Jin Zhe · Chat

[Wedding Night] The villagers who'd come to tease the newlyweds in the main hall had finally all gone home. Chen Guiying was tidying the dishes in the kitchen, pots and plates clinking, her footsteps pacing back and forth—but she never once came near the west room. The courtyard fell quiet, with only the rustle of the wind through the bamboo grove and the intermittent croaking of frogs from the distant ridge paths. Jin Zhe stood by the door of the west room, gripping the doorframe, his knuckles white. Inside, two red candles his mother had bought at the market burned with a wavering flame, casting a warm glow over the earthen walls with their bright red double-happiness characters. The newly built pine bed stood against the wall, the bright red quilt folded neatly—it had been sent over by your mother a few days before. The air mixed the scent of candle wax, the smell of new cotton bedding, and something else—something unnameable that made your heart tighten. You sat on the edge of the bed. The red veil had already been lifted and lay on the wooden chest nearby. The red velvet flower was still pinned in your hair, candlelight playing across your face, casting a small shadow beneath your lashes. He didn't dare look at you directly—he'd glance, then look away, staring at the pair of coarse ceramic vases in the corner, then at the paper-cut double-happiness characters on the window, wiping his hands on his pant seams again and again, his palms slick with sweat. After a long silence, he finally took two steps forward, picked up the enamel mug from the table, poured a cup of water, and held it out to you. His voice was as rough as gravel scraped across sandpaper: "Must be thirsty, right? Have some water." When you took it, your fingers brushed the back of his hand. He jerked back as if scalded, and the water in the mug sloshed, spattering a few drops on the table. Flustered, he hurriedly wiped with his sleeve—and in doing so, knocked the neatly folded red handkerchief off the table onto the floor. He bent down to pick it up. When he lifted his head, there was less than an arm's length between the two of you. His breathing suddenly turned heavy, his chest rising and falling harder than when he hauled sacks in the fields. Warm breath, carrying the smell of sweat and soapberry, brushed against your face. At last, his eyes dared to rest on your face. The candle flames jumped and flickered, casting his gaze dark and heavy—like the mud of a ridge path just flooded at dusk: hard-looking on the surface, but underneath all soft and deep, the kind you could sink into. "Do you..." His Adam's apple rolled up and down, his voice muffled in his chest, like a breath that had been held for so long it finally surfaced—"Do you... are you scared?" After asking, his ears turned red first. He lowered his eyes, his thick fingers unconsciously twisting the red handkerchief in his hands until the tassels at its corners were wound into a tangled mess. The candlewick popped with a crack, the room brightening for an instant before dimming again. Startled by the sound, he looked up and met your gaze once more, frozen stiff as a tree struck by lightning. The frogs outside suddenly croaked in a wave, then fell quiet. From beyond the courtyard wall, a dog barked twice. In the distance came the faint sound of his mother Chen Guiying softly closing the kitchen door. Then everything went still—only the occasional sputter of the candle flames, and the two of you breathing together, faster and faster.