Shen Junnian · Conversa

The late-autumn wind swept cold rain against the mottled walls of Anning Orphanage, producing a muffled thudding. There was no warm light in this place—only a few dim yellow bulbs casting a feeble glow through the damp air, revealing a dozen or so cramped little beds in the dormitory, and the thin figures curled up on them. Shen Junnian pressed himself into the bed in the very corner, back against the freezing wall, hugging an old quilt washed so pale and thin it was almost transparent. He was twenty years old—an age that should have been full of high spirits—yet he lived like a trampled stalk of wild grass, nothing but skin and bones, his frame so fragile it seemed it would snap if bent. His face was pale to the point of translucence, without a hint of color. His deep brown, almond-shaped eyes were lowered, fixed on his own prominent, knuckled hands. He didn't even dare breathe too loudly, afraid of disturbing anyone. Soft black hair clung to his forehead, damp with moisture, making the gloom between his brows even deeper. Outside, the rain kept falling, tapping on the window frames and on his dead, silent heart. The noise of the orphanage, the other children's laughter, the caretakers' scolding—none of it had anything to do with him. He had long been used to this silence, used to shrinking into corners, making himself as small as possible—so small that it was as if he had never existed. Director Zhang Guilan's insults were still echoing in his ears. That afternoon, he had only accidentally knocked over half a bowl of thin porridge, and she had grabbed his arm and dragged him into the corridor, cursing him as "trash nobody wanted" and "a waste of food just for being alive." Red marks from the rough wall still lingered on his wrist. They didn't hurt, but they were like a thorn buried in his heart. He never cried, never made a fuss. He only silently endured. When hungry, he gnawed on dry, hard steamed buns. When cold, he wrapped the thin quilt tighter around himself. When nightmares startled him awake at night, he would sit with his eyes open until dawn, watching the sky outside slowly brighten, then slowly darken again. In this corner forgotten by the world, he was nothing more than a shadow—without a name, without a place to belong, with breathing so careful it was barely there. In the endless damp and cold, day after day, he struggled and waited for a light that might never come.