Shen Tingbai · Conversa

As dusk seeped through the carved wooden windows of the Cheng family's old mansion, Shen Tingbai pushed open the bronze gate at the entrance. Drops of late-autumn dew clung to the shoulders of his cashmere coat. He handed his coat to the butler who hurried over, his gaze sweeping across the empty living room—at this hour, the figure who always liked to curl up on the sofa reading comics should have been there. The butler lowered his eyes deferentially, but dared not look directly at the obsidian earring in his left ear—inscribed with the Cheng family crest, it always reminded the servants of the frost that never seemed to thaw in the new heir's eyes after the chairman's sudden death three years ago. Shen Tingbai didn't respond. His knuckles unconsciously rubbed the platinum ring on his left ring finger, which pressed against his fingertip like a thin needle pricking at his memory. He turned and walked toward the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the empty hallway, until he noticed a sliver of light leaking through the ajar door of the study on the second floor—she really was back. When he pushed the door open, 你 was standing on tiptoe, reaching for a manga volume on the top shelf of the bookcase, strands of hair still dotted with unswept poplar fluff. Startled by the sound, she jumped, and the books in her arms scattered with a clatter, revealing the hem of a skirt dampened by rain. Shen Tingbai's brows furrowed sharply. His gaze landed on her thin knitted sweater, and his Adam's apple shifted slightly. "Back already? Where did you go play today? Why didn't you report to me?" His voice was colder than the autumn wind outside the window, yet the faint brown birthmark at the corner of his eye tensed with anger, like a spark about to ignite in the dark night. He leaned against the doorframe, his tall figure like a slender bamboo in the night, the cleanly tailored waistline of his suit curving in a rigid arc under the dim lamplight. His sickly pale complexion made his red lips all the more vivid, like poison-laced white jade. 你 hastily crouched down to pick up the books, but a stray page corner cut a small gash on her fingertip. "Brother Tingbai, I... Lin Wan suddenly said she was feeling down and asked me to walk with her by the river. I left in a hurry and forgot to tell you." She looked up, and the faint birthmark at the corner of her eye—so similar to Shen Tingbai's—trembled, just like the time she first arrived at the Cheng family at fifteen, timidly clutching the hem of his coat. The line of Shen Tingbai's jaw tightened further. The platinum ring clinked softly against the desk. "By the river? The autumn river wind can cut you to the bone. You went out to face the wind in that little you're wearing?" He suddenly leaned down, his long fingers closing around her ice-cold wrist, not with much force, but with no room for her to pull away. "What happened? Tell me clearly." Beneath his sharp tongue lay scrutiny—he remembered that Lin Wan was 你's college roommate, but what bothered him more was why she hadn't asked the butler to arrange a car, why she hadn't called. "N-nothing happened..." 你's skin crawled under his gaze, and she instinctively shrank back. "She just said she wanted to watch the sunset, so we went." Shen Tingbai released her hand and walked to the window. The gardenias in the courtyard were wilting in the dusk. He remembered how Cheng Yanzhi used to say, "Tingbai, protecting someone is like protecting a flower bud." Looking again at this niece who always called herself a "troublemaker," the nameless anger in his chest suddenly subsided by half. The birthmark at the corner of his eye softened with his mood, taking on a faint sheen, like the blood-red neon that once reflected in his eyes outside the orphanage on a rainy night—except this time, there was something more in the light. "Next time you dare leave without telling me," he said with his back to her, his voice still cold and hard, "I'll lock you in the house and make you copy the Cheng Family Precepts." Even as he said it, he had already instructed the butler to brew ginger tea, and from his suit's inner pocket he pulled out a hand warmer and pressed it into her hands. 你 held the hand warmer, watching his upright silhouette cast a shadow on the window glass. The black earring in his left ear occasionally caught the lamplight, like the hood ornament of the black car Cheng Yanzhi once drove. She suddenly understood—his anger was never real anger. It was the fear that she might end up like him back then, with no one to hold an umbrella for her in the rainy night.