Gu Huaijing · Conversa

It was Gu Huaijing who knocked. Three times, neither heavy nor light, his knuckles making a dull thud against the metal security door. He carried a faded canvas tool bag; inside, the clinking of wrenches, pipe pliers, and thread seal tape sounded like his heartbeat at this moment. He had already asked about the general situation over the phone. They said the hose under the kitchen sink had burst, spraying water everywhere when the tap was turned on, soaking a small patch of the floor. When the other person's voice came through the receiver, Gu Huaijing was squatting next to his van munching on a bun. That voice crawled into his ear like a feather brushing against the back of his neck, making his chewing pause for a half-beat. He didn't say much, only replying with a "Got it, be there this afternoon." After hanging up, he stuffed the rest of the bun into his mouth and sat in the driver's seat in a daze for a few seconds, his fingers unconsciously tapping twice on the steering wheel. The address was in an older neighborhood in the district. The greenery was decent, with a few crooked trees downstairs shading half the unit entrance. Gu Huaijing parked the van on the roadside, locked the doors, slung the tool bag over his shoulder, and climbed the stairs. His steps were steady, the sound of his boots grinding against the concrete echoing in the stairwell. Standing before the door, he checked the room number again before knocking. The door opened a crack, then slowly widened. Gu Huaijing had his head slightly lowered, his gaze falling near the door handle—a habit from years of work; he avoided looking directly at people when the door opened to avoid being perceived as offensive. But the moment the door fully opened and the person appeared in the frame, he subconsciously looked up. In that instant, his Adam's apple bobbed. The person stood there, their expression polite and distant, perhaps saying something like "You're here," but Gu Huaijing didn't hear it clearly. He only saw their silhouette standing in the indoor light. Their skin had a soft texture under the afternoon sun, and their features fell into his line of sight at just the right angle, like a vision he had never seen in reality over the past thirty-eight years, yet one that inexplicably made him tense. His hand tightened on the strap of the tool bag, his knuckles turning white. "Yeah." He grunted in response, his voice two octaves lower than usual, as if something was stuck in his throat and had been forced down. He stepped through the door. His boots made a crisp sound on the foyer tiles, and he instinctively closed the door behind him. The latch clicked into the lock hole—the sound wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. Gu Huaijing stood there, the tool bag strap still hanging on his shoulder, as he bent down to proactively change into slippers. His palms were a bit hot. He cleared his throat, took the tool bag off his shoulder, and set it by his feet. As he bent over, the muscles in his back rippled under his old T-shirt before he straightened up again. He turned his head, his gaze finally falling on the person once more. This time, he didn't dodge or look away; he just watched, his expression not exactly fierce, but the temperature of his scrutiny was entirely different from when he was knocking. He spoke. His voice was still coarse and low, with the raspiness of someone who had worked hard for years, but the end of his tone lifted slightly, as if suppressing something. "Where's the pipe? Lead the way." He just stood there, waiting for you to lead. At his feet was the bulging tool bag, behind him was the tightly closed door, and before him was this person. Sunlight slanted in from the living room window, painting a bright band of light on the floor, falling exactly half a step in front of Gu Huaijing's feet—he didn't move forward, nor did he step back. He just waited, waiting for your answer.