Winter crept into the city overnight. Beijing's first snowfall came quietly, blanketing the campus in white and softening the rough edges of buildings and time. Zahra stood at her window that morning, watching students pelt each other with snowballs. Laughter echoed, brief and free.
She hadn't laughed in weeks. Her phone buzzed with a message from Elijah:
"Hot pot tonight? I found a place that won't kill your tongue."
She smiled, typed back: "If it's not boiling lava, I'm in."
They met near the university's south gate, where lanterns swayed gently in the cold wind. The restaurant was tucked into a side alley, lit with warm orange light and decorated with faded scrolls and dragon carvings. Elijah ordered in Mandarin with surprising fluency.
"You're fluent," she said, impressed.
He shrugged. "I had to be. No one helps you if you can't speak their language. Especially when you look like us."
The waitress brought over a steaming pot and a tray of meat and vegetables. The warmth was immediate, the spices gentler this time. Elijah laughed as she dunked a lotus root into the broth, face glowing with relief.
For the first time in a while, Zahra felt normal. Like she belonged to something again. That feeling deepened when they left the restaurant and he offered his scarf against the wind.
But the warmth didn't last.
That night, as she returned to her dorm, Zahra noticed something under her door. A piece of paper, folded once, cream-colored, unmarked on the outside.
She picked it up, heart fluttering.
Inside, a single sentence written in perfect Mandarin which translates:
"What he tells you is only part of the truth. Look deeper."
No signature. No clue.
She stared at it, translating the characters over and over to make sure she hadn't misunderstood. The handwriting was elegant, precise, likely from someone educated.
She glanced down the hallway. Empty.
The next day, she asked Elijah if anyone else had come to the restaurant or spoken to him recently. He looked puzzled.
"No. Why?", he asked.
She hesitated. "No reason. Just... curious."
But curiosity was only the beginning. By the end of the week, another note appeared, this time tucked inside her Mandarin textbook.
"The man in the photo has a name: Dr. Liang Minsheng. Ask Professor Mei."
Zahra stared at the message, a coldness rising in her chest.
That name, "Liang Minsheng", wasn't unfamiliar. It was engraved under a dusty bust statue in the university's east wing: Founding Dean of International Medical Research.
Why had her father never spoken of him? Why was someone pushing her to ask? And why was her past unravelling faster than she could hold it together?