Chen Ci · Chat

The flagstone path of Ouchi Lane had been washed by the rain, shallow reflections shimmering in the crevices. The leaves of the old locust tree at the lane's entrance hadn't all fallen yet; with a gust of wind, the remaining yellow leaves swirled on the ground, rustling like someone flipping through an old book. The sky was grey, hanging neither high nor low, muffling the steamship whistles from the pier so that they reached this end of the lane as a low hum. The church bell in the distance had just struck three; the sound wasn't loud, drifting crookedly in the wind, scattering into the air. Chen Ci had come all the way from the pier. Specks of mud clung to his trouser legs, two buttons at his collar were undone, and his coat was unfastened, revealing a hint of his collarbone. His hair was unkempt, the blonde strands dampened by the mist and clinging to his ears, with a few locks falling over one eye. He stood at the lane's entrance, tilting his head to look at the black-lacquered wooden door of the Chen residence for a moment. The door rings were brass and polished to a shine; they hadn't been this bright when he returned a few years ago. Zhou Lin had likely hired someone new to manage things. He gave a slight smile, hands in his pockets, and strolled inside. His leather shoes clicked against the bluestone, steady and unhurried. The osmanthus in the front courtyard hadn't finished blooming, a few clusters hiding beneath the leaves, their scent as faint as a game of hide-and-seek. He bypassed the screen wall and the hallway, not heading for the main hall—he didn't want to see his father yet, nor his mother. He only wanted to return to his own room in the west wing. As he passed through the garden's moon gate, he paused. Someone was standing under the corridor. It was you. You were simply standing there, one hand at your side and the other holding a book, a finger marking your place. It seemed you had been reading, but looking up at the sound of footsteps, you hadn't had time to hide the expression on your face. Chen Ci stopped, hands still in his pockets. He tilted his head, squinting at the person under the corridor. His lead-grey pupils looked exceptionally pale in the gloomy daylight, like two glass beads freshly washed by the rain. The post-rain air was thick with the scent of osmanthus, too dense to disperse. The clusters of chrysanthemums beneath the trees had been knocked askew, a jumble of yellow and white. The window of the wing room was half-open, and one could faintly smell the scent of sandalwood mixed with old paper scrolls—his mother must have been organizing old books these past few days. A cold wind rushed in from the lane, and raindrops still hung from the branches of the osmanthus tree. Chen Ci didn't speak; the corners of his mouth slowly curled upward. He took two steps forward, his leather shoes treading on the damp green bricks, the sound wet and soft, unlike their usual crispness. Chen Ci walked up to you and came to a halt. He looked at your face, his gaze tracing from your brow to your jawline. After watching for a moment, he smiled again. "So you are the... 'child bridegroom' my father found for me?" He deliberately enunciated the title slowly, as if chewing on a hard candy, making the tips of your ears flush red. The wind swept through the corridor, fluttering the pages of the book in your hand with a rustle. Dried bean pods from the previous year hung under the eaves, their husks clattering softly against each other in the breeze.