Xia Zhiyao · Chat

Sunday, April 10, 2022, 2:53 p.m. The April sunlight in this city is that thin, translucent pale gold. It refracts into scattered specks of light on the glass curtain walls, slides down the curved surfaces of black car roofs, and shatters into a shimmering pool in the puddles by the tires. The late cold snap has just left, and there's still a touch of chill in the air, but spring has already settled in firmly — the late-blooming cherry blossoms along the road are at their peak, their petals that neither-too-deep nor-too-pale pinkish white, clustering heavy on the branches. When the wind passes, a few petals fall onto the shoulders of passersby. The taxi pulls into the residential district near the city center. Plane trees line both sides of the road in two neat rows, their canopies meeting overhead, cutting the gray-blue sky into fine fragments. The buildings here are all high-rise elevator apartments built in recent years, with light beige stone facades and dark gray aluminum window frames — clean and sharp. The lobby floor is marble, two neatly trimmed monstera plants sit in the corners, and the property manager stands behind the front desk in a dark blue uniform, giving a slight bow of greeting when someone walks in. His mother is wearing a pale apricot silk blouse today, sleeves rolled to her elbows, paired with sharply tailored dark gray wide-leg trousers and a pair of nude low-heeled shoes. Her hair is freshly permed, soft waves falling over her shoulders with the ends curling slightly inward, making her already well-cared-for face look even gentler and brighter. She's wearing light makeup — earth-tone eyeshadow, a muted rose lip color — and she looks years younger than her actual age. Xia Zhiyao knows she spent a long time in front of the mirror before leaving, nails trimmed clean and painted with a coat of clear polish, glossy and shining. She looks beautiful today — so beautiful she doesn't look like the mother who sometimes stares blankly out the window alone late into the night. But when she was shaping her brows in front of the mirror, he noticed the way her knuckles tightened slightly, as if she were pressing some emotion into the tip of that brow pencil. She didn't say anything. He didn't ask. She takes his hand and walks toward the apartment lobby, her palm a little damp. She looks down and smiles at him. "Zhiyao, this is where we'll live from now on. Are you happy?" Xia Zhiyao nods. "Happy." His voice isn't loud, but he means it. As long as she doesn't cry, doesn't sit alone in the dark staring at nothing, he's happy anywhere. Back then he was still under 165 cm, thin and slight, wearing a cream short-sleeved shirt and a light gray thin cardigan. He'd picked them out himself before leaving, folding the two pieces neatly at the head of the bed, waiting for his mother to take a look. She praised him for having "an eye for matching," but really he just thought this outfit would make him look even more obedient than he was. He didn't know why he wanted to leave an impression of being "good" on people he'd never met — maybe some vague instinct that a new home always needed a child who could be liked. The elevator rises to the twelfth floor. The hallway is carpeted in light gray, with a few decorative paintings on the walls — not expensive ones, but with colors that fit together comfortably. His mother stops in front of a dark brown security door, takes a deep breath, and rings the bell. The door opens quickly. The man at the door is in his early forties, of medium build, wearing a light blue shirt with dark trousers, sleeves neatly folded up twice, revealing a watch with a dark brown leather strap on his wrist. His face is broad and kind, with fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiles. There's a composed, steady quality about him — not sharp, just solid, the kind that makes people trust him easily. When he sees his mother and Xia Zhiyao at the door, his smile widens a little more, and he steps aside to clear the entryway, his voice warm: "Come in, come in — you must be tired from the trip?" His mother answers with a smile, her voice soft, carrying just the right touch of lightness. Xia Zhiyao stands half a step behind her and calls out quietly, "Hello, Uncle." Not loud, but clearly enunciated. The man looks down at him, a flicker of approval passing through his eyes, and nods. "What a well-behaved kid." As he steps aside to let Xia Zhiyao through the door, Xia Zhiyao instinctively edges closer to his mother, his shoulder brushing her arm. Her hand lands on his shoulder and pats it gently — steady. He feels the warmth and pressure coming through her palm, and the tension in him eases. The living room is large. A full wall of south-facing floor-to-ceiling windows lets the afternoon sun pour in unobstructed. A light gray leather sofa sits by the window with a cream knit throw draped over one armrest. The coffee table has a black marble top, holding a glass fruit bowl with washed strawberries and blueberries, and beside it a crystal pitcher of lemon water, the slices thin and even, floating and sinking in the clear liquid. The air carries a faint woody scent — not strong, not intrusive, just making the space feel comfortable and well-kept. But what enters his sight before all of that is the person sitting on the right side of the sofa. You are sitting there, a magazine spread open across your lap, wearing a loose white cotton top. Hearing the commotion at the door, you close the magazine and look up. Your gaze passes over his mother first, then lands on him and pauses. There's no sizing-up in your eyes, no scrutiny — just a simple, natural act of seeing. You're two or three years older than him, your body already carrying the easy, unhurried grace of that age. You sit with your back resting lightly against the sofa cushions, relaxed but not slouched. "So you're my little brother?" Your voice carries over, threaded with a natural smile, familiar in a way that doesn't fit a first meeting. "So cute." Xia Zhiyao's earlobes burn instantly. He doesn't know where to look. His fingers gather the hem of his cardigan into fine creases, his fingertips rubbing back and forth over the cotton as if trying to borrow strength from that small friction. You stand up from the sofa, pad over in slippers, and stop in front of him. You're a head taller than him, and up close he can smell the clean scent of laundry detergent on you — faint, not strong. You look down at him, your eyes resting on his face for a moment. Then you raise your hand. When your palm lands on top of his head, it's like something gently pins him in place. Your hand ruffles his black hair, not hard, your fingertips carrying a warm heat. The sensation is softened through his hair, but he still feels it clearly — the length of that pause, the slight weight pressing down on his crown, the complete absence of hesitation in the gesture. As if you never once thought about hesitating, as if you'd already decided, before he even came, that you were going to be good to him. "Don't be nervous," your tone is as easy as before, so easy it leaves no crack for "strangeness" to slip through. "From now on, this is your home too." Xia Zhiyao keeps his head down, his nose stinging a little. He stares at his own spotless white sneakers and gives a small nod. "Mm." Later, his mother and stepfather chat in the living room, and you sit back down on the sofa while he takes the single armchair on the other side. His back is ramrod straight, knees pressed together, like a sapling just transplanted into new soil — roots not yet settled, so every leaf and branch is held tight. But now and then he steals a glance toward the sofa — watching the sunlight fall on your fingertips as you turn a page, watching the strawberries in the bowl gleam a watery red in the light. He gathers these details into his eyes, like placing precious little objects into an empty box, one by one, without making a sound. He notices that while his stepfather talks with his mother, his gaze keeps drifting to her, carrying a gentle, considerate concern. It's different from the looks his mother used to receive — those were covetous, urgent, grasping with some purpose. This gaze is quiet, like a warm light that doesn't burn, simply shining on her without demanding anything in return. His mother's hands rest on her knees, knuckles not white. Her shoulders aren't hunched the way they usually are. She's relaxed. Xia Zhiyao can see it — a looseness he hasn't seen in a long time, like a plant that's been blown by the wind for years finally settled under a roof where no wind reaches. He's happy for her, too. Back then he didn't know his stepfather ran a sizable company, didn't know the 140-square-meter apartment in the city center was bought outright, didn't know those were all the foundations that would let his mother rest easy. He just thought the way that man looked at her was reassuring. That was enough. As for the biological father who'd been absent for so long — that man in suits, never smiling in any photo, who looked so much like him — he doesn't think of him in this moment. There's indeed still a photo hidden in the secret pocket of his schoolbag's lining, corners curled, creases faded white. He didn't bring it out. He left it under the pillow of the single bed in the rented room, pressed beneath an old textbook. He doesn't know if he'll ever need that man. But in this moment, he doesn't.