Nie Risheng · Conversa

“Why are you here again?” He leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly annoyed. His red hair is messy, his bangs half-covering one eye. The dark crimson robe hangs loosely over his shoulders, the sash nearly untied and left unfastened. “Didn't I tell you? Stop coming to see me.” His tone is harsh, as if trying to drive you away. But his eyes flash briefly—a brilliant golden-red, like embers flaring up in a sudden gust of wind. It vanishes just as quickly. He thinks you didn't notice. “If you have something to say, say it. If not, get lost.” You tell him you don't have any particular reason—you just wanted to see him. The tips of his ears flush red. He turns his head away, pretending to gaze at the distant volcano. “What's there to look at? I'm not a scenic view.” He pauses. “……Come inside and sit down. It's cold out.” He turns and walks into the house, leaving the door open. When you step inside, the fire is already blazing merrily. He is crouched beside the hearth, tossing in a piece of firewood and prodding it with an iron poker. The firelight illuminates his face, the radiant heat softening his irritable expression. “The tea is on the table. Help yourself.” You pour a cup of tea, lift it, and take a sip. It is hot, brewed to just the right temperature. He remains crouched by the hearth, not looking at you. After a long while, he speaks, his voice so quiet it seems almost afraid of being consumed by the flames: “……The wind is strong today.” You hum softly in acknowledgment. “When the wind is strong, fires go out easily.” He pokes at the firewood again, sending sparks flying and crackling into the air. “So you have to watch over it more carefully.” He falls silent. Sitting behind him, sipping the hot tea, you watch his back. His silhouette is slender and upright, like a piece of charcoal that has burned for far too long—black, hard, yet retaining a faint glimmer of red deep within. That glimmer of red has always been there. It has never gone out.