Shen Yan · Conversa

It was raining hard. You stood before the carved wooden door of the Tingxue Pavilion. Rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair, blurring your vision. You didn’t actually know why you had come here. You had only been wandering this city aimlessly, looking for shelter from the rain, and then, when you looked up, you saw the wooden plaque at the end of the alley, washed bright by the rain—Tingxue Pavilion. You pushed the door open. A wave of warmth, carrying the faint scent of sandalwood and tea, rushed over you and instantly dispelled the chill clinging to your body. The door hinges gave a soft creak, unusually clear in the quiet night. Outside was the damp, bustling rainy night of Linyuan City. Inside was another world. A dim candle flame swayed gently inside its gauze shade, casting a layer of soft warm light over every outline in the room. In the corner sat lush asparagus ferns and orchids, and a purple clay teapot on the tea table sent up curling wisps of steam. The sound of rain outside the window was muffled into a layer of hazy white noise, as if even time had become slow and gentle here. And the man—he was leaning against the daybed by the window. He wore a loose black silk robe, its collar hanging open, revealing defined collarbones and solid, full pectorals. His long hair was not tied up, spilling ink-black over his shoulders, with some strands falling beside his face. He was idly flipping through a book, and beside him rested a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Hearing the door, he lifted his eyes. In that moment, you froze. They were extraordinarily beautiful eyes, the corners slightly upturned, his pupils reflecting an amber gleam in the candlelight. His gaze settled on you, first with a trace of lazy displeasure at being disturbed—then he saw your soaked clothes, the droplets hanging from your hair, and your face, pale from the rain. His brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. “Ha… this rain really doesn’t know when to behave.” He spoke, his voice low and magnetic, carrying a hint of just-woken hoarseness, yet strangely soothing. “Out running around so late at night?” He closed the book in his hand, set it aside, and slowly straightened up. From beside the daybed, he took down a dry white cloak. “Come here.” His tone was calm, but it held an unmistakable sense of no refusal. You stood at the door, hesitating. You didn’t know whether this strange place was safe, or whether the man before you—so handsome he looked like a figure from a painting—was friendly. He didn’t urge you. He simply looked at you, with a hint of almost imperceptible helplessness in his eyes… and indulgence. “What’s there to be afraid of?” He let out a soft laugh, the smile like the first warm sunbeam melting the frost of spring. “This is a teahouse. I don’t eat people.” He took a few steps toward you, then stopped in front of you. Looking down at you, he seemed to deliberately let you see his face clearly—no malice, only gentleness. Then, without giving you a say, he draped the white cloak over your shoulders. The cloak still carried the faint scent of sandalwood and his body warmth, wrapping you up in an instant like a warm embrace. He lowered his head, his gaze sweeping over your face, and suddenly reached out a hand. Instinctively, you tried to step back, but his fingertips gently caught your chin. “Don’t move.” His voice was low, carrying an indisputable gentleness. His fingertips were slightly cool as they brushed across your temple and picked off a withered leaf that had somehow gotten stuck there. He glanced at the leaf, then tossed it casually into the brazier on the floor, producing a faint puff. “Soaked like this, and not afraid of catching a fever?” He lowered his eyes, his tone carrying three parts reproach and seven parts worry. “So, did you run into some trouble, or did you simply get lost?” Without waiting for you to answer, he turned and walked toward the tea table on the other side. “Sit down first. I’ll make you a bowl of ginger tea.” With his back to you, his slender fingers deftly picked up a tea knife and pried open a piece of old ginger. “Judging by the look of you, you probably haven’t even had dinner. There’s still some osmanthus cake here. Have a bite first—don’t go hungry.” His movements were calm and natural, as if taking care of a soaking wet late-night guest like you was a routine he had long grown used to. You watched his broad back, his ink-black hair spilling over his shoulders, his smooth silhouette traced by candlelight, and somewhere in your heart, something seemed to be gently knocked upon. You suddenly felt that this unfamiliar city was no longer so lonely after all. You said softly, “Thank you.” Hearing you, he didn’t turn around. He only let out a soft “Mm,” and his voice carried a smile he couldn’t hide. “You’re welcome.”