At that moment, the Song Siyue in Song Cheng’s memory seemed to merge with the Song Siyue in front of him.
Two voices: one older, one younger—but the tone, inflection, and cadence were identical. After so many years, nothing had changed.
Having spoken for some time, Song Siyue hadn’t even heard Song Cheng’s response. Distracted, he glanced out the window, a hint of dissatisfaction rising.
“Did you hear what I just said?”
Song Cheng finally turned to look at him quietly.
Song Siyue froze.
To be fair, he wasn’t a terrible father, but he hadn’t been perfect either. He hadn’t completely treated his son as invisible. A few days each year, he would remember Song Cheng and send a message or make a call, asking how he was doing.
When Song Cheng was little, he had been polite, answering questions without fuss, and Song Siyue could tell he was genuinely happy to receive these calls.
When had that changed?
Song Siyue couldn’t remember. He only remembered one day, on a business trip passing through the city, he had contacted the Shen family, hoping to see Song Cheng. His inexperienced brother-in-law agreed, but refused to let Song Siyue into the house, instead arranging dinner outside.
He didn’t blame him—his marriage to Song Cheng’s mother had ended in bitterness, and the families were practically strangers. He himself wasn’t the kind of man who valued everything purely for personal gain. That brief dinner with Song Cheng was enough to fulfill his responsibility as a father.
At the table, he lowered himself, trying to show care and love for the son he hadn’t seen in years. Song Cheng sat across quietly, politely watching him.
Sometimes, he thought: if he were truly heartless, utterly selfish, he wouldn’t have felt that flicker of fear when Song Cheng glanced at him.
He couldn’t remember how the dinner ended. He only remembered sitting silently in the hotel afterward, unable to sleep until nearly four in the morning.
That night, he realized his failure as a father. The shame and regret stayed with him for days—but once he returned to his own life, he resumed work, handled his remarried wife, laughed and talked at business dinners, and gradually forgot both Song Cheng and the lingering guilt.
Song Cheng had left home at nineteen. Song Siyue had last tried to see him when Song Cheng was sixteen. Perhaps there really was a connection between father and son—after so many years apart, he still recognized subtle changes in Song Cheng. Yet, like his shame, he consciously pushed it aside after a few days, thinking it wouldn’t matter.
By the time Song Cheng was nineteen, Song Siyue’s usual messages—normally replied to within three hours—went unanswered for over three days. Calls were ignored. Growing suspicious, Song Siyue contacted Shen Hanshu and finally got an explanation.
Song Cheng was gone.
By all logic, hearing this news should have jolted Song Siyue awake—he should have been frantic, acting as if his hair were on fire, throwing himself into the search alongside Shen Hanshu. But…
Yes, that “but” again.
He didn’t search.
Not for a single day. After hearing the news, he didn’t even lose his temper with Shen Hanshu. He paused, asked for more details, learned that Song Cheng hadn’t acted impulsively, and then hung up the phone.
From that day on, Song Cheng began appearing in his mind a bit more often. Where before it had been two or three times a year, now it was two or three times a month. For some reason, he didn’t contact Shen Hanshu, even though he would have been the most reliable source to check whether Song Cheng had returned.
Four years, two or three thoughts per month—even at this low frequency, it was enough to make him replay all the little moments he had shared with Song Cheng. Rare as they were, each memory could be mulled over again and again.
After repeating these reflections, Song Cheng’s gaze had become so vivid that Song Siyue could recall it clearly the moment he closed his eyes.
It was as if someone had hit a pressure point—he could neither move nor speak. He felt Song Cheng’s look was filled with resentment, yet in reality, the gaze held nothing; it was simply a casual glance.
Ironically, the things Song Cheng truly cared about, the experiences that left lasting scars, Song Siyue had long forgotten. Instead, he clung guiltily to the small, inconsequential moments, imagining them to be grievous wounds.
After a long silence, he finally spoke: “Come back home with me. Everything in the house is yours…”
By now, his initial authority was gone. Sitting upright, the words themselves revealed a man at the end of his rope. Emphasizing that everything was Song Cheng’s was his last bargaining chip: in the eyes of a grown-up son who no longer needed him, this was all he had left.
Song Cheng: “I’m not interested. Besides…”
He looked at Song Siyue. “I don’t have a home either.”
Having said this, he stood, paused briefly to see that Song Siyue had nothing more to say, then nodded and walked out.
Song Siyue sat frozen in his chair. His wrist trembled uncontrollably, so he quickly covered it with his other hand and straightened his posture, as if that could hide his current humiliation.
Qin Wuyan’s assistant brought Song Cheng back home. The dog, Chengfeng, perked up at the sound, leapt to the doorway, and waited for him.
Spinning his tail like a little propeller, Chengfeng circled Song Cheng upon seeing him, only calming down after a gentle pat on the head. On the first day they met, Chengfeng had been overexcited; now he reverted to his usual aloof, military-dog demeanor. This spinning-tail greeting was as enthusiastic as he got.
Song Cheng patted his head for a long time, offering a faint smile. Squatting on the floor, too tired to move, he didn’t go to the sofa or upstairs to lie down. Perhaps influenced by Chengfeng, he just wanted to sit and relax.
Chengfeng obediently lay down beside him, leaning against the metal security door. Song Cheng absentmindedly stroked the dog’s fur, until his phone rang.
Seeing it was Qin Wuyan calling, Song Cheng realized he had forgotten about him. He answered.
“Wasn’t it supposed to finish in an hour? Xiao Li’s already gone. Where are you?” Qin Wuyan asked immediately.
“At home,” Song Cheng replied.
A brief pause. “So… you’ve already finished meeting him. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Song Cheng curled a leg, a more comfortable position. “Sorry… I forgot.”
Qin Wuyan fell silent.
He seemed to hear Song Cheng’s fatigue and, testing cautiously, asked softly, “Are you okay?”
Song Cheng smiled faintly, not speaking aloud, but Qin Wuyan could sense the tone of tentative concern.
“Yeah… just…” Song Cheng admitted, embarrassed, “I… wanted to see you a bit.”
This time, Qin Wuyan didn’t respond.
Song Cheng wasn’t surprised. He was independent and self-reliant; this fleeting emotion could be managed. By the end of the call, Song Cheng reassured Qin Wuyan, telling him not to worry and to focus on filming, promising they would speak again before bed.
Qin Wuyan acknowledged with a low hum, his mood slightly dim. Song Cheng noticed, but said nothing.
He resumed his routine: a nap upstairs, a walk with Chengfeng, and then preparing his own dinner. Everything went on as usual—except his sleep.
Lying on a bed that could safely contain his restless tossing, no matter how he shifted, he couldn’t fall asleep. Closing his eyes brought back faded memories: the old streets, outdated clothing, cluttered department stores, and that heart-piercing phone call.
Children don’t understand what being rejected by their father means. In his memory, the last thing Song Cheng saw was himself, dejectedly hanging up, crouching outside the department store, crying once more, then standing and walking off in the crowd.
On the way back, he didn’t cry anymore. He didn’t think about anything related to his father—he had only one thought: hoping no one noticed that he had run out.
A child doesn’t understand the deeper meaning behind a few words; they only know that one method has failed. Only adults, looking back on such memories, realize how pitiful they once were.
He felt for the child who had been neglected by his own father, and he also felt for the version of himself that, even after so many years, could not forget that moment.
Lying in bed, Song Cheng didn’t lie on his own side. Instead, he curled under the summer quilt on the side Qin Wuyan usually slept, eyes tightly shut, yet his mind raced uncontrollably. Suddenly, he sat up, reached for the bedside table, found his old phone, and powered it on. He opened the privacy space and looked at Qin Wuyan’s photos. Song Cheng immediately exhaled in relief.
Seeing those photos eased the chaos in his mind. He could focus solely on Qin Wuyan, thinking of his mischievous smile, the way he teased him just enough to get him riled up but then had to make it right, and the burning, intoxicating warmth when he held him in his arms.
The more he thought, the calmer he became. Clutching the phone to his chest, Song Cheng slowly closed his eyes—and before long, he fell asleep.
It was then that the bedroom door quietly opened, carrying the damp chill of traveling at midnight. A tall figure stepped inside, gently setting down his luggage by the door. Using the dim light, he searched for the sleeping figure on the bed.
Not finding him on one side, he tried the other. Once his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he finally saw the one he had been longing for. Qin Wuyan relaxed his tensed muscles at that sight. He knelt slightly beside Song Cheng’s bed, not waking him, just watching silently. After a long while, he reached out, gently smoothing the crease between Song Cheng’s brows.
Night had deepened. Qin Wuyan lingered, savoring Song Cheng’s features. When he finally felt he had looked enough, he stood—still without changing clothes—and carefully lifted the quilt, sitting on the bed.
He drew his legs up, every movement careful and quiet so as not to wake Song Cheng. Actions that normally took a second were now stretched, slowed by his caution. Once lying down, he turned to hold Song Cheng—but the one who should have been asleep tossed the phone aside and hugged him tightly without a second thought.
Qin Wuyan froze. Song Cheng held him too tightly. He wasn’t worried about his own breathing, just that Song Cheng might suffocate. He tried to get him to loosen his grip, but Song Cheng clung even tighter.
Suddenly, a wet sensation pressed against his chest.
Qin Wuyan stared into the dark bedroom for a long moment, then lowered his head, kissing Song Cheng’s hair while gently patting his back.
“Cry if you need to. I’m here.”