Chapter 898: Before

Ling struggled in her older sister's embrace to no avail, then simply leaned against her sister's shoulder and kept talking, her eyes still sparkling as she fixed on Ying. "Besides, big sis, you and Hiying‑sis have the same pink hair color! We might have been family five hundred years ago! We're kin!"

Ying watched Ling wriggle in her older sister's arms, and the curve of her mouth relaxed slightly.

Compared to the carefully controlled gentle smile she had shown before, this curve carried an extra layer of genuine warmth.

Ling, still held in her older sister's arms, insisted on waving at her, and the scene overlapped for a moment with a distant afternoon from her memory—back then Ling had been the same, pressed into her sister's embrace and forbidden to chase a butterfly, only to slip out from under her sister's arm, waving at the butterfly and shouting, "Big sis, quick, look at its wings—they're blue!"

She pressed that memory away, then, without changing her expression, moved her right hand off the bag's lid, her fingertip lightly touching the cherry‑blossom‑patterned cloth dangling from the knife hilt's end, unfolded the fabric a little so Ling could see the pattern clearly.

The knife is real.

Her voice remained soft, but with a hint of nonchalance: "However, it's not sharpened. It's mainly decorative. If you're interested, you can take a closer look—no need to lean on the table."

Ling froze for a second in her older sister's arms, then let out a restrained 'Yah—' scream, turned her head, and grabbed her older sister's collar, shaking her wildly: "Big sis, big sis, big sis, she said I can take a closer look! She said I can!"

Then, in about 0.3 seconds, she broke free from her older sister's embrace, sat back down in the chair with a perfectly proper posture, hands back on her knees, this time deliberately smoothing her skirt, sitting prim and proper—except her toes tapped the floor frantically, betraying her inner excitement.

Bachongying watched her younger sister's smooth 'from crazy rabbit to obedient rabbit' routine, silently withdrew the arm she had just draped over her sister's shoulder, rubbed her temples, then gave Ying a look that said, 'You're spoiling her too much,' though the corners of her own eyes couldn't help but crinkle.

Ling leaned in to examine the knife's details, her nose about twenty centimeters from the hilt, scrutinizing it closely—from the non‑slip texture on the handle to the grain on the blade, the cherry‑blossom pattern on the decorative cloth, and the dangling red tassels—she took it all in, murmuring softly, "Is this pattern hand‑drawn or engraved?" "The tassel material is so special." "This knife's color scheme resembles my older sister's hair." At the end she suddenly lifted her head, her overly bright large eyes fixed on Ying, and asked a question Ying had never expected.

"Hiying‑sis, do you often cosplay as well? Do you frequently go to comic conventions? Any favorite characters you especially like? Is that uniform you're wearing a cosplay outfit, or is it your own everyday style? That bow tie looks lovely—I always tie mine crooked. And your gloves——"

She pointed to Ying's black‑and‑red half‑finger gloves and continued, '——The patchwork design of these gloves is really unique! Only the back of the hand has fabric, the fingers are exposed—wouldn't that be uncomfortable? When I last wore half‑finger gloves, my palms got sweaty; Hiying‑sis, how breathable are your gloves?'

This barrage of questions poured from Ling's mouth at the rate of a submachine gun, each one fired almost without pause, as if she were delivering a solo stand‑up routine by way of interrogation.

Ying listened quietly to all of Ling's questions.

Then she tilted her head slightly, and a fleeting, barely perceptible bewilderment crossed her gray‑purple eyes.

Comic convention.

Character.

Cosplay outfit.

Everyday style.

Each of those terms was familiar to her on its own, but once Ling strung them together, she realized how little she could actually answer.

She had a rough idea of what cosplay was; in the past her younger sister seemed quite fond of it.

Ling used to be like that too.

She would tug at her sleeve to show her character photos from magazines, and excitedly tell her which character's clothes looked nice, which weapon was cool, and which hairstyle resembled her older sister's.

Back then she would listen, occasionally nodding or saying, "This looks nice," but in fact she rarely remembered most of it.

All she retained was how Ling's eyes would shine and her voice turn sweet when she talked about this, how she would spin in place when excited, her skirt flaring like an opened flower.

But now, sitting opposite Ling and faced with those concrete questions, she found only a vague outline of light and shadow left in her mind; the specifics were like a water‑soaked old newspaper, the ink blurred into a uniform stain.

Her right hand tensed unconsciously, fingertips pressing slightly into her palm.

Then she relaxed her hand, lifted her eyelashes, and kept the curve of her mouth at that gentle level.

"Actually, I haven't had much exposure to it."

Ying's voice kept its steady tone, but her speech slowed just a tad: "Back when someone at home liked these things, I'd watched a little. I don't know them well."

That answer was honest to the point of being almost dangerous.

But the closer a lie is to the truth, the safer it is, and she had plenty of experience in that regard.

"Um—someone at home likes it? Is it the older sister or the younger sister?" Ling asked, tilting her head.

"... The younger sister."

"Ahhh, that's great! It's the younger sister!"

Ling clasped her hands, her eyes practically sparkling with stars, and exclaimed, "Having a sister who'd watch anime with you is just too happy, isn't it! Hiying‑sis, what character does your younger sister like? Is it the same one you cosplay as? Did she come with you today? Can I meet her? Maybe we could become good friends! I don't have any girl friends I can talk cosplay with—all the girls in my class chase boy bands; when I talk figurines with them they talk idols, when I talk props they talk chart‑ranking, I'm miserable——"

She clutched her chest in an exaggerated 'grief‑stricken' gesture, then Bachongying lightly tapped her forehead with a rolled‑up magazine.

"Ling. You asked too many questions all at once."

Bachongying put the magazine back on the table, her teal‑blue eyes tinged with faint resignation: "Let them answer one by one."

Ying watched Ling cover her forehead, looking pouty and aggrieved as she pursed her lips at her older sister, and the curve of her mouth relaxed a little more.

This time she didn't manage to hide it.

But she quickly brushed her hair beside her ear, using the motion to cover up that extra smile.

"She's gone."

Her voice was soft, her tone flat.

As soon as those words left her mouth, Ling's hand stopped covering her forehead, and Bachongying's hand, which had been flipping through the magazine, paused slightly.

The air in that little booth area of the train carriage seemed to freeze in that instant, even the clack of the wheels on the rails sounding unusually clear.

Ying realized her wording might have created ambiguity.