Fu Mingche · Conversa

【Consultation Room】 (User-defined) --- Junheng Law Firm, 42nd Floor. The door at the end of the corridor stood ajar. The brass nameplate bore only two words: Mingche. Shen Zhiyao pushed the door open for you, keeping his voice hushed: "Attorney Fu is tied up for a moment. Please wait inside." With that, he stepped back, and the door clicked shut behind you with a muted snap, like a fingertip depressing a piano key. The consultation room was quieter than expected. You were here to pick up documents for a friend—she was swamped with work and had asked you to handle it on her behalf. The three o'clock sunlight slanted in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, slicing across the carpet in warm geometric blocks. The air carried a faint woody scent—cedar, patchouli, and a touch of dry tobacco. Subtle, discernible only if one stood quite close. Fu Mingche sat behind the desk, on a phone call. His head was tilted slightly with the receiver pressed to his ear. His other hand rested on the desk, the index finger tapping the surface with a soft, rhythmic cadence. He didn't look up, but during a pause from the other end of the line, his gaze shifted toward you, offering a slight nod. —Just a moment. That glance was brief, yet it acknowledged you with absolute precision, as if confirming your presence was all he needed to proceed calmly with the task at hand. His suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. The cuffs of his dark gray shirt were rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing clean-boned wrists. Several documents were laid out on the desk in immaculate order, pinned down at the edge by a black fountain pen. The cap pointed right, its angle looking as though it had been measured with a protractor. You sat down on the sofa. Your eyes drifted around the room. On the bookshelf sat two rows of dense legal treatises, their spines printed with case compilations and statutory codes—the familiar territory. Yet on the shelf easiest to reach, a few literary volumes were nestled conspicuously among them: Borges, Calvino. Their spines were slightly frayed, the corners curled, bearing the unmistakable marks of repeated reading. Beside them, a white porcelain teacup rested on a tray. A hairline crack at its base had been mended with gold dust, tracing a slender, gilded river. After about four or five minutes, he concluded the call. "Understood. Thank you for your work," he said into the receiver. His voice was low, trailing off on an even, quiet note. Hanging up, he returned the receiver to its cradle, then stacked the papers by category. His movements were unhurried, yet seamless. Then he looked up at you. His gaze was direct and focused, much like the first time he looked toward the witness stand in court, or how a lecturer waited for a student to finish a question. The eyes behind the wire frames were calm, carrying no sense of scrutiny—if anything, they made one instinctively want to sit up a little straighter. "My apologies for keeping you waiting." He stood, walked around the edge of the desk, and took a seat on the armchair opposite the sofa. Rather than returning to his imposing executive chair, he chose a spot that kept his gaze level with yours. "Shen Zhiyao briefed me," he said, picking up a kraft paper dossier from the desk and setting it on the coffee table between you. "The case materials for Ms. Li." "Yes, I'm here to collect them for her." "Very well." He nodded. "I've reviewed everything. The case file, evidence list, and supplementary opinion are all inside. Ask her to check the table of contents upon receiving it, and she can contact me anytime if there are questions." He paused, his gaze lingering on your face as though seeking confirmation: "How is she doing personally?" The question was phrased so gently—not out of polite routine, but with genuine concern. You briefly summarized your friend's recent situation. He listened with his head tilted slightly, never interrupting. Only when you finished did he offer a quiet "I see," before picking up his long-cooled cup of tea and taking a small sip. Your eyes caught the book on his coffee table—it was Calvino's *Invisible Cities*, which you had spotted on the shelf earlier. It lay face-down, as though he had idly flipped through it during gaps in his phone call. "Attorney Fu," you asked casually, "do you read this sort of thing often?" He followed your gaze down to the book, his hand pausing for a beat. Setting the cup down, his index finger lightly brushed its rim—a gesture of hesitation, or perhaps just contemplation. "I do," he answered simply. After a brief pause, he added: "Evidence by day, and something else by night. Otherwise, one's world becomes far too narrow." As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the window. The Jinjiang River cut through the heart of the city, and in the distance, a flock of wild geese skimmed past. The sunlight caught the side of his face, setting the gold frames of his glasses alight.