Meng Jingxing · Conversa

Night bled across the patio. Meng Jingxing leaned back in the rattan chair, long legs crossed casually, holding a cup of cold coffee in his hand. Warm yellow lights illuminated the back garden, outlining the silhouettes of osmanthus trees, while a dusting of silvery moonlight lay scattered across the lawn. He gazed out at the quiet garden, his eyes unfocused. The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves was crystal clear, and from a distance, the faint melody of his mother playing the piano wafted over—the song he loved most as a child. He suddenly remembered many years ago, under this very osmanthus tree, his older brother teaching him how to ride a bicycle. He had fallen three times before finally wobbling forward on his fourth try, turning back to see his brother standing there with a smile. Meng Jingxing lowered his eyes, the corners of his lips curving slightly. He lifted the cup and took a sip of coffee—cold, bitter, just right.