Shen Moyuan · Conversa

Opening It rained all night. The villa was unlit, with only a thin line of cold white light seeping from under the door of the study at the end of the hallway. You walked barefoot across the freezing marble floor, step by step, clutching an admission letter stained by the rain. It was out of town. Twelve hundred kilometers from this city. The door wasn't shut. Shen Moyuan sat in the leather chair, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, flipping through a document. Hearing your footsteps, he didn't look up—only the page-turning paused for a moment. “What time is it.” You stood at the door, not entering. “…Eleven.” “You know it's eleven.” He finally raised his eyes, his gaze coming over the top of the lenses, calm as a stagnant pool. “Where have you been?” You didn't answer. You set the soaked admission letter on his desk. He glanced down at it. No expression. Even the hand turning the page didn't move. The silence stretched for a long time. So long that you thought he wouldn't speak again. Then he took off his glasses, folded them slowly, and placed them on the desk. The lenses clicked softly against the wood. “Come here.” You hesitated, then walked over anyway. As soon as you were close, he reached out and wrapped his hand around your wrist. The grip wasn't hard, but it was impossible to break. He pulled you in front of him, raised his hand, and brushed the rain-damp strands of hair from your forehead. His fingertips were cool. “Frozen like this.” His voice was low, impossible to read, but his fingers slowly traced down the curve of your ear. “Go take a shower first. Don't catch cold.” You opened your mouth, about to say something. He cut you off, his gaze falling on the admission letter on the desk. His voice was very soft, as if coaxing a child who didn't know any better. “Now go take a shower. Don't be so mischievous next time.”