The room card was pinched so tightly in her hand that it threatened to snap in two, its edge biting into Xia Chan's palm with sharp insistence.
Xia Chan laughed—a sound born of fury rather than mirth. She looked at He Huaisheng with cold, penetrating eyes and asked bluntly, "Mr. He, are you trying to seduce me too?"
He Huaisheng's gaze lingered on her face for a prolonged moment before he lowered his head to type: I think Miss Xia's value is far greater than that.
Xia Chan stood frozen, stunned into silence.
He Huaisheng continued typing: Let's discuss this somewhere else.
He made another "please" gesture toward the waiting car.
Xia Chan hesitated, uncertainty flickering across her features, but ultimately walked toward the vehicle.
Just as she was about to step inside, Xia Chan spotted a trash receptacle standing nearby. She paused, snapped the room card—warmed by the heat of her clenched fist—cleanly in half, and tossed the pieces inside.
The middle-aged man remained behind the wheel. His name was Ding Yonggui. According to He Huaisheng, he had been a soldier in his youth. He was relatively honest in character, though sometimes excessively stubborn in his convictions.
Inside the car, Xia Chan communicated with He Huaisheng via WeChat.
Xia Chan: Why did you change cars?
She remembered he'd always driven a Lexus worth over one million yuan—among their social circle, he was considered economically modest. Yet today he'd suddenly appeared in a Lamborghini, and an especially ostentatious red one at that.
He Huaisheng: Borrowed it.
Xia Chan smiled despite herself. Xia Chan: Mr. He, are you really short on funds?
He Huaisheng: Yes.
Xia Chan turned her head to study him. His expression remained entirely normal, betraying no hint of jest.
Xia Chan considered this for a moment before typing: Xia Chan: I won't have dinner with you just because you drive a Lamborghini, and of course I won't refuse dinner with you just because you don't drive one.
The convoluted logic nearly confused Xia Chan herself.
He Huaisheng: I know.
You know? Xia Chan's mind raced. If you knew, then why go through the trouble of borrowing a luxury car for this elaborate display?
Xia Chan grew increasingly convinced that He Huaisheng harbored ulterior motives beyond simple courtship. The flowers, the luxury vehicle, the persistent attention—a man of his caliber, if genuinely interested in pursuing a woman, wouldn't rely on such predictable, clichéd methods.
The car turned a corner and stopped at an intersection.
Xia Chan asked, "Getting out here?"
He Huaisheng nodded.
Xia Chan emerged from the vehicle and surveyed their surroundings. The entire area appeared to be undergoing demolition, with blue plastic barriers blocking off the streets like wounds poorly bandaged.
This hardly seemed like an appropriate location for conversation.
Just as confusion creased her brow, He Huaisheng gently tugged her sleeve and pointed forward.
Xia Chan understood his meaning and nodded.
Proceeding inward from the intersection, they entered a deep and secluded path flanked by bare, ancient trees. Their skeletal branches scattered overhead, carving the gray sky into fragments of melancholy.
Xia Chan stopped and turned to face He Huaisheng. "What kind of trees are these?"
He Huaisheng paused momentarily before responding, "...Sophora japonica..."
"Ah, it's said that sophora trees easily attract ghosts."
He Huaisheng glanced at her, his expression unreadable.
Xia Chan registered her verbal misstep immediately, but apologizing for such a thoughtless remark would feel too hypocritical, too deliberate.
He Huaisheng took a step ahead of her and continued walking inward.
The road grew increasingly quiet, hemmed in by blue brick walls draped with creeping vines, moss rustling softly in the wall's fissures like whispered secrets.
After approximately a hundred paces, He Huaisheng halted.
Before them stood a black iron fence enclosing a small courtyard, within which rose a three-story building constructed of blue brick—weathered but dignified.
He Huaisheng pressed the doorbell.
After a brief interval, a woman emerged from the small building. She stood at the door, scanning the area for a moment, then descended the stairs with a pronounced drag of her left foot as she made her way toward the gate.
Her left leg was clearly impaired, and the exertion of walking became increasingly evident with each labored step.
He Huaisheng made several gestures toward her, but she didn't slow her pace at all. She hurried to him, called out "Huaisheng" first with obvious affection, then immediately unlocked the gate.
He Huaisheng pushed it open and stepped aside, allowing Xia Chan to enter first.
The woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, extended her hand to Xia Chan. "Hello."
Xia Chan reciprocated the greeting. "Hello, I'm Mr. He's... friend."
The woman smiled warmly. "My surname is Shen. Huaisheng usually calls me Aunt Shen."
Xia Chan nodded, though following suit felt awkward, so she settled on, "Ms. Shen."
Aunt Shen welcomed them both into the building and immediately began bustling about—preparing tea, arranging snacks, creating an atmosphere of domestic hospitality.
He Huaisheng signed to her for several minutes, and she nodded along, washing her hands in the kitchen before finally settling down across from him.
The two began communicating in sign language, which Xia Chan couldn't decipher, leaving her feeling rather like an outsider intruding on an intimate conversation.
Finding an opportune moment, Xia Chan interjected, "Ms. Shen, may I use the restroom?"
Aunt Shen sprang up immediately and gestured toward the stairs. "Go upstairs and head west."
Xia Chan nodded, grabbed her bag, and ascended the staircase.
Once Aunt Shen settled down again, she asked He Huaisheng via sign language, "Girlfriend?"
He Huaisheng shook his head definitively.
Aunt Shen: "She's quite pretty."
He Huaisheng: She's a server. She works at Zijin's hotel now.
Aunt Shen smiled knowingly. Aunt Shen: I heard from Feifei that you returned to Chongcheng quite some time ago. I've been hoping you'd visit.
He Huaisheng: I've been occupied recently.
Aunt Shen studied him carefully. Aunt Shen: You've lost weight.
He Huaisheng dismissed this concern with a casual gesture and asked, He Huaisheng: Where is Xuefei?
Aunt Shen: She's attending university classes now. She should be back soon.
He Huaisheng's gaze dropped to her legs. He Huaisheng: Your foot—is it manageable?
Aunt Shen: It's fine. Only aches when the weather changes.
Upstairs, Xia Chan smoked a cigarette by the open window, allowing the smoke to dissipate into the cooling air. She washed her hands meticulously, touched up her makeup with practiced efficiency, and only then descended the stairs.
He Huaisheng and Aunt Shen appeared to have concluded their conversation. He now sat alone in the living room, a solitary figure amid the vintage furniture.
During her ascent earlier, Xia Chan had seized the opportunity to observe the house's interior.
The furniture was predominantly wooden, and its considerable age lent everything a scent of accumulated time—musty yet somehow comforting. However, the bathroom fixtures had all been replaced with modern alternatives, suggesting renovations within recent years.
In the corridor, Xia Chan had spotted a photo frame. Inside was a black-and-white photograph, its edges yellowed and curling with age. It depicted a man and woman embracing, this very house visible behind them. In the lower right corner, faded ink read: 1980/7/10.
Judging by that photograph, the building had weathered at least thirty-four years of seasons.
Xia Chan settled across from He Huaisheng and asked, "Where's Ms. Shen?"
He Huaisheng typed: In the kitchen.
Xia Chan: We're eating dinner here?
He Huaisheng nodded confirmation.
Xia Chan studied him for a long moment. "You trust me considerably."
He Huaisheng's finger hovered above his phone screen, wavering as though words formed and dissolved in his mind, but ultimately he typed nothing at all.
Xia Chan: May I walk around outside?
He Huaisheng nodded.
Xia Chan rose, and He Huaisheng stood as well. She paused slightly, considered the implications, then decided to simply allow it.
The courtyard was carpeted with withered grass, and a towering tree commanded the upper right corner like a sentinel.
Xia Chan stopped and glanced back, asking He Huaisheng, "Another sophora tree?"
He Huaisheng nodded.
Xia Chan stood at a distance, studying it contemplatively.
The small yard also contained a swing—its iron frame showing rust where rope had once been tied.
Xia Chan pushed it experimentally. It released a protesting squeak.
"Can it still support weight?"
Without waiting for He Huaisheng's response, she brushed fallen leaves from the wooden seat, lowered herself carefully, planted her feet firmly on the ground, and began pushing gently.
The frame creaked ominously, yet showed no signs of structural failure.
Growing bolder, Xia Chan took several steps backward, kicked off with force, and lifted her feet completely from the earth.
A breeze rushed past her ears, lifting tendrils of her hair like invisible fingers.
She tilted her head back and gazed upward at the crisscrossing branches of the sophora tree, their skeletal patterns framing the pale, indifferent sky—a vision of desolate beauty that somehow felt achingly appropriate for this moment suspended between past and uncertain future.
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