Chapter 14: Winter Sun

                               

The law firm occupied a prestigious office building in the heart of the CBD, its corridors all glass, open office spaces inviting, and clusters of greenery scattered with elegant precision. Xu Shifeng’s office, a corner suite with 270-degree floor-to-ceiling windows, basked in the soft winter sun, warming the space with its gentle light. From this vantage, the bustling streets below stretched endlessly, a flowing river of cars, lights, and the ceaseless rhythm of the city—the very pulse of the “red dust.”

Every time Jiaqi entered, she couldn’t hide her envy. “Your office could double as a flower room.”

Xu Shifeng’s lips quirked slightly. “High places are cold,” he said flatly.

On his desk rested a single pot of cactus. Its name, whispered in familiarity by Jiaqi, was Ruru Bu Moving. She had known it for years, and the name fit perfectly: after all this time, the cactus had grown less than half a circle, stubbornly enduring. Xu Shifeng had personally moved it twice when relocating his office, treating it as a talisman of permanence. Everyone at the firm—from partners and secretaries to cleaners—knew better than to touch it. A single misplaced finger, and one could feel the weight of Xu Shifeng’s gaze, sharp as a blade. Industry rumors claimed a mysterious feng shui master had prescribed it, imbuing him with fortitude in lawsuits both grand and petty.

But only Jiaqi knew the truth: this cactus had been a gift from An Qi, precious beyond measure.

“Only during rare moments,” Jiaqi teased, “does your heart let someone touch it.”

“The thorn is not for touching,” Xu Shifeng murmured.

Jiaqi smiled softly. “Then it will never bloom, will it?”

Xu Shifeng’s gaze met hers, curious. “And what then?”

Hesitating, she finally said, “Do you know Ruan Zhengdong?”

Xu Shifeng arched an eyebrow, wary. “Do you not know him? He’s a year younger than me, studied at the Fourth Middle School. His father served as provincial secretary then; no one cared about him at home. Girls in his class admired him enough to earn spots at Tsinghua, yet he chose to serve as a soldier. Too bad there weren’t female recruits that year—I might have pursued him myself.”

Jiaqi sighed. “History is messy, isn’t it?”

“Why ask?” Xu Shifeng’s tone was sharp. “Don’t entangle yourself with high-ranking sons. They bring no good.”

“I’ve been playing with you for years,” Jiaqi said, laughing softly, “and you’re still not a bad man.”

“I’m innocent in this,” Xu Shifeng shot back casually, though a flicker of concern crossed his eyes.

Jiaqi let out a small sigh.

“At your age,” he said, frowning, “why worry so much?”

She tilted her head, calling him, “Big brother?”

Xu Shifeng raised his brow, his subtle gesture betraying his suspicion.

“Why not find An Qi?” Jiaqi asked. “After all these years, you surely could.”

The winter sun fell thin as gauze across his face, half shadow, half light, masking his expression. Leaning back, he let out a quiet laugh, almost to himself. “I don’t dare.”

Jiaqi held her coffee cup close, sipping the bitter warmth, letting the silence linger.

“I cannot face her news,” he admitted after a long pause. “Even a little. I fear I might lose myself if I know… it’s better to pretend she has forgotten me, and that one day, I too will forget.”

Her eyes softened, but she said nothing.

“I know,” he continued, voice even, “I will never love anyone as fiercely as I loved her. Once something is lost, it cannot be regained. I was arrogant, foolish, believing everything could be seized, every battle won. But some things are delicate, irreparable, never to repeat.”

Jiaqi felt the weight of his calm, and yet the sadness beneath.

“Some lessons,” he added quietly, “can only be learned through cherishing what remains.”

She offered a small smile. “Big brother, let’s have afternoon tea. Good food will lift our spirits.”

Nearby, a café offered comfort and warmth. Jiaqi indulged in her favorite mango pudding—two servings—and a cup of fruit tea. Seeing another patron enjoy ice cream, she whimsically ordered black cherry and rum double scoops, soon paying the price with a sharp stomachache.

“How can you eat like this?” Xu Shifeng said, exasperated. “And not fear the consequences for your future marriage?”

“If it’s unbearable,” she teased weakly, “then perhaps you should marry me yourself.”

He shook his head. “Some things are better done alone.”

Her smile returned. “Then tell me, what of Ruan Zhengdong?”

The playful warmth faded. “He is gravely ill,” she whispered.

Xu Shifeng’s brow furrowed. “I hadn’t heard of that… hepatitis? Hospitalized?”

Jiaqi struggled to organize her words. Sipping her tea for courage, she recounted what little she knew.

The café’s soft music played a gentle melody, “Inloveagain,” a voice pure and low, a whisper almost meant only for herself. Outside, the city moved like a river, winding streets and silent car lights bathed in winter sun.

“Then what will you do?” Xu Shifeng asked. “Are you trying to comfort him—or hurt yourself?”

Jiaqi’s lips were pale, sweat dotting her brow. Her stomach ached, yet her resolve was firmer than pain.

“You are making both yourself and him suffer,” he warned. “Ruan Zhengdong is proud, accomplished. Do you think your pity helps him?”

“I do not pity,” she said softly. “I like him for who he is. I wish only to ease his suffering, not my own. Even if I can never love again, even if it harms me, I want him to be happy.”

Xu Shifeng shook his head, gently incredulous. “It’s never so simple. What future do you hope to share with him? Even if he recovers, the odds are impossible. Do you know the family he comes from?”

Jiaqi nodded quietly. “I know.”

“Do you understand?” Xu Shifeng pressed. “You see the fire pit ahead, yet you leap toward it willingly.”

“Big brother,” she said, smiling faintly, “let me be willful. I will be happy even if only for an hour. I will cherish every moment I can give him.”

Xu Shifeng looked at her, fierce and concerned. “And your own life? Your future? Marriage?”

“I’ll figure it out,” she said with quiet determination. “I’m used to being alone; I just need to honor myself.”

Later, on her way to the hospital, she encountered an unexpected delight—Silk, her college roommate, holding a small child with braids bouncing as she laughed. Surprise and nostalgia mingled in Jiaqi’s heart, momentarily easing her pain.

They shared memories, talked of the past, and Jiaqi, ever practical, arranged a car to escort Silk safely, the child seated comfortably in the back. A short pastry detour ensured the little girl’s happiness, and conversation flowed gently as they drove. Life’s passage—birth, aging, illness, death—wove quietly through their talk, and yet, in the ordinary afternoon, moments of warmth and reunion blossomed.

Suddenly, danger struck. A man, bold and swift, snatched Jiaqi’s backpack. Panic surged. She chased him, heart hammering, weaving through streets and alleys. Fear gripped her, pain flared from scratches and blood, yet her resolve did not waver. When a figure appeared behind her, she shouted for help.

The man shivered, his eyes wide with shock, then abruptly threw down the backpack and the glinting knife in his hand. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the alley.

Jiaqi sank to her knees, trembling. Pain radiated through her arms and ears, hot and sharp, and when she touched them, her hands came away sticky with blood. Her breath came in ragged gasps.

After what felt like an eternity, an elderly woman appeared at the alley’s entrance. She froze for a moment, staring in horror at the scene before her, before her voice cracked through the tense silence:

“Come on! Somebody help! Girl! Girl! Are you alright?”

Jiaqi’s vision swam with dizziness and pain, but the sound of that concerned voice anchored her, reminding her she wasn’t entirely alone.

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