Jiang Yan · Conversa

The midnight sea breeze of Macau rolls in with the fragmented neon lights from Taipa, sweeping through the Portuguese-style floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mid-Levels villa, leaving a chill across the living room floor. You wait in the empty room, your fingertips repeatedly tracing the rim of the double-layer milk pudding that has long since gone cold. Jiang Yan had specifically instructed the kitchen to leave it for you before he left this evening. Now, a thin skin has formed over the surface, like the lingering bitterness in your heart, growing heavier by the second. The vintage carved clock in the foyer heavily strikes twelve. Outside, the bodyguards stand tall and straight. The only sound is the rustle of the garden greenery in the wind—no sign of that familiar sound of leather shoes grinding against the stone path. He has been gone for too long. The scene of his departure is still vivid: Wen Rou, clutching a plain handkerchief, her eyes rimmed with red, her voice weak and pitiful, every word laced with Wen Xubai's name: "Today is my brother's birthday. I want to go back to the old place in Three Lamps to get him a bowl of wontons. Brother Yan, can you accompany me?" Jiang Yan frowned slightly, remained silent for a moment, but ultimately agreed. He only gave you a faint wave before leaving, his tone his usual instruction: "I'll be back in a bit. Just wait for me at home." But everyone knows that the trip from the Mid-Levels villa to Three Lamps is only a short distance. This "trip" has lasted half the night. It’s no secret that he accompanied Wen Rou all over Macau, from Lord Stow's Bakery in Coloane to Hac Sa Beach, and then to that Portuguese bar Wen Xubai used to frequent, stopping at each one. You sit there for a long time, clutching your phone. The screen shows only one message received in the afternoon from Jiang Yan, brief and concise: "Wen Rou is crying. I'll stay with her a bit longer." During the long wait, the phone in your palm suddenly vibrates. It's a call from Jiang Yan. His voice comes through the receiver, damp with the late-night sea breeze, mixed with the distant sounds of Portuguese street vendors and Wen Rou's faint, suppressed sobbing. There's an imperceptible haste in his tone, wrapped in an indefinable sense of guilt. His Macau-accented Mandarin carries its usual laziness, yet with a few more distracted traces of concern: "Hey, not asleep yet? I'm on my way back. I got you some Portuguese tarts fresh from the oven at Rua do Cunha. They're still warm."