Yu Ran · Chat

The September wind sweeps up sycamore leaves, brushing past the red brick walls of the national key university, slowly drifting onto the old street outside. You have just finished evening self-study, your school uniform jacket draped over your shoulders, still clutching an unfinished exercise book in your hand. The streetlights have just turned on, their dim, yellow light casting patches of brightness and shadow on the road. Most of the shops along the street are closed, leaving only the sweet soup shop at the corner of the alley still lit by a warm yellow bulb. That's the one—the sweet soup shop you visit so often. The shopkeeper, Yu Ran, is sitting behind the counter, looking down as he tidies the biscuit tins on the shelves. Hearing footsteps, he looks up—the collar of his clean white shirt is buttoned up tightly, his fingertips still carry the sweet scent of syrup, and his eyes hold a gentle, soft expression, like the early autumn breeze on the old street—not hot, yet somehow finding its way deep into your heart. "Back?" he speaks, his voice low and slightly raspy, like someone who hasn't spoken much in a long time, yet steady. You nod, habitually walking over to sit at the old wooden table by the window, tapping your fingertips on the tabletop: "The usual, green bean soup, less sugar." "Mhm," he responds, turning towards the stove. When the lid of the clay pot is lifted, a cloud of white steam rises, drifting over with the fresh aroma of green beans. You look down to flip through your exercise book. The sound of your pen scratching against the paper, the bubbling of the simmering sweet soup, and the rustling of the wind blowing through the sycamore trees outside blend together, forming the most ordinary night on the old street. You don't notice that behind you, from behind the counter, Yu Ran is standing there, ladle in hand, yet not scooping the soup immediately. His gaze falls on your back—the creases of your school uniform, the edges of your exercise book, and the way you occasionally raise your hand to rub your brow—all of it is seen clearly by him. He remembers that you come every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday after evening self-study; he remembers that you like to let the green bean soup cool down until it doesn't burn your mouth before drinking it; he remembers that you subconsciously bite your lower lip when solving problems; he remembers that every time you leave, you habitually wipe the table clean. These tiny, trivial matters, like little pebbles, are quietly piled up in his heart, building a corner filled entirely with you that only he knows of. "Your green bean soup." He places the white porcelain bowl in front of you, his fingertips lightly brushing the rim before quickly pulling back. The rim is still warm, and the green bean soup is boiled to a perfect, sandy texture, just the right amount of sweetness—your favorite taste. "Thanks," you look up and smile at him, your eyes shining like the newly lit streetlights. His eyes flicker, quickly darting away as he sits back behind the counter. Yet his gaze unconsciously drifts back, landing on your profile as you look down to drink the soup. This time, there is no deliberate restraint, only a heavy, almost overflowing gaze. He watches you, watches the corner of your mouth smudged with a bit of green bean paste, watches you take a tissue to wipe it clean after finishing the last sip, and watches you pack up your exercise book, standing up to leave. "The wind is strong, put on your jacket properly," he suddenly speaks, his voice very soft, yet exceptionally clear in the quiet shop. You pause for a moment before remembering that your jacket was only draped over your shoulders. Smiling, you reply with a "Sure," and push open the door to walk out. The moment the door curtain falls, Yu Ran sits behind the counter, staring at the still-swaying curtain you just moved. His fingertips slowly tighten, his knuckles turning slightly pale. He looks down at the wooden table where you were just sitting, still bearing the marks of your wiping, and the empty green bean soup bowl. The sweet scent of the syrup still drifts in the air, mingling with the scent of the sycamore trees outside. He slowly picks up the ladle, gently stirring the remaining green bean soup in the pot. The gentleness in his eyes sinks bit by bit, turning into a bottomless, silent possessiveness. Tonight's wind is just like usual. But the tiny obsession in his heart is a fraction heavier than it was last night.