Su Yan · Chat

The rain had started pouring heavily since dusk. Su Yan finished work two hours later than usual—a hairline crack on a Southern Song dynasty celadon bowl was more complicated than expected, the underglaze cracks branching out like capillaries. He had to use the smallest needle tip to inject adhesive bit by bit, holding his breath, terrified that a single sneeze would ruin the entire evening's progress. By the time he put the bowl back into the incubator and took off his magnifying visor, it was pitch black outside. The rain hammered against the ivy leaves, sounding like countless beans falling into a bamboo sieve at once. He tucked his bag into the inner pocket of his waterproof jacket, opened his umbrella, and locked the studio door. The alleyways of the old district in the rainy night looked like a softened ink stroke; two streetlights were broken, leaving only the one at the mouth of the alley to cast a faint, warm yellow halo through the curtain of rain. He lowered his umbrella and walked toward the bus stop. Then he heard it. Not the sound of rain, but a softer sound, almost swallowed by the downpour. Like a tiny hand tapping on an unopenable door. He stopped. His ears twitched forward, and his tail tensed under the umbrella. The white tip of his tail gave a slight shiver, and he let out a short, low call toward the depths of the alley. He walked over. Next to the trash can was a cardboard box, half-collapsed from the rain, the cardboard already softened into pulp. Inside the box lay an old jacket—adult beastman size, faded from washing, folded neatly, but completely soaked with water. Curled up in the center of the jacket was a tiny bundle. Hair, soaked through, clung to their forehead. Eyes closed, eyelashes trembling in the rain. So small, curled up to be barely the size of his two palms, wearing an obviously ill-fitting cotton shirt, the collar drooping to the shoulder, revealing a collarbone that was impossibly thin. Su Yan stood in front of the cardboard box with his umbrella, the word "wild" striking his mind like a bolt of lightning. No ID tag, no tracking chip from the Conservation Bureau, no identification of a raising family. This human did not belong to any beastman. She had been left here, cushioned by an old jacket, as if someone had quietly pushed them to this alley entrance from some dangerous place they could no longer protect them from. His very existence was illegal. But he was still alive. His eyelashes were still moving, and his fingers curled slightly. Su Yan tilted the umbrella over. Rain poured down the back of his neck, flowing along his spine into his waistline, but he seemed completely oblivious to it. He crouched down, carefully peeling the soaked jacket away from the cardboard box, then took off his own waterproof jacket and draped it over the little human. He did these movements very slowly, shivering at every step. Not from the cold. It was some deeper memory passing through his bones. He lifted him out of the cardboard box. Lighter than expected, as light as a clump of cotton wet with rain, holding a thin layer of body temperature. He held him close to his chest, using the hood of the waterproof jacket to cover his forehead, revealing only a small tuft of light-colored hair at the tips. He moved. His eyelashes fluttered twice, and his eyes opened a crack—like a morning sky washed by rain. He glanced at him, lacking the strength to make any further reaction, only instinctively shrinking closer to his chest, his lips parting slightly without making a sound. Then she closed her eyes again. Only then did he realize what he was saying. "Don't be afraid," he said, his voice very soft, as if afraid of shattering something, "Don't be afraid, I'm here." He didn't call the police, nor did he dial the Conservation Bureau's number. It wasn't that he didn't trust them; he had suddenly realized: some things shouldn't be handed over. Some things should be repaired with one's own hands. Home was a twenty-minute walk away. He cleared out the incubator, lined it with a clean, soft cloth, and set the heating lamp for restoration to its lowest setting nearby. The little human lay inside, curled into a small ball, wet hair wiped half-dry, the cotton shirt replaced with his clean old T-shirt—the sleeves rolled up four times, and the collar still large enough to slip off the shoulder. He took his adoptive father's jacket out of the moisture-proof box and covered him with it. The jacket was too big, wrapping the little human completely with half of it still draped over the edge of the counter. Su Yan pulled up a chair and sat beside it, holding a half-cup of hot cocoa in his hand, not drinking. He looked at the tiny face in the incubator—eyes tightly shut, breathing gradually stabilizing, fingers clutching the hem of his old T-shirt, clutching it very tightly. As if fearing that if they let go, this studio, along with this dry warmth, would be soaked and collapsed by the rain just like that cardboard box. He suddenly spoke, his voice as light as if he were repairing an invisible hairline crack. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I was put in one once, too. I know."