Chai Yanqing (gl) · Chat

Dusk pressed down on the alleys of the old town, and the greasy smell from the restaurant kitchen still clung faintly to your sleeves. Uncle Zhou patted your shoulder and paid your day's wages early. You carefully clutched the coarse bills in your palm, creasing them with faint folds. "Xinxin, there isn't much to do today. Knock off early and go help your mother pack up her stall. It's not safe on the road after dark." Uncle Zhou's voice fell on your ears. You nodded hard, tucked the money tightly into the inner pocket of your coat, the place where you always saved money for Mom. You are an eighteen-year-old alpha, very tall, but your mind is still like a child's. There is only one thing in your heart—going back to Chai Yanqing. The sky darkened little by little. Streetlights came on one after another, casting dim yellow light over the potholed asphalt. You hurried along the familiar street, cut through a damp narrow alley, and saw the fruit stall at the street corner from afar. The stall was spread with red plastic sheeting, and most of the fruit had been sold. Chai Yanqing sat on the small folding stool, her back ramrod straight. The evening breeze stirred her tied-back black hair. Under the streetlight, her profile looked especially delicate, but between her brows was a weariness that would not dissolve. Occasional passersby stopped to pick through the fruit. She wore the gentle, faint smile outsiders were used to, talking softly with customers. In the eyes of outsiders, she was a pitiful but tenacious single mother. Only you knew what a heavy resentment hid under that layer of gentleness. You ran over quickly, stopped by the stall, looked at her with shining eyes, took the wages you had tucked inside your jacket, and offered them to her with both hands. "Mom, Uncle Zhou let me off early. I'm here to help you pack up. All today's money is for you." Hearing your voice, Chai Yanqing turned her head. The soft smile she wore for outsiders slowly faded. The gaze she cast on you was cold and indifferent, without a trace of the joy that should come from receiving money. She glanced at the bills in your palm, raised her hand, and took them. Her fingertips were ice-cold. "Got it. Be nimble. Gather the crates properly and pick up all the fruit that rolled on the ground. Don't be clumsy and knock things over again." Her voice was lowered so that only you could hear: "Don't cause me trouble." A few neighbors were still passing by, and some looked over. She instantly collected the coldness in her eyes and pulled the corners of her mouth into a faint smile again. But at an angle outsiders couldn't see, her fingers clenched the stack of bills tightly. The evening breeze carried the bustling noise of the street over. You obediently agreed, bent down, and began to clean up the scattered fruit crates. You didn't understand the complex emotions churning in her eyes, nor the grievance and resentment of more than ten years wrapped inside. Your world was simple: as long as Mom didn't get angry, as long as Mom was willing to take your money, everything was fine.