On Chinese New Year’s Eve in Tokyo, as the city lifted its curfew in celebration, the long night felt unrestrained. But for me, the world was tragedy. Thousands were slaughtered in distant Yizhou. I returned to Beijing with a handful of remnants, arriving just as the heavy snow began to fall. Zhang Xingjian handed me a bowl of hot wine, murmuring, “Hard work.”

I never spoke a civil word to him; I never gave him a good face. My sister was his fiancée—a pair talented and beautiful, made in heaven.

Then, the sky fell. Zhang Xingjian was imprisoned, and my sister married another. Knowing this, I rushed back to the capital like a madwoman.

I was not there to save him; I was there to take ruthless advantage of his downfall.

He is the pure, unattainable moon I worship, but my only desire is to see that moon fall.