The day had been sunny, but rain fell by nightfall. The next morning dawned clear. Su Qingci opened the window early, breathing in the scent of sunlight drying the damp earth.
They had gone to bed early last night, yet slept late. Su Qingci lay with her back to Pei Jingchen, staring blankly at the wardrobe in the distance for what felt like hours. When he finally drifted off, a vague silhouette appeared in her dream—unrecognizable, yet he sensed it was him.
He saw himself crouched in a corner of the room, covered in wounds. The slightest sound made him flinch in terror. His thin back trembled violently. Bruises in shades of red and purple marred his arms—some from days past, others fresh from today. Suddenly, the door burst open violently from the outside. The small figure trembled violently as the woman stormed in, the minty scent of cigarettes enveloping him. Immediately following her entrance came a slap filled with bone-deep hatred.
“Son of a devil! You only bring harm to yourself and others! Why don’t you just die! It’s all your fault! I hate you so much! You shouldn’t have been born! You have no right to live!”
Su Qingci jolted awake from his dream. Daylight streamed in.
Turning to the other side of the bed, it was empty. Pei Jingchen never lingered in bed.
Ninety years old. Did he deserve to live to ninety?
Su Qingci gazed at the vibrant, eye-catching caladium in the neighborhood flowerbed, its kaleidoscope of colors as beautiful as an oil painting.
He didn’t deserve it.
Su Qingci crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash. Ascending to the second floor, he passed the white piano—purely decorative, never played. When had he last lifted its lid? Years ago!
Su Qingci had an extreme temper that often took out on the innocent. After Pei Jingchen played at his college graduation ceremony, they had a huge fight that night. Su Qingci stormed out after breaking up with him, returning here and nearly smashing the piano in frustration.
Pei Jingchen called out to Su Qingci while searching for him. Spotting the figure seated on the piano stool, he smiled and asked, “Play something?”
Su Qingci replied, “It’s been too long. I’ve forgotten how.” His gaze shifted to Pei Jingchen. “You play something.”
Pei Jingchen was caught off guard, then pressed abruptly, ” Me?”
Su Qingci remembered again—that argument where he’d harshly demanded why Pei Jingchen played the piano. Pei Jingchen had looked bewildered, asking why he couldn’t play. Su Qingci had sneered, questioning the meaning behind “Autumn Whispers,” sarcastically praising how beautifully he played and how lovely the piece was.
Finally, Pei Jingchen told him to stop being unreasonable. Enraged, he declared he’d never touch the piano again and never wanted to hear its sound!
Was it an argument? There was no rationality. With rationality, he’d have understood. Finally, Pei Jingchen told him to stop being unreasonable. Enraged, Su Qingci declared he would never play the piano again—never let the sound of it reach his ears!
Arguments? They lack reason. How could they be arguments otherwise? Su Qingci had once scoffed at the female leads in romantic dramas who cried, “I won’t listen! I won’t listen! I won’t listen!” Only when it happened to him did he understand that feeling. Some things could be said plainly, but instead they were said backwards, or not said at all. They stubbornly forced the other to guess, to admit their own mistakes.
Su Qingci almost forgot—perhaps it was a side effect of the medication—that his once-sharp, calculating mind had grown dull.
Seeing Pei Jingchen’s anxiously fearful expression, Su Qingci felt both amused and exasperated. He wondered how fiercely stubborn and reckless he must have been back then to leave him with PTSD that still lingered today.
“The piano piece you played at your college graduation ceremony was quite beautiful.” Su Qingci didn’t want to dwell on it anymore. He was trying to make peace with the world—if he could let go of Pei Jingchen, what else was there to hold onto?
Pei Jingchen retorted, “Didn’t you say it was awful? Utterly dreadful.”
“I was just venting. Don’t take it seriously.” Su Qingci moved aside from the piano bench. “Sit down.”
“I haven’t played in ages either.” Pei Jingchen glanced at his fingernails before smiling. “My mom forced me to learn piano as a kid. I got scolded constantly. You know I only ever liked banging on keyboards.”
Su Qingci froze.
Pei Jingchen continued, “You said piano sounds awful, that you absolutely detest it above all else. If my childhood self heard that, I’d be so moved I’d shed tears of joy, swear brotherhood with you in the peach garden, and drag you into my ‘Pianos Should Disappear from the World’ chat group.”
“Pei Jingchen.” Su Qingci’s tone grew urgent. “Your mother taught you piano?”
Pei Jingchen nodded.
Su Qingci stared speechless for a long moment before finally processing, “Not Mu Yao?”
This time, it was Pei Jingchen’s turn to stare in disbelief: “What?”
Su Qingci was slow to react, but the sharp-witted Pei Jingchen had already pieced together the truth through deduction. He couldn’t help but feel both amused and exasperated: “You thought Mu Yao taught me piano?”
No wonder! He’d never understood why Su Qingci had reacted so strongly back then. Turns out it was all a misunderstanding. She’d thought he’d played a piece on the piano Mu Yao taught him during such a solemn and memorable moment as the graduation ceremony. No wonder!
Pei Jingchen said, “My mom plays the piano very well. She even competed and won awards. Didn’t you know?”
I know, I know. Su Qingci said, “Back when you were in your senior year of high school, I went to your school to find you one day. You were sitting on the piano bench in the music room with Mu Yao, and he was teaching you how to read sheet music…”
Pei Jingchen was confused: “Did that really happen?”
Su Qingci didn’t press him, giving Pei Jingchen time to recall slowly. After all, he had an photographic memory for code but forgot human interactions the moment he turned away—it was just a matter of getting used to it.
Pei Jingchen said his hands were rusty after years without playing, and it would surely sound awful. He didn’t want to pollute Su Qingci’s ears, so he’d practice more before performing.
Lunch was sesame-sauce cold noodles. Afterward, Pei Jingchen brewed cooling mung bean soup. Su Qingci added sugar to his bowl, sipping the refreshing broth with satisfaction. The afternoon brought no drowsiness, so Su Qingci strolled through the neighborhood until sunset. Pei Jingchen asked if he felt hot and suggested carrying a parasol next time.
The living room was bathed in brilliant sunset hues. Su Qingci found himself inexplicably thinking of “sunset glow.” His daily routine of eating and sleeping, followed by post-meal strolls, did indeed resemble that of a retired elder.
Dinner consisted of multigrain purple rice porridge and two side dishes: crisp cucumber, dried tofu skin, wood ear mushrooms, and tofu. Pei Jingchen helped prepare the bathwater. Su Qingci soaked in the tub for fifteen minutes. Just as drowsiness overtook her, Pei Jingchen suddenly pounded on the door outside. Startled, Su Qingci nearly slipped and fell into the tub, nearly drowning. “What is it?”
If it weren’t for a major emergency like the neighbor’s house catching fire and threatening to spread, he would have thrown a fit—for real!
The frosted glass window reflected Pei Jingchen’s enlightened silhouette: “I remembered.”
Su Qingci: “Huh?”
Pei Jingchen: “Mu Yao was teaching her cousin how to play the piano. He complained to me that the kid was too slow to learn. I suggested maybe his teaching method was wrong, so he demonstrated the lesson to me.”
Su Qingci: “…”
Pei Jingchen: “It’s the truth! It sounds a bit far-fetched, but that’s exactly what happened. Believe me, I’m not lying.”
Su Qingci: “…”
Pei Jingchen: “Mu Yao played himself, and I played his cousin. Unfortunately, you saw us—and took it out of context.”
Su Qingci: “Pei Jingchen.”
Pei Jingchen: “I’m here. What’s up? Finished showering? Not enough towels? I left three on the counter. Be careful, the floor’s wet—don’t slip. Can I come in?”
Su Qingci: “Get lost!”
*
Stepping out of the bathroom, Pei Jingchen was waiting with the hair dryer ready.
Su Qingci took it, saying he didn’t need help drying his hair. After a few seconds of hesitation, Pei Jingchen handed it back: “You have your hospital follow-up tomorrow.”
It took a long time—long enough for Su Qingci to finish drying his hair and down an entire cup of hot soy milk—before he finally murmured, “Mm.”
It was faint, almost inaudible, its abruptness all the more jarring after such a long delay. But Pei Jingchen heard it clearly. The weight that had been hanging over his heart dropped back into place with a thud. Su Qingci would never know the overwhelming relief that word “mhm” brought him—a joy a hundred times greater than signing the contract with Nari Games.
A single, casual “Mm-hmm” outweighed Lingyue’s fifty billion yuan revenue. This wasn’t a word worth a thousand gold—it was a word worth fifty billion. Pei Jingchen told himself, “That’s all you’re capable of.”
The next day, at the hospital follow-up, Su Qingci mechanically complied with the doctors, nurses, and Pei Jingchen’s expectations, undergoing a series of blood tests, lab work, and ultrasounds. Glancing at the “severe” diagnosis on the computer screen, Su Qingci felt no particular emotion. Pei Jingchen handled all communication with the doctor.
Doctor: “The previous surgery was successful, but postoperative reactions vary from person to person.”
Pei Jingchen’s face paled. “Is it serious?”
The doctor answered one question, and Pei Jingchen pressed with two more. Su Qingci glanced at the clock, thinking to herself: Thank goodness this is a customer-first private hospital with attentive service. Otherwise, with Pei Jingchen’s line of questioning, the patients waiting in line behind them would have erupted long ago.
Doctor: “Open-chest surgery is major. We can’t rule out postoperative complications like lung or kidney damage in some patients. Mr. Su’s condition is nowhere near that severe. Surgery depletes vitality, and he has pulmonary hypertension. We’ve administered all viable medications—recovery now depends entirely on rest. I’ve adjusted his regimen. Family member, note this: Maxitengtan, 10mg once daily…”
The word “family” made Su Qingci pause, and he couldn’t help but look up at Pei Jingchen.
He used to come to the hospital alone, get checked alone, see the doctor alone, and hear the bad news alone. He couldn’t recall which time it was, but in the emergency observation room, a nurse had asked why he had no one accompanying him. She kindly reminded him he could choose from parents, grandparents, friends, colleagues, or a partner. He wished he could choose someone, but he had no one. Mothers prepared formula for their babies, children entertained frail elders, couples clung tightly to each other while complaining—all had someone accompanying them.
Su Qingci now had family by his side.
As they headed toward the exit, a voice suddenly called out from behind them: “Xiao Chen.”
Su Qingci felt Pei Jingchen’s back stiffen noticeably. Turning, they saw the woman who’d called out walking toward them from the elevator area. Her high heels clicked sharply on the floor. dressed in a light pink suit over a black V-neck blouse. The blouse sleeves were rolled up outside the jacket, giving her an air of stylish sophistication and sharp competence.
Fang Qiong—Pei Jingchen’s mother.