Her name is Olivia Parker, and she is a freelance writer—at least, that’s what it said on the business card she gave to Henry Foster.

Very few writers bother to make business cards for themselves, which struck Henry Foster as odd. However, the name itself was quite familiar to him. In recent years, it had frequently appeared in book news columns in various newspapers, apparently as the author of those mysterious, mystical works—a rising star, so to speak. Henry Foster had always assumed her name was related to the “Lantingji Xu,” which made it especially memorable to him.

Olivia Parker was actually quite beautiful, with long, naturally wavy hair and a Bohemian style of dress. There was a rare, ethereal beauty about her, especially when she glanced around with a gentle, almost fragile air—nothing like the two disheveled old men sitting at the same table. Henry Foster knew quite a few writers, all of them either ugly or odd-looking, and all of them men—apparently, female writers and writers were two entirely different species.

What drew Henry Foster’s attention to her was that she seemed a bit uneasy. While everyone else at the table was chatting freely and laughing uproariously, she remained composed and rarely voiced her opinions. Henry Foster noticed that she kept unconsciously fiddling with her hair.

Anyone studying photography needs to master a fair amount of psychology, learning to use words to guide a model’s emotions. Doing business in the antiques trade also requires the ability to read people. According to Henry Foster’s experience, such little gestures usually signaled inner tension and anxiety.

But in this setting, what could she be anxious about? It couldn’t possibly be concern over book sales, and if she had some ambiguous relationship with the publisher, she wouldn’t be this nervous.

Henry Foster couldn’t help but feel curious, so he kept watching her. But aside from those small gestures, she didn’t show anything else.

Eventually, Henry Foster grew tired. Writers always have their quirks and eccentricities—Nabokov could only write on three-by-five-inch index cards, Pope could only write with a crate of rotten apples nearby, and there’s nothing in the constitution that says a female writer can’t be inexplicably nervous. With that, he let it go, though her anxiety had started to rub off on him.

The group chatted from morning until dusk, and only after dinner did they finally make some progress. Since it was a fairly experienced team, once they got into the details, the project plan was quickly settled.

At the end, it was just casual conversation, with everyone relaxing and letting go of their psychological burdens, drifting into idle talk about love and life. As night fell, the café grew busier and the atmosphere livelier. Henry Foster perked up as well, and before long, the conversation turned to deserts.

Henry Foster said he was very fond of deserts and had visited all the major ones in China. At the end of 2007, he had an experience traveling through the desert. At that time, he was working with the National Museum’s Remote Sensing and Aerial Photography Archaeology Center, and there was a joint archaeological project in Alxa League, covering the Badain Jaran Desert. It was a particularly interesting trip; though the desert was uninhabited, it was a paradise for photographers. The natural atmosphere made anything placed there look especially striking. The head of the center had said, “The desert turns boys into men and women into girls.” Henry Foster said he thought that was a brilliant line.

He followed the team the entire way, running back and forth across the sea of sand for over a thousand kilometers, most of the time forging his own path. He visited four or five ancient city ruins, took over two thousand photos, and for more than two months, there was no noise or worldly distraction in his ears. It felt as if his whole being had been turned inside out and washed clean, every pore purified.

Of course, that feeling vanished as soon as he returned to the city. The body that had taken over two months to purify was polluted again in just a few hours—one had to admit, the city was fierce.

Talking about this experience made Henry Foster very happy, and he spoke at length. The gathering lasted until after seven in the evening, after which everyone went their separate ways. That was when something unexpected happened to Henry Foster.

They were deciding how to share rides home: the publisher had a BMW 7 Series and could give the beautiful writer a direct ride to her hotel; the two old men and the reporter planned to go bar-hopping; and Henry Foster, feeling a bit worn out after a day of conversation, decided to walk home along the Jiangnan River, letting the cold wind cool his flushed face.

Winter days are short and darkness falls early. At this hour, the riverside was still fairly quiet. He walked a few steps in silence when suddenly someone called out to him from behind.

“Mr. Guan.”

He turned around and, to his surprise, it was Olivia Parker.

“What’s wrong, did your boss’s car break down?” Henry Foster asked, half surprised, half joking.

She smiled helplessly into the wind, a little shy. “No, I just didn’t want to take the car. I wanted to walk with you for a while, if that’s okay?”

Olivia Parker was quite tall, almost as tall as he was. Under the streetlight, her long coat made her look a bit thin, giving her a delicate, touching appearance. Henry Foster glanced behind him—the publisher’s BMW had already driven off.

If this were the innocent days of college, Henry Foster might have thought he was destined for romance, but with more experience, he knew that kind of novel scenario was unrealistic. The logical explanation was that she really didn’t want to take the car, and among the people present, he probably seemed the least threatening, so she chose to walk with him.

But what happened next proved that Henry Foster’s imagination was still far too limited.