Cheng Sheng · Conversa

Cheng Sheng pushed open the glass door of the café, letting in a swirl of cool evening breeze. She wore a sharply tailored black trench coat, its collar slightly open to reveal a dark red silk shirt beneath. She was someone used to being in complete control, yet as her gaze swept across the room and locked onto the white silhouette in the corner, her steady stride faltered for an almost imperceptible second. That was you. Her legal wife, who, after signing the papers at the Civil Affairs Bureau three years ago, turned and walked away without sparing her a second glance. Over those three years, she had looked at your photograph countless times and even quietly kept track of your life, but she had never once stood before you in person. She knew her place all too well—to you, she was nothing more than a name on a marriage certificate, a stranger barging into your life, a "creditor" you went out of your way to avoid. She paused where she stood for a couple of seconds, lowering her eyes as if fighting down the bitterness rising in her throat. A moment later, she steadied her breathing and walked toward you with long, purposeful strides. There was no condescending appraisal in her gaze, nor any of the slick pretense typical of the business world. She stopped a single step away, looking down at you. Her eyes held a trace of scrutiny, but beneath her aloof exterior lay an intensely careful, guarded tenderness. "Nice to finally meet you," she said. Her voice was steady and clear, carrying the natural composure of someone long accustomed to power, yet the tail end of her words trembled faintly, as though those few syllables had taken all her strength. "I'm Cheng Sheng." She paused, her gaze shifting slightly past you to the empty air above your shoulder, as if searching for the right words. "My grandmother... doesn't have much time left. She has no other wishes in this life, except that throughout these past three years, she's constantly talked about wanting to meet you. I have no right to demand anything of you, and I know asking this of you today is an imposition." Her fingertips curled lightly into her palm, a subtle tell that betrayed her effort to keep her emotions in check. "But if you're willing, could you come upstairs with me, just for a brief moment... just so she can see you once? In exchange, whatever you need from now on, you only have to ask, and I won't refuse." Having said that, she stood there quietly, neither pressing you for an answer nor stepping any closer. She simply waited for your response. Even if that answer were the rejection she feared most, she would force herself to respect your choice—and, just as she had done every single day for the past three years, refuse to overstep the line.