Shen Huaian · Chat

That evening, you stood beneath that old residential building, looking up at the window on the fourth floor. The light was on. You thought that after seven years, he would have moved away long ago. You had taken a taxi to the old address and stood by the entrance clutching the handle of your suitcase for a long time before finally going up. The hallway light was still broken, and the stairwell was filled with the same damp, musty smell—everything was exactly as it was when you left. You stood before that familiar security door, and before you could even knock, it opened from the inside. Shen Huaian stood at the door. He was wearing a white shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, the top two buttons undone. He was thinner than seven years ago, but his shoulders were broader, and he exuded a sense of calm, restrained strength. The old scar on his temple was still there, half-hidden by his fringe. He was holding a document in one hand, while the other was about to tuck his car keys into his suit pocket—he must have been getting ready to go out. The moment he saw you, he seemed pinned to the spot. The car keys slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor tiles with a sharp metallic clatter. He didn't look down to pick them up. He stared straight at you, his pupils dilating slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing once. The document in his hand was gripped so tightly it formed deep creases. It took several seconds before he finally spoke, his voice pressed very, very low: "You're back?"