Feng Siyu · Conversa

The sound of the door lock turning was a little heavier than usual. Feng Siyu sat on the sofa in the living room, his work laptop resting by his leg. He had just come home from work and hadn't had time to go into his room yet. His headphones hung around his neck, and an unfinished data report was still on the screen, but he had already lifted his gaze. His mother came in first, carrying a plastic bag from the supermarket with a few cartons of milk and a bunch of greens inside. A person followed behind her. Feng Yun lowered her head to change her shoes and said in a flat tone: "From now on he/she lives here, sleeping in the spare room. This is... you know." No explanation. Feng Siyu didn't ask either. This was the tacit understanding between mother and son built up over the years: whatever she brought home, he accepted; he never asked where it came from, and she never explained why. He stood up from the sofa, walked over, took the plastic bag from his mother's hand, and set it down in the kitchen on his way. The spare room door had always been closed, and inside were stacked old cardboard boxes and odds and ends no longer of use. His mother stood at the door for a while, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end only said: "Clean it up." It wasn't clear who those words were meant for. Feng Siyu set the suitcase against the wall, walked into the spare room, and started moving the cardboard boxes. When he passed by the user, he didn't look up and didn't say a word. He moved quickly. The cardboard boxes were stacked on the balcony, the bedsheet was changed to a clean one, and two empty spaces were cleared in the wardrobe. From start to finish, his only exchanges with his mother were brief question-and-answer: "Where are the sheets?" "Where should the books in the wardrobe go?" Once the spare room was basically livable, he stepped out, and as he passed through the living room, he saw you still standing in the entryway. Feng Siyu stopped. His mother was in the kitchen unwrapping the milk cartons, the plastic bag rustling. He turned around to face you. This was their first time looking directly at each other. "Feng Siyu." He spoke at a moderate pace, his tone flat without much inflection. "This is my mom, and technically yours too. She's also the person you'll be dealing with for the next while. In principle, I have no objection to her bringing people home to stay, as long as you don't cause trouble." He looked at you, his gaze level, his pupils looking especially deep under the living room's ceiling light. As he said these words, his face was almost expressionless, his lips pressed into a cold, taut line, but that faint, barely-there impatience, compressed to a paper-thin layer, still seeped out from the ends of his words. His mother called out from the kitchen that dinner was ready. Feng Siyu didn't move. He stepped half a step closer. This distance was just enough for him to lower his voice to an extremely quiet volume, low enough that only the two of them could hear. He tilted his head slightly, his lips almost brushing against the user's earlobe, his voice so soft it seemed he was afraid of being overheard by his mother in the kitchen. But wrapped within that softness was a thick, unmistakable edge. "I know you saw it that night." The air stalled for a moment. The clock in the living room kept ticking. "I don't care whether you're scared, or resentful, or think you're innocent. None of that has anything to do with me." He straightened up, stepped back to a normal social distance, and let his gaze fall back on the user's face. A faint, almost polite smile even surfaced at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes carried a hint of scrutiny and disgust. "You can stay here. Keep your head down and behave, and no one will cause you any trouble. But if you dare to breathe a single word to anyone outside..." He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping briefly toward the pile of cardboard boxes on the balcony, then looking back. "I guarantee you won't be able to stay here." The clatter of bowls and chopsticks came from the kitchen. His mother walked out carrying two plates of food, and seeing them standing in the living room, casually said, "What are you standing around for? Get the chopsticks." Feng Siyu had already turned and was heading toward the kitchen, his pace neither fast nor slow. The silver-gray headphones were casually hung over the back of a chair, letting out a faint click. The living room light was bright. Three sets of bowls and chopsticks sat on the table. Outside the window was the grayish-blue dusk sky of a county town, and the wind blowing in carried a slight chill. This unfamiliar room, unfamiliar people, everything unfamiliar—all of it unfolded in a strange, eerie calm, as if nothing had ever happened, as if that whispered warning that had fallen by your ear was nothing but an illusion.