good. Before I could give any feedback, I heard outside—the wind bottles rattling violently.” The “wind bottles” were glass wine bottles—strung up with ropes at regular intervals during camping—both for decorative effect and to measure wind intensity. The weight of the glass caused a sharp sound when the wind blew strongly—it couldn’t have been just a gentle breeze. When Changdong opened the tent flap, he saw the unmistakable “goose head” landmark of Ge Tou Shapo—a symbol of the site—cut off by a sandstorm and lifted into the night sky as drifting gray mist. Kyangyang’s new dress—the deep crimson skirt—had been worn for the first time as her final funeral attire. No photographs had been taken, yet it now floated in front of Changdong, caught in the wind and dust of the Yadan formations. Sunny was satisfied with this response: “Now, second question—what specific Yadan formation is depicted here?” “Yadan” actually comes from Uyghur language, meaning “steep ridges”—a common landscape throughout western China. Some are large and well-known—for instance, the Sanlongsha area west of Dunhuang, known as the Devil’s City; the Wuhu region near Karamay, called the Wind City; and the section along the Shule River, referred to as the Human Head Mound City. Others remain less prominent—occasionally appearing on scenic drives as scattered clusters of ridges that suddenly emerge—a modest Yadan formation in itself. So which one is it? Changdong answered: “The Dragon City.” “How do you know?” He pointed to the photograph: “This area has heavy salt and alkaline content—rich in gypsum soil—giving it a grayish-white tone, compared with other Yadan sites. In bright daylight, it glimmers like scales—ancient people called this place Bai Long Dui (White Dragon Mound). Today, this region is often grouped under the broader term of ‘Dragon City Yadan.’” Sunny pressed on: “Why can’t the gray-white color simply be frost or snowfall?” “Snow covers vast areas; it’s not what's visible in this photograph. Frost forms when water vapor condenses—usually at dawn or dusk—and by midday, under such strong sunlight, the frost would have melted long before.” Sunny nodded: “Ah…” Her voice trailed off—clearly pleased with his reasoning—as she turned to pick up her cutting knife. With a swift motion, she sliced through half of the watermelon, revealing golden honey-like flesh, juicy and fresh. She offered it to Changdong: “You take me to Dragon City—I’ll bring you to Kyangyang’s remains.” Her tone was not hesitant—it carried firmness behind the softness. Changdong looked at her, then didn’t reach for the plate. Sunny smiled gently, with a soft yet resolute tone: “Guides into Lop Nur are easy to find—but you will find no one else who knows where Kyangyang’s body is buried.” Changdong still held firm: “What about this photograph? Ge Tou Shapo is quite far from Bai Long Dui—the remains must have traveled such a distance. How could they have been transported, and how could they be embedded inside the clay package?” Sunny grew impatient: “How should I know? I only agree to help you locate her—what you do as your guide is entirely up to you. You may choose to move on or not.” Before she finished speaking, she flipped the tray—the honey melon slipped directly down onto the floor.