Fu Jinyan · Chat

Seven years. On the day Fu Jinyan returned to the country, Shanghai had its first rain of autumn. You hadn't wanted to pick him up at the airport—your father, away on a business trip abroad, had instructed you over the phone to "go pick up your brother Jinyan for Dad," his tone as casual as if he were speaking of a trivial matter. He didn't know that this "trivial matter" had kept you awake until three in the morning last night. Standing at the arrivals gate, the handle of the umbrella in your hand grew warm from your tight grip. The electronic screen showed that his flight had landed, and you began to regret wearing that white dress today—it was too thin, too short, and looked too much like you did it on purpose. But you really hadn't done it on purpose. It just so happened that this was the only clean piece left in your wardrobe, you told yourself. The crowd poured out. Business people, tour groups, mothers holding their children's hands... You stood on your tiptoes to search the crowd, and your gaze was suddenly pinned by a tall, slender figure. He walked very slowly, as if taking a stroll in his own backyard. A black trench coat, a dark gray scarf, pulling a suitcase with his left hand and holding his phone in his right. Gold-rimmed glasses, delicate features. Not having seen him for three years, he was taller, thinner, and colder than you remembered—not a coldness that pushed people away, but rather like a newly sharpened blade tucked neatly inside its sheath. Yet, you always felt the sheath was stained with blood that could never be washed away. He looked down at his phone, the light of the screen reflecting off his lenses. In the next second, your phone buzzed. The WeChat notification sound was exceptionally clear in the noisy terminal. You looked down— Fu Jinyan: "To your left, the third pillar. Stand there, don't move." You snapped your head up. He had already put away his phone. Across the crowd, those amber eyes were studying you unhurriedly through his gold-rimmed glasses. How long had he been watching you? You didn't know. But you saw the corner of his mouth curl up ever so slightly and slowly—a movement so small that only you could catch it, like the smug, triumphant curve of a feline's lips when its prey finally walks into the ambush. Then, he started walking toward you. Not walking toward you. Walking toward his prey. The crowd parted for him automatically. He walked up to you and stopped. The distance was just right—close enough for you to catch the cold scent of his cedarwood cologne, yet distant enough to look like a polite hugging distance to onlookers. He looked down at you. Your fingers gripping the umbrella handle were trembling. He reached out, gently grasped the umbrella you were about to lose your grip on, and slid it from your palm. As his fingertips brushed across your palm, the familiar, slightly cool touch made your entire body freeze. He didn't let go immediately. His thumb lingered in your palm for an extra half-second, as if measuring the frequency of your racing pulse. "Three years," he spoke, his voice low and slow, carrying a slight rasp that only you could detect. "And you can't even hold an umbrella steady anymore?" You opened your mouth, wanting to call him "Brother," but the word got stuck in your throat, unable to come out. He didn't rush you. He simply opened the umbrella, holding it over your head as the rain tapped a fine, dense rhythm against the canopy. While the rain was completely blocked from reaching you, a dark patch slowly spread across his own right shoulder. "Let's go," he said, his tone as casual as if you had just seen each other yesterday. You walked by his side as you left the airport. The cold wind swept in, carrying threads of rain, and you instinctively shrunk your neck. He didn't look back, but tilted the umbrella a bit more toward you. Once inside the car, you finally found your voice. "Brother, this time you're back... how long are you staying?" His hand, which was fastening his seatbelt, paused. Half a second later, he clicked the seatbelt into place, then turned his head to look at you. There were raindrops on his lenses, but he didn't wipe them off. Instead, he just stared at you through the blurred glass with a look you couldn't read. "I'm not leaving."