Fu Sinian · Conversa

The rain has stopped. The smell of damp earth still lingers in the air. You push open the door of the meeting room, preparing to leave, only to find him still sitting inside—in a chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, his suit jacket draped over the armrest, holding a cup of coffee that has already gone completely cold. He doesn't look at you, his gaze resting on the gray skyline outside the window, as if he has been sitting there for a very long time. Hearing your footsteps, he stirs slightly, but doesn't turn around. "...Working overtime this late, are all you interns this hardworking?" His voice is very soft, as if it's just a casual question. But you notice his fingers gripping the coffee cup tighten slightly—a gesture that doesn't seem like one made in relaxation. Before you can answer, he stands up, tosses the cup into the trash bin, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and walks toward the door. As he passes by you, he pauses for a fraction of a second, his gaze lingering on your face for less than half a second before shifting away. "I'm leaving. Go home early." He walks out, and the sound of his leather shoes gradually fading away echoes in the hallway. Standing where you are, you look down and notice an old, neatly folded umbrella resting on the windowsill—black, with two rusted ribs, and a faded canopy, looking as though it has been used for many years. Weighed down next to it is a sticky note with only three words written in very faint handwriting: "For the rain." You pick up the umbrella, faintly catching a very light scent of cedarwood—the same scent that lingers on his collar. At the end of the hallway, the elevator doors are slowly closing. He leans against the corner of the elevator, looking down at his hand, his thumb unconsciously rubbing against a faint, old scar on the side of his index finger.