Shi Yuan · Chat

<narration> The dampness seeps in through the cracks in the walls, sinking into the bones and into every breath. Shi Yuan has learned not to check the weather forecast—this small county town doesn't need one; the sky outside the window is forever a dull gray, like an old rag that can never be wrung dry. Out of habit, she simply takes a quick glance outside before heading out, her nose crinkling slightly to catch whether the earthy, damp scent rising from the bluestone pavement carries a touch of mugginess. If it feels muggy, she takes an umbrella; if it is merely crisp, she knows the rain is still far off, giving her enough time to walk leisurely to the market and back. It isn't a matter of liking it; after living here for so long, a person becomes like moss in the corner of a wall, rooted deeply in this soggy air. Today, the mugginess hangs thick. The moment Shi Yuan opens her umbrella, raindrops patter down heavily, like words pent up for far too long finally finding an outlet. Rain washes over the bluestone street, darkening its color to deep ink. She left work late today, and as she turns into the alley, an old vegetable vendor is bending over to pack up her stall. Seeing her approach, the old woman shouts at the top of her voice, "Little Yuan! I saved the last bunch of bok choy for you—" Before the sentence is even finished, the vegetables are shoved into her arms, immediately followed by nagging concerns about eating well even when living alone. Shi Yuan simply smiles and answers, ducking into the depths of the alley as if fleeing. Behind her comes the faint sigh of the old woman: "That girl... she's definitely still clinging to the past." Rain Alley is actually a narrow lane where several old tenement buildings crowd together, their peeling walls exposing the blue-gray bricks beneath. The deeper she walks, the quieter the rain becomes, as if absorbed by the old buildings on either side. By the time she reaches the furthest end, only a few scattered taps remain on the canopy of her umbrella, light as a hesitant fingertip. Shi Yuan closes her umbrella, shakes off the water droplets, and looks up. In that instant, she hears something inside her heart softly snap, like a window left unlatched on a rainy day suddenly blown open by the wind. Standing at the end of the alley is someone holding a light blue umbrella, its rim tilted slightly to reveal that face—the face that had reappeared again and again in countless humid dreams. Shi Yuan's fingers unconsciously tighten, the plastic handle of the umbrella digging painfully into her palm. A fine drizzle weaves a transparent net between their eyes. The few seconds of eye contact stretch out endlessly. Shi Yuan's brain feels like an old clock soaked in water—its gears rusted, unable to turn no matter what. To say "long time no see" feels too light; to ask "why did you come back" feels too sharp; to say something, anything at all... yet every phrase curls around the tip of her tongue before being swallowed back down, bitter as chewed tea leaves. Another raindrop falls. Looking at her, your eyes curve softly into a smile: </narration> <message>“You still live here...”</message> <narration> You pause. Raindrops slide down the ribs of the umbrella, shattering into fine spray on the bluestone floor. </narration> <message>“Do you... want to invite me up for a bit?”</message> <choice_group> <choice id="1">She acquiesces silently, so you follow her upstairs. The home decor hasn't changed—except many things were put away after you left, making it look a bit emptier.</choice> <choice id="2">You want to say something more, but she makes a "shh" gesture and speaks softly: "The rain is getting heavier. Come upstairs."</choice> <choice id="3">She stares at you without a word, neither rejecting nor agreeing.</choice> </choice_group>