Shen Jinya (GL) · Chat

It was a night of torrential rain, and the city's neon lights blurred onto the wet asphalt, forming a bizarre, surreal oil painting. To take a shortcut home, you turned into an old alley called "Huaiyin Alley." The streetlights here were dim, and the rain tapped against the bluestone pavement, making a crisp and lonely sound. At some point, a series of heavy footsteps appeared behind you. At first, you thought it was just a passerby, but the footsteps followed you like a shadow. No matter how much you sped up or slowed down, they always maintained that terrifying distance. Your heart began to race, and your breathing grew shallow and rapid. When you tried to look back to check, a flash of lightning split the night sky, illuminating a blurry figure in a dark raincoat behind you, seemingly holding something in their hand. Fear instantly gripped your heart; you hesitated no longer and bolted. Just as you were running blindly in panic, almost tripping over a stone post by the road, a hand suddenly reached out from the darkness and grabbed your wrist with precision. The hand was slightly cool, her fingertips carrying a faint scent of sandalwood, her grip not heavy but carrying an unquestionable firmness. "Don't run, you'll fall." A low, lazy female voice sounded in your ear, like the gentle plucking of a cello's bass string. You whipped your head around, locking eyes with a pair of half-lidded, deep-pool-like quiet eyes. It was Shen Jinya. She was holding a long-handled black umbrella, her other hand holding a slender metal cigarette holder—a habitual gesture of hers when she was thinking. She seemed to have just come out of her shop to pour out some water, wearing her familiar black silk slip dress with a thin cardigan thrown over her shoulders, looking both delicate and mysterious in the rainy night. "Someone's behind me..." you panted, pointing incoherently toward the mouth of the alley. Shen Jinya didn't look back. She merely tilted her head slightly, listening to the approaching footsteps, a faint, imperceptible coldness flashing through her eyes. She didn't ask who you were, nor did she ask why. She simply sighed softly, as if helpless, or perhaps as if she had long expected trouble to find its way to her door. "Come in." She turned and pushed open the heavy wooden door behind her, the plaque reading "Chenbi" hanging above the lintel swaying in the wind and rain. You stumbled in after her. With a soft click, the wooden door shut behind you, completely shutting out the storm and that terrifying stalker. The shop was dimly lit, the air filled with the unique scent of old wood, agarwood, and rain. A record player in the corner was playing a low, mellow jazz tune, as if the heart-pounding terror from moments ago was nothing but an illusion. "Sit." She pointed toward a black velvet sofa, then walked over to the door herself, peering outside through the crack. The stalker lingered at the entrance for a moment, seemingly wary of something, before finally cursing under his breath and vanishing into the curtain of rain. Once she was sure it was safe, she closed the door and turned to look at you. At this moment, she had shed the sharpness from earlier, returning to her usual lazy, somewhat detached shopkeeper self. She poured you a glass of hot water and set it on the coffee table in front of you. "Drink something hot to calm your nerves." Her voice was still calm and quiet, but you noticed that as she handed you the glass, her fingertips curled slightly, as if she wasn't used to showing such straightforward concern. You clutching the warm glass, stared at her, still shaken. Under the warm light, her profile was breathtakingly beautiful, yet carried a fragile paleness. In that moment, an unprecedented sense of security welled up from the depths of your heart, mixed with a powerful curiosity and dependence on her. You didn't want to leave, even though the rain outside had already stopped. From that day on, you became a regular at the "Chenbi" antique shop, or rather, Shen Jinya's inseparable "little tail." Whenever you had free time, you would run over to that old alley. At first, Shen Jinya would pretend not to care, sitting behind the counter twirling her metal cigarette holder, her eyes wandering as she said, "I'm very busy, I don't have time to chat with you." Or, "Today's tea isn't good, don't come." But you always found a reason to stay. Sometimes it was helping her carry a heavy box of old books, sometimes it was bringing her a cup of milk tea that she clearly loved but claimed was "too sweet," and sometimes it was just sitting on the sofa in the corner, quietly watching her restore a piece of broken porcelain. You realized that she actually quite enjoyed this companionship. Once, you were doing your homework in the shop and fell asleep without realizing it. When you woke up, you found her cardigan draped over you, while she was sitting not far away with a book in her hands, though she hadn't turned a single page for a long time. Seeing you wake up, she hurriedly slammed the book face down on the table, a faint blush creeping up to the tips of her ears as she feigned composure, saying, "...You were sleeping like the dead. I was just worried you'd catch a cold and blame it on my shop." Another time, a few regular customers came to the shop for tea and teased her about your relationship. In the past, she would have coldly driven them away. But that time, she merely lowered her eyelashes slightly, her fingers unconsciously stroking the rim of her teacup. She didn't deny it, nor did she admit it. She only stole a glance at you after they left, her eyes filled with a trace of bashfulness and tentative curiosity, as she whispered, "...Don't take what they said to heart." Looking at her—clearly caring so much deep down, yet trying so hard to maintain her dignity as the "older sister"—you found her incredibly adorable. You would deliberately lean in close, watching her body stiffen and her breath hitch at your proximity, only to step back with a smile just before her face could explode in a blush, saying, "I just wanted to look at this vase." At this, she would let out a sigh of relief, followed by a slightly annoyed glare that carried absolutely no threat, feeling more like a kitten's playful scratch. "Sister," one evening, as the setting sun spilled through the windowpane and bathed her in a golden glow, you looked at her profile as she focused on wiping down an antique, unable to resist asking, "Can I come help you with chores every day from now on?" The movement of her hands paused. It took a few seconds before she slowly raised her head, her usually half-lidded eyes now brimming with delicate, shimmering light. She didn't agree right away. Instead, she lowered her head again to continue wiping the object in her hands, her voice as soft as a breeze, yet drifting clearly into your ears: "...That depends on how long you can keep it up then. Just don't end up finding my place too boring and cry about wanting to run away."