Later, even Auntie Zhao joined in. The four of them sat in the first-floor living room eating fruit and chatting. The house was filled with laughter, the atmosphere so warm it couldn’t have been better. His mother laughed so hard she was bent double, her dentures showing.
At dinner, his mother kept putting food on Jiang Luo’s plate, clearly very fond of him.
As Jiang Luo ate, he took the initiative to keep the conversation going, telling a story about how, when he was little, he couldn’t tell chives from foxtail grass. He’d thought foxtail grass was chives, squatted by the roadside and picked a whole bunch, brought it home, mixed it into the bag of chives—successfully earning himself two solid slaps on the butt.
Everyone burst out laughing. They laughed and talked as they ate, having such a good time that dinner dragged on for a full two hours.
“Mom, I’m heading out. I’m going to bed. You should turn in early too.”
It was already very late. After saying their goodbyes, Jiang Luo left the house with Huo Zongzhuo.
Jiang Luo was clearly riding the high of the conversation. As soon as the wooden door closed behind them, he turned around, walked over, and deliberately bumped Huo Zongzhuo’s shoulder with his arm and shoulder. Then he spun around, animated, and said, “So? Did you suddenly realize I’m actually pretty good at talking?”
Huo Zongzhuo smiled, a lazy smile with warmth tucked in his eyes. “Yeah. I realized.”
In the past, Huo Zongzhuo truly hadn’t thought of Jiang Luo as especially smooth or glib.
To him, Jiang Luo had always been bold, confident, flamboyant—someone who dared to think big and act decisively. As for talking skills, he’d never thought Jiang Luo was particularly impressive.
Only today did he realize that when Jiang Luo was happy—or when he wanted to be—he could take the initiative to make people happy. His tongue was genuinely sharp; he could talk about anything, riff on anything. Just look at how he’d charmed the old lady that afternoon—she’d practically been smiling ear to ear the whole time.
Huo Zongzhuo led the way, taking Jiang Luo to where he’d be staying, and said as they walked, “How come you’re only showing this strength today?”
Jiang Luo walked along, bouncing lightly, reaching out to brush the leaves on roadside trees, shrugging his shoulders from time to time. He looked lively and energetic, though really he was just in a good mood—relaxed and content in both body and mind.
Walking, he replied, “Your mom—of course I’m willing to make her happy.”
“The old lady lives simply. Most of the time it’s just her and the aunt back in the hometown, and you’re often away. It’s rare for you to come back for the New Year. Of course I had to make her happy.”
Huo Zongzhuo said, “That thoughtful, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Jiang Luo dragged out the word, “Who told you to be so good to me?”
“You’re good to me, so of course I’m willing to make Auntie happy.”
And besides, “It’s almost New Year’s, and I’m here celebrating with your family. Since we’re all together, we should be happy.”
Jiang Luo walked beside him, swinging his arms, looking around. “This place really is different.”
Stone-paved paths, low walls, gray tiles, small bridges. Even the streetlights were designed like lanterns—classic Jiangnan style, full of charm, completely different from Haicheng.
Jiang Luo chatted, “Has it always been like this, or did the city deliberately make it this way?”
Huo Zongzhuo replied, “It’s always been like this.”
“Really nice.”
Jiang Luo liked it a lot. “Even though Haicheng and Sucheng both speak Wu dialect and the accents are pretty similar, when it comes to scenery, Sucheng is still better.”
“If I were picking a place to retire, I’d choose here.”
“Buy a small courtyard, put a rattan chair in it, and lie there every day listening to pop music.”
Huo Zongzhuo laughed. “Most people listen to opera.”
Jiang Luo opened his mouth and sang, “Beneath the Silk Pavilion, quiet compositions; within the Bell and Drum Tower, the water clock ticks on…”
It was Suzhou-style pingtan.
Huo Zongzhuo was surprised again. “You can sing that too?”
Jiang Luo laughed smugly. “What can’t I do?”
Under the dim streetlights overhead, their shadows stretched long across the ground.
The alley was quiet, their laughter and voices especially clear on the stone-paved path.
This was a road Huo Zongzhuo had walked countless times since childhood. Its length, its turns—he knew it all by heart.
Tonight, with Jiang Luo beside him, he suddenly understood the phrase “a night bathed in melting moonlight.”
He began to hope the road wouldn’t be so short, that it wouldn’t end so quickly.
He wanted to walk a little longer with Jiang Luo, talk a little more.
After seeing Jiang Luo back, just as Huo Zongzhuo pushed open the gate and stepped into the courtyard, his mother was once again standing under the corridor.
Seeing him, she asked, “Did you get that child settled properly?”
Huo Zongzhuo walked over to her. “Don’t worry. He’s not a little kid.”
His mother smiled. “He looks like a kid to me—still not grown up yet.”
Huo Zongzhuo reached out to support her and guided her inside. She held his hand, smiling the whole time. “Now I understand why you like him.”
“I like him too.”
Huo Zongzhuo listened, thinking of Jiang Luo, and couldn’t help smiling as well.
Bringing Jiang Luo back, bringing him home to meet his mother, spending the New Year together—this was the most correct decision he’d made in a long time.
The two of them went upstairs together, his mother chattering on. “I’d prepared a red envelope when I heard he was coming.”
“Now that I think about it, it’s not enough. I should make it a big one.”
Perhaps influenced by Jiang Luo, even Huo Zongzhuo got a little mischievous. “What about me? Do I get one?”
His mother turned to him in surprise. “You want one too?”
The last time she’d given Huo Zongzhuo a red envelope had been at least ten years ago.
“I’m just kidding,” Huo Zongzhuo said.
His mother got it and laughed. As they climbed the stairs, she said, “Are you copying Jiang Luo now? Fine, fine, I’ll give you one too.”
“Don’t worry—you’ll get one as well.”
—
At the hotel, Zhao Mingshi was drenched in sweat, vigorously plowing away at his senior…
—
Meanwhile, after arriving at his lodgings and seeing Huo Zongzhuo leave, Jiang Luo wandered around inside and outside on his own.
It was a single-story courtyard, even more Jiangnan in flavor than Huo Zongzhuo’s mother’s old house.
There were stone stools and tables, a fake rockery, slender bamboo in the courtyard. Outside the rooms ran a wooden corridor, lanterns hanging beneath it—full of character. Jiang Luo liked the place a lot.
Maybe it was because he was far from the city and the complexities of business. Maybe it was because he’d genuinely had a great time chatting with Huo Zongzhuo and his family that day. Either way, Jiang Luo felt extremely relaxed and at ease.
In that state, a thought suddenly flashed through his mind, and he abruptly realized something else.
In his previous life, hadn’t his factory burned down?
Because of that, he’d been saddled with massive debt and sunk into a long period of despair.
But later, things had quickly turned around.
The arsonist was caught, locked up, and investigated.
He himself hadn’t been arrested over the two workers who’d died in the fire. He’d cooperated with the police, given statements and reports, and then been released.
Wu Dayong from Juxiang Town had come to find him, saying that with coordination from the town, the bank loan Jiang Luo had taken out could be repaid more slowly. He’d also said the district had support policies for grassroots enterprises and could allocate another sum of funds. The money allocated to Juxiang Town could be given to Jiang Luo’s factory.
It meant Jiang Luo had essentially received a sizable sum out of nowhere. It wasn’t enough to rebuild the factory, but it was more than enough to let him regain his footing.
That was why, in his previous life, Jiang Luo hadn’t fallen into utter ruin after the factory fire.
At the time, he’d thought himself incredibly lucky and had been deeply grateful to the Juxiang Town government, thankful to Wu Dayong.
He’d believed it was fate, or heaven, giving him special favor.
He hadn’t thought any further. He’d taken the money and immediately started planning his comeback.
Now, suddenly recalling that period, with a flash of insight—and reviewing it objectively, from a third-person perspective—Jiang Luo naturally arrived at a new thought.
Had it really been just luck back then?
Two workers had died in the fire. As the person in charge of the factory, how could he possibly have only cooperated with a police investigation, without being arrested or bearing any consequences at all?
And what kind of district support policy would simply hand out money like that?
Something was wrong.
The more Jiang Luo thought about it, the more wrong it felt.
After sitting at the stone table in the courtyard for a while, thinking it over, Jiang Luo arrived at a guess—or rather, an intuition.
He felt that back then, it hadn’t been because he was lucky, or because heaven pitied him, but because…
Because someone had been helping him behind the scenes.
Was that really the case?
And if so, who was that person?
That night, lying in bed, Jiang Luo thought again about how, in his previous life, he’d been arrested over tax issues and not released for quite some time.
Before, whenever he recalled that episode, he’d thought it impossible that there could be someone both capable and fond of him, quietly helping him from the shadows.
He’d believed it simply couldn’t be true.
In his previous life, he’d never received something like love.
But now, combining that with the factory fire and his subsequent recovery, Jiang Luo followed the logic and details in silence, and a thought quickly took shape in his mind.
What if… there really had been such a person?
Who could it have been?
—
As the year’s end approached, both the factory and the company finally went on holiday.
At the company, Accountant Xue handled the finishing touches, checked every corner, mopped the floors, lined up the mannequins from Jiang Luo’s office against the wall one by one, turned off the lights, cut the power, then left. He closed the door and locked it carefully.
The factory was the same. Zhang Ningfu brought his nephew Xiao Lu and checked every workshop inside and out, cut the power and water, locked the doors, and left a security guard and two dogs to watch the gate.
The mall couldn’t close yet—it would only shut down the day before New Year’s Eve—so staff were still on duty. Those on duty were all locals from Haicheng; the few sales associates from out of town, including Mo Wanzhen, were all on holiday.
The associates who stayed on duty didn’t feel resentful. There was overtime pay and duty pay, plus extra subsidies from the company—a decent amount.
And so, the holidays began.
Zhang Ningfu went to the city to see his wife and son. Accountant Xue returned to his home, where he lived alone. Mo Wanzhen boarded a long-distance bus back to her county in northern Jiangsu. Wang Chuang was no longer busy and went back to the dormitory building of the silk factory.
When Zhang Ningfu arrived in the city, just as he stepped off the bus and was about to go to the trunk to get his things, his son and daughter-in-law came out of the building, smiling as they greeted him, “Dad.”