Chapter 5: Notes in the Rain

                                     

Jiang Licheng truly had vanished, and the last soft words he breathed—light as a breeze brushing past her ear—had not been a jest.

When Chen Ziyou left that night, she carried with her the quiet, secret delight of a young girl stepping into womanhood, mingled with a shy unease she did not dare to name. She hadn’t even been able to look at his face, let alone boldly ask for a teasing embrace. At that time, mobile phones were still considered luxuries, and she knew he was a graduate student—someone who likely wouldn’t own such a device. His home had been simple to the point of austerity, four spotless walls without a trace of modern frivolity. She hadn’t seen a phone; naturally, she hadn’t asked for his contact information. And so she left—hurriedly, clumsily, rashly.

Only afterward did the absurdity of her impulsiveness fully dawn on her. She did not exactly regret it, yet her upbringing had long reminded her to be restrained and dignified in matters of affection—though she had already crossed that line. For the entire next day, she hid inside her room, restraining herself from running out to look for him, and concealing her tangled emotions from her family.

The following day brought a torrential storm the city had not seen in years. It rained without pause for hours, then continued on for two, three days more.

The old drainage system struggled beneath the downpour. Information traveled slowly then; the news was far less open and immediate than it is now. From the hushed murmurs of servants, Chen Ziyou heard that several old houses had been swept away in the flood, and that people, too, had been carried off by the rain.

Several times she tried to run out into the storm, but each attempt ended with her being dragged back. She had been suffering from a low fever since the night she returned home, and the servants had strict orders not to let her leave.

Restlessness gnawed at her; she paced the house like a trapped mouse, unable to settle.

Yet in the midst of this unrest, her relationship with her parents seemed to soften. They were always busy—one with work and social engagements, the other with cards and her circle of sisters—leaving little time for her. After the truth of her upbringing, a truth too inhumane to say aloud, was exposed, she had gone quiet, like a firecracker that had sputtered out. Her parents tried several times to speak with her, but when she remained unresponsive, they eventually allowed her silent rebellion to continue unchecked.

To them, Chen Ziyou had always been a gentle, obedient girl. She had never cried loudly or made trouble. When something upset her, she sulked for a few days, then recovered on her own once she found a new focus. Her self-healing ability had always been strong. They assumed this time would be no different.

So when, after several days of rainfall, the sun finally returned, and she called them “Dad, Mom” for the first time in more than half a month, they believed the family conflict had finally passed.

After all, she was seventeen, nearly an adult in both mind and body. She had never been the type to cling to her parents, and in a family with so much material comfort, affection inevitably thinned. Perhaps the revelation of her true origins was not as devastating to her as they had feared.

But Chen Ziyou’s renewed cheer came simply from the sunlight and her cured cold.

Around three in the afternoon, she could no longer hold back. She rushed out, expertly switching buses, hopping into a taxi, then taking another bus, finally reaching the old house—her sanctuary, her place of redemption.

Relief washed over her when she saw that the days of rain had not erased the alley’s serene beauty. The bluestone pavement and whitewashed walls looked only cleaner. Yet the closer she came, the more hesitation gathered in her heart.

She paused before knocking. When no one answered, she was not surprised. Young people rarely stayed home in broad daylight; she had likely come at the wrong time.

She waited for a while, but the silent, spotless alley made her feel like she had no place to linger. She walked to the coffee shop where she had spent so many afternoons reading, only to find the doors shut and a wooden “For Transfer” sign hanging outside.

Perplexed, she went to the bookstore next door. The young clerk told her, “The owner’s going abroad. He planned to close long ago.”

It had only been a few days—and yet everything was already different. A chill crept up her spine, as though fate had whispered a warning.

When dusk settled, she returned to the courtyard door. Still no one answered.

A well-bred girl does not stand at someone else’s doorstep for too long.

And now, as night deepened, the quiet alley—so peaceful during the day—became unsettling. Doors opened and shut with strangers slipping in and out. An uneasiness unfolded in her chest.

Fearful, she pulled out a sticky note, tore off a piece, and scribbled: “Where are you?”
She slipped the note through the door crack, carrying home a vague, uneasy feeling.

The next day, again, no one came. And the note she’d left was gone. She felt increasingly like the foolish side characters in novels, yet she continued to make excuses to comfort herself: Perhaps he traveled out of town.
After all, she had no way to contact him, and since she hadn’t come for many days, he couldn’t reach her.

Even she felt how fragile that explanation was, but she could not bear to imagine worse. He was too gentle, too elegant—she refused to associate him with anything dark or cruel. She left another note.

On the third day, she returned yet again, though discouragement had begun to root in her heart. Even if she found Jiang Licheng, she did not know what outcome she sought. She had never thought about the future. “One-night stands” seemed fashionable; perhaps she had simply been impulsive and confused. Yet something inside her still resisted—she wanted at least a chance to say goodbye.

This time, she did not return empty-handed. Though she did not see Jiang Licheng, the gate was open.

Heart leaping, she rushed in—only to freeze.

The courtyard was completely transformed.

Where once stood a simple, rustic yard with a large locust tree and stone stools beneath it—clean enough that not even weeds grew—now stood beds of flowers and potted plants. The windows bore heavy, gaudy curtains; flashy decorations hung on the doors. The locust tree and stone bench were gone—only a flat stump remained.

She remembered clearly tying a rope between the tree and window, hanging white sheets to dry.

Now those memories felt like illusions.

She stood in a daze until a thick-set man emerged—barefoot, in a vest and shorts, sweating profusely.

“Little girl, what are you looking at?” he grumbled.

“How did this yard become like this?” she blurted.

He blinked. “You’ve been here before? This place hasn’t been lived in for years.”

“Who owns this house?”

“Who are you?” he countered, suddenly wary.

“Why was the tree cut down?”

“Locust trees bring bad luck.” His gaze turned strange, sweeping up and down her figure. “Why? Want to come in and take a look?” He stepped aside as if inviting her in.

A shiver crawled through her spine. Danger radiated from him. She fled.

She had braced herself for disappointment—but not this.

At the alley entrance, beneath a tall poplar tree, sat an elderly woman with sparse white hair and deep wrinkles, cradling a white cat. She squinted in the shade.

The scorching sun blinded Chen Ziyou, but she still avoided approaching the woman, instinctively wary—and she was allergic to cats besides.

“Little girl, the sun is fierce. Come sit,” the old lady called, dragging a cushion out from behind her.

Chen Ziyou murmured a polite “thank you,” stepping only to the very edge of the shade, as far from the cat as possible.

The old woman didn’t mind. Stroking the cat, she said, “You’ve been coming these days. Haven’t found who you’re looking for, have you?”

Chen Ziyou stiffened, watching her warily.

“This isn’t a place for a girl like you. Go home and study hard.” The old woman’s squinting gaze traveled over her, slow and invasive.

“Auntie,” Chen Ziyou asked abruptly, “why is it unlucky to have a locust tree in the yard?”

“Because the word ‘locust’ has ‘wood’ and ‘ghost’ in it. The yard hasn’t been lived in for years—it invites spirits.”

Her tone sent a chill straight through Chen Ziyou. “Who owned that house?”

“The one who lived there died last year.”

Instinctively, Chen Ziyou stepped closer. The old woman continued, “A real beauty she was. Even in death, she looked lovely—lying in the courtyard in a fine dress, white locust blossoms covering her.”

“A woman? Not a man?” Chen Ziyou asked, relief loosening her breath.

“Of course a woman. All who lived there were women.” The old lady’s smile took on a strange twist.

“Then who was the man in the yard just now…”

“I’ve no idea. After the woman died, no one lived there. Sometimes there were strange sounds—people said it was haunted. Heh, this alley has plenty of places that ought to be haunted.”

“Thank you… I should go.”
Though the sun blazed overhead, cold seeped through her limbs. Suddenly the cat leapt from the old woman’s arms, brushed past Chen Ziyou’s jeans, and darted away. She screamed, breaking into a cold sweat.

“If you didn’t know the woman, who have you been waiting for?” the old lady asked sharply, eyes narrowing again.

“I… I think I came to the wrong place.”

“You look a bit like her,” the old woman murmured.

Chen Ziyou’s eyes widened.

“Well, not exactly. At first glance maybe, but look closely and not at all,” she muttered. “When I first saw you—you in that white dress, with your ponytail—you looked just like she did when she was young. Yes, that expression. Exactly like her.”

“She… she wasn’t young?”

“Young-looking, yes, but old enough to be your mother.”

Chen Ziyou returned home in a daze.

Later she realized the old woman’s mind wandered, her words tangled, her manner both muddled and unnervingly firm. Perhaps she rarely found someone to talk to—so she held tightly to Chen Ziyou, refusing to let her leave, rambling from topic to topic, eventually prying into Chen Ziyou’s personal life.

Out of politeness, Ziyou stayed, listening to half-truths and gossip she wished she could unhear: who lived where, what the lady of the old courtyard had been like, what strange incidents had happened around her… and more. The woman had once had a son, a beautiful boy, who had died in an accident during his teens. Since then, the woman had been mentally unstable.

That night brought a bizarre nightmare. She woke drenched in cold sweat, unable to sleep, and fled to squeeze into her young maid Xiangxiang’s bed. The next morning, she asked the family driver to take her to church.

The driver was genuinely surprised. In this household, only the old lady had been a devout Christian during her life — along with the old nanny, who remained fiercely loyal to the faith. But the young lady and her husband no longer held any religious beliefs. As for Miss Chen Ziyou, she had always been a steadfast atheist. Every time the old lady tried to take her to church, she would slip away however she could.

Chen Ziyou had never believed in God. But in her recent confusion and fear, instinct led her to cling to divine protection. The moment she knelt before the holy icon, staying there for a full hour, something inside her slowly calmed, and her chaotic thoughts began to settle.

She sorted through everything that had happened over the past few months and pushed it all onto fate—heaven’s will, life’s uncertainty, the whims of ghosts and spirits. By placing the inexplicable into forces beyond human understanding, she felt her heart steady, if only a little.

Her parents noticed her gradual changes. Their daughter no longer wandered aimlessly through the house like a drifting soul. Wherever she went, she now brought a driver or servant with her. She visited church twice a week. She often urged the driver to take her to remote mountains dozens of kilometers away just to climb. At home, she read quietly, watched discs, and sometimes closed herself inside her room to sing softly.

She had never behaved so obediently, so calmly. Her life had never looked so... positive.

Except her face was growing paler and thinner, and she spoke less and less.

But there were reasons — the strain she had faced, the silent emotional breaks. They vaguely knew she had cut ties with her closest friends, both male and female, and assumed her quiet gloom was natural.

All they felt they could do now was offer more material comfort and tread gently around her emotions.

This child had always been worry-free. Since youth, she burdened no one; she never shared her inner troubles. She kept everything locked inside, so much so that her parents no longer knew how to reach her.

But the household servants did not think she was “normal.”

Driver Lao Liu said, “Miss went to church just yesterday. Today I accompanied her to the mountain temple — she burned incense, donated money. On the way home, she asked me if there were any special rules for visiting the mosque.”

Nanny Wang Ma said, “Maybe Miss Xiaoyu is studying religion lately? She’s had many hobbies since childhood. But something felt strange. Today when I cleaned her room, I found the book she’s been reading these days — ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio’ — and she even bought multiple versions. Lao Liu, remember how scared Miss Xiaoyou was of that TV series when she was small? Whenever it came on, she’d cover her ears and run away. After that, the old gentleman banned the series in the house so it wouldn’t frighten her. But now she’s not afraid?”

The young helper Xiangxiang added, “Miss hasn’t been sleeping well. She often comes to my room in the middle of the night saying she keeps dreaming and can’t sleep.”

The three exchanged troubled sighs.

Lao Liu said, “Too much happened in this family this year. Miss Xiaoyou kept herself together only because she was busy studying. Now her strength has run out. She had the best bond with the old lady and with Mother Liu. Yet she was the one who cried the least.”

Wang Ma nodded. “Yes. The young lady looks delicate but has a stubborn temperament. Breaking up with a friend she’s known for years — anyone else’s girl would cry for days. But our young lady didn’t shed a single tear, didn’t tell anyone, just endured it. I only found out while grocery shopping when Qiao Xiaolin mentioned it.”

Xiangxiang said, “Miss isn’t always sad. Just now when I entered her room, she had a sheet wrapped around her shoulders, her hair tied up, singing along while playing a DVD. It sounded beautiful. It’s the first time I’ve seen her practicing such old-style opera.”

Wang Ma frowned. “Old plays? The young lady doesn’t like traditional Chinese operas — Peking Opera, Yue Opera, Huangmei Opera — none of them. She likes Western opera and symphonies. The old lady always joked that she would fall asleep listening to Yue opera at the theater, saying she worshipped foreign things.”

Xiangxiang said, “It was an old black-and-white performance. I asked her what she was singing. She said it was Mei Lanfang’s ‘Dream in the Garden’ — Kunqu Opera — and told me to listen when I had time.”

Wang Ma muttered anxiously, “Strange… very strange. Lao Liu, you read a lot. What is ‘Dream in the Garden’ about?”

Lao Liu answered, “It’s part of ‘The Peony Pavilion.’ The young lady in the story dreams of a scholar, falls in love, suffers lovesickness and dies, then returns as a ghost, reunites with the scholar, and becomes human again. A bit like Strange Tales, really.”

Wang Ma shuddered. “Ghosts and spirits again… frightening. No, something’s off. We should speak to the Master and Madam.”

Her parents, warned by the servants and torn with hesitation, tried to observe carefully — yet found nothing overtly wrong. She was quiet and distant as usual, but otherwise unchanged… except she now hummed softly while copying old pictorial booklets.

She had always been a self-reliant child — gifted, obedient, never troublesome. She rarely expressed her emotions, no matter how sad or troubled she was. Whether it was her parents, teachers, close friends, or the boys she had grown up with, she never leaned on anyone.

Instead, she absorbed everything alone.

Just like years ago when she joined a children’s dance competition. She endured obstacle after obstacle, made it to the finals, only to injure her foot at the last moment. She had practiced relentlessly. Everyone expected her to win. Such a blow would crush any ten-year-old. Her young teacher cried repeatedly, adults sighed, yet the person most detached was Chen Ziyou herself. On the day of the finals, she even dragged her family to watch the competition and clapped calmly for the winners. When her feet healed, she turned her focus to the guzheng, and by year’s end, she performed at a major city celebration.

The old nanny used to say that such endurance was admirable, but on a child so young, it felt unnatural. Children should act like children. She loved covering for Chen Ziyou whenever she made small mistakes.

But her grandmother and mother disagreed. To them, Chen Ziyou’s composure was proof of excellent upbringing.

And now, with reason to guard herself in silence, nothing she did seemed strange. She was young, but her recovery was fast, her calm unnerving.

In truth, because her parents rarely spent time with her, they understood her less intimately than the servants.

Her father once told her, “Xiaoyu, I want you to know — you were never someone else’s child in my heart.”

“Yes, Dad. I understand.”

“Xiaoyu, I…”

“Dad, thank you.”

Her mother said, “Xiaoyu, do you hate me?”

“No, Mom. I can understand.”

“Do you want to know… who your biological father is?”

“I have only one father. Some things… I don’t care about anymore.”

“…”

“If you want to tell me, I don’t mind listening.”

“…”

“Is he still alive?”

“No. He died before you were born.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Thank you.”

Her heart was sealed tight, ironclad.

And without their interference, Chen Ziyou drifted deeper into her private world.

That August, the rain was relentless. Water dripped endlessly outside. She spent most of the time shut inside her room, rarely venturing to the living room. When the sky cleared, she had the driver take her to the antique market. She purchased everything related to The Peony Pavilion — yellowed prints, old editions of pictorial stories, opera discs.

She knew she was lying to herself, covering her ears, refusing truth. Blaming everything on the supernatural, imagining herself as Du Liniang dreaming of love, or as Liu Mengmei tempted by a spirit. Memories seemed sweeter that way. She preferred indulging in illusions over watching sacred things collapse.

This holiday brought many gatherings, and she declined them all. She was never the sociable type, so no one questioned it.

But this gathering was different — the final time before everyone left for university. After this, they would scatter across the world. Some friendships would end here forever. So when the organizer pleaded, she hesitated. Perhaps it was time to step back into the real world, to begin truly anew.

She examined herself carefully in the mirror. She hoped no one would see anything off — physically or emotionally. She dusted powder on her pale skin, added light lipstick, wore a soft pink blouse to brighten her appearance.

The gathering took place in a massive entertainment complex built into the mountainside — the kind of place high schoolers shouldn’t enter. But one classmate’s family had connections here, and now that everyone felt grown up, they came.

After eating and drinking, they went upstairs to sing karaoke, drink more, dance. Loud music, louder voices. Boys belted out sentimental songs. Even the quietest boy insisted on singing a duet with her — “Clearly My Heart.” The class monitor drunkenly confessed he had liked her for years while leaning in too close, spilling wine. She handed him a tissue, urging him to clean up, but he clung to her hand.

The ladylike girls danced wildly. Whistles echoed. Chaos everywhere — almost like demons unleashed.

The noise worsened her headache. The air felt stale. After dodging another intoxicated boy, she slipped to the hallway, needing to breathe.

The entertainment city mimicked a cave-like mountain interior — rough stone walls, jagged staircases, cave-shaped private rooms. A massive round chandelier and scattered small lights hung above like stars.

She leaned on the chain-shaped railing, looking down. The thick metal links were as wide as her wrist. The rocky walls glowed with pale green, purple, and white lights, washing passing faces in eerie colors.

At first, she found the place fascinating. Someone had joked earlier, “Ah, the Silk Cave,” and she had laughed. But now the atmosphere chilled her. The staff here must have immense nerve to work in such a place.

From her vantage point, she saw everything from floors one to four. A loud group barged in downstairs, stomachs bulging, jewelry gleaming, the manager bowing to them. A provocatively dressed woman clung to one of them. In a box on the third floor, two people pulled at each other — either flirting or fighting.

She watched for a bit, felt shame at her voyeurism, and her headache eased slightly. Turning to return, she noticed a slender woman in a vibrant patterned blouse entering the hall. The waitress hurried to guide her, but she brushed him aside.

Back in the private room, she drank two more beers, listened to songs, and even danced once with a boy she hardly knew. But exhaustion weighed heavily — her sleep schedule had been chaotic for months.

She excused herself early.

A boy offered to walk her home. She declined, saying someone from home was picking her up.

Instead of taking the elevator, she walked down the mountain-like stairway.

On the second floor, she saw the woman from earlier — the one in the striking blouse.

She leaned against the chain railing, smoking, arguing loudly on the phone. Half her body draped over the fence, long legs propped out. Her voice was sharp but beautiful.

As Chen Ziyou passed, the woman drew back her legs and flashed a sudden smile — charming, confident, carelessly elegant. Chen Ziyou flushed and hurried on.

Behind her, she heard:

“Get out of here, you idiots. Is Jiang Licheng there? Put him on.”

The name hit her like a blow. Her blood turned to ice. She went numb.

She heard the woman again:

“He’s avoiding me? Contact him. Tell him to come see me. I’m waiting here in Room 225. If he doesn’t come, I’ll wait all night.”

Chen Ziyou stumbled onward, legs weak, breath shaking. Maybe it was another person with the same name. Surely fate wouldn’t be cruel enough to allow coincidence this sharp. But her heart seized; she couldn’t calm herself.

She forced herself to the pastry hall. Her hands trembled as she took out her phone to call home.

Halfway through dialing, she stopped. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this. Instead, she ordered an iced drink, then another, hoping the coldness would steady her.

Slowly, strength returned. But she was torn — run home and continue pretending… or stay and face the truth she feared?

Real life was not a dream.

Her luck this year had long run out.

When she finally rose to pay, something tugged at her instinct, leading her to turn —

—and she saw Jiang Licheng.

Still the same: clean, composed, expression cool, body straight, lips pressed into that familiar line. The dim café lights wrapped him in shadow. He walked directly forward without seeing her — others were watching him too, so her gaze did not stand out.

Chen Ziyou gripped the counter. Her heart trembled wildly. The cashier asked if she needed help. She whispered that she was fine.

Oddly, she felt relief. At least he hadn’t lied about his name.

She sat a moment longer. The pastry hall was nearly empty, quiet yet suffocating with its cave-like decor. She felt like a trapped hostage. Finally, unable to wait any longer, she dialed home — but even before anyone answered, she hung up.

She drifted upstairs, almost sleepwalking, drawn by a force she couldn’t resist, until she reached Room 225.

Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs.

The soundproofing was poor. She recognized the woman’s voice instantly — floating, cold, crisp.

“I know. You’ve grown up now, your wings hardened, so you ignore what I say.”

Silence. Maybe he answered softly, maybe he said nothing.

The woman continued:

“Go back to school the day after tomorrow. Study quietly. After graduate school, you’ll leave the country.”

Silence.

“You know I’d rather burn everything down than let you fall into this mess.”

“Xiaocheng, everything I do is for your own good. I have no one else left. I can’t live without you.”

"I’ve pinned all my hopes on you. Don’t joke about the future—don’t let me down."
Her voice, which moments ago had cracked like exploding beans, gradually softened, turning warm and coaxing, almost childlike in its pleading. The Iron Maiden act she carried earlier dissolved completely. But the man she spoke to remained silent.

Chen Ziyou, who had been frozen in awkwardness, almost forgot her own situation. She subconsciously began to feel sympathy for the woman inside.

Suddenly, the woman’s voice spiked again:
"Fine! From now on, if I meddle in your affairs again, I'll be a bastard!"

At last, Jiang Licheng’s voice floated out—calm, steady, faint but unmistakably clear:
"You’ve said that at least a hundred times since we met."

Chen Ziyou knew she shouldn’t stay. She had wanted to leave long ago, but the moment she heard his voice, her feet felt nailed to the floor. She couldn’t move.

At that moment, the room door opened.

Jiang Licheng stepped out. His face was utterly calm—no surprise, no irritation, not even the slightest ripple when his eyes swept over her. But the next second, a wine glass crashed at his feet with a crisp, ringing shatter. Wine splashed across the floor, and tiny shards of glass stung Chen Ziyou’s hands. Jiang Licheng stood so close yet did not move at all.

From inside came the woman’s hoarse cry:
"If you dare walk out like that, I won’t know you anymore!"

Jiang Licheng finally turned back, still calm:
"You’ve said that a hundred times."

A second glass flew.

This time, she was close to the door, and the direction wasn’t aimed at Jiang Licheng’s feet, but his back. Even though he was turned away from her, he still instinctively dodged. The cup barely grazed him—then flew directly into Chen Ziyou’s chest.

The impact forced her back a step, a soft cry escaping her lips.

Perhaps it was that unfamiliar voice—young, startled—that made the woman inside rush out.

At that moment, Chen Ziyou was looking directly at Jiang Licheng. He didn’t look away. He let her stare, expression calm and unreadable.

The woman appeared—bold-faced, heroic, nothing like the vulnerable voice whispering moments before.

She froze when she saw Chen Ziyou.
"Did I hit you just now? Are you hurt?"
Her tone was gentle—nothing like the voice from the phone call.
Then she shot a glance at Jiang Licheng. "Your friend?"

Jiang Licheng paused two seconds, then answered lazily:
"She feels familiar."

"Familiar? So just an acquaintance?"

He smirked faintly. "I find normal-looking people familiar."

The remark jolted Chen Ziyou back into her senses.
"I—I’m sorry. I was just passing by."
Her feet regained movement; she turned to leave.

But the woman grabbed her arm.
"Hey—I’ve seen you. Didn’t you go downstairs earlier?"

Her grip was strong—painfully strong. Chen Ziyou struggled, but couldn’t break free. Her voice trembled, almost pleading:
"Please… let me go."

Jiang Licheng watched as if the scene had nothing to do with him. After a few seconds, he bowed slightly to the woman and prepared to leave. The woman grabbed his sleeve.
"Don’t go. This little girl seems to have something to tell you."

Jiang Licheng turned lazily, giving her a mocking look.
The woman snapped first, "What are you looking at? I’m meddling again, right? Fine—I'm willing to be a bastard. What can you do?"

Despite his dismissive attitude, his deference toward her still remained. And so, half a minute later, he returned to the room, standing across from Chen Ziyou.

He leaned by the window, drew out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled leisurely.
"Really fated, seeing you again."

Chen Ziyou stared at him without speaking.

He lifted the cigarette box toward her.
"Want one?"
When she didn’t react, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Or did you forget how to inhale?"

It took all her strength to force out a few words:
"Why?"

He watched the cigarette smoke curl and fade between his fingers. He didn’t answer.

Again, she asked, voice tighter:
"Why?"

He finally extinguished the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray.
His tone was flat, emotionless:
"If you spent time reading something useful instead of those brainless romances, you might learn a little common sense. Not everything in life revolves around your feelings. You only get more foolish that way."

His indifference cracked something inside her. Tears fell silently, rolling past her lips. Still, she persisted.
"Why?"

"What a stupid girl." His voice was soft, chillingly so.
"Do you think a reason will make you feel better? Aren’t you afraid the truth is worse?"

She cried harder. Logic told her every extra word only made her look even more pathetic, but she couldn't stop. She was unwilling to stop.

He lit another cigarette, watching her cry like it was some passing spectacle.

Eventually, when she realized the harder she cried, the more amused he seemed, her tears slowed. She stared at him again—quiet, hollow.

A faint sneer curved his lips.
"Fine. I’ll tell you why."

He flicked ash off the cigarette.
"Girls like you are born with everything, and still think the world owes you more. A little setback and you act like your life collapsed. You rely on your family’s love to be willful. So yes—I wanted to give you a lesson. Let you see what the real world looks like. Now you’ve experienced it, haven’t you?"

Her lips bled from biting down too hard. Her mind spun, buzzing, everything in chaos.

Jiang Licheng walked toward the door.

Suddenly, a memory surfaced—something he once said to her.

Words burst out of her mouth before she could think:
"That night… were those two people arranged by you?"

He laughed lightly.
"So you can think. Progress."
"But no—I’m not that idle."
"As for the second time… you walked right up to me yourself. Remember? I warned you not to trust people so easily. But you had no sense of danger."

Her tears came again—quiet, small, painful.

He paused at the doorway, his voice gentler:
"If you think you’re unlucky, I’ll say this much: the night I met you, I didn’t plan to interfere. I normally think people who run into danger in places like that brought it upon themselves. Not worth pitying.
But you were lucky—it was my mother’s death anniversary. You reminded me of her, so I took you home. Let you go.
But you don’t value luck. Why appear in front of me again?"

His last sentence melted into a sigh.

Chen Ziyou’s voice cracked, shouting with all her might—though to others, it was barely louder than normal:
"Who needs your kindness? Why didn’t you throw me to those two men then?"

His expression was like a parent indulging a child’s tantrum.
"Maybe I should have," he said calmly.
"Would’ve been a deeper lesson. At least then you wouldn’t be here yelling at me now.
If there’s a next time, I’ll remember your wishes."

He glanced at her one last time.
"Wash your face. Go home. Sleep."

And then he walked out.

—

Just outside the door, the woman leaned on the railing smoking. Several cigarette butts littered the floor.

Jiang Licheng frowned.
"No public morals."

She punched his shoulder with the hand holding her cigarette.
"I just made a bit of a mess. Much better morals than your behavior."
The ash fell on his shoulder.

He brushed it off, irritated.
"Don’t swear."
He lit another cigarette using hers, inhaling slowly.
"So—were you eavesdropping, or just letting the wind blow?"

"Mind your tone!" she snapped.
"Qiangzi is going crazy. Go check on him."

He grunted and turned to leave.
"Hey!" she called. "You didn’t… do anything in there, right?"

"No."

"You’re not afraid she’ll do something stupid inside?"

"What does it matter to me?"

She cursed viciously.
"Why can’t you ever learn something good? Stinking men—same rotten breed!"

He didn’t respond.

She finished her cigarette, crushed it out, threw the butt down—took three steps, then turned back to pick up the litter and toss it into a nearby bin.

—

Inside, Chen Ziyou had stopped crying. She sat motionless, dazed.

The woman entered. Chen Ziyou trembled like a scared rabbit.

"Don’t be afraid," the woman said. "I’m not with him."

Chen lowered her head.

"Go wash your face. I’ll take you home in a bit."

"I can go myself," Chen whispered. "Let me sit here a little longer."

The woman sighed.
"I’m older than you. Call me Sister He."

Chen Ziyou looked up at her.

Sister He studied her.
"What a beautiful little girl. Life has plenty left for you. Don’t let stinky men ruin it."

Chen dropped her gaze again.

Sister He stayed with her, poured water, smoked another cigarette, telling rambling stories about how women shouldn’t rely on men.

Chen barely listened—her thoughts were tangled elsewhere.

Sister He grew more candid, eventually sharing how, at Chen’s age, she fell for a heartless man and once locked herself at home, starving herself.
"I thought life was over. But look at me now."
She laughed. "He wasn’t worth the hunger."

Chen asked softly, "How did you get over it?"

"I starved until I couldn’t even lift my phone to call for help. Thought I’d die. Luckily, a friend broke a fourth-floor window to rescue me. After I ate, I realized the saddest part wasn’t being dumped—it was almost starving to death. As for the man? I treat it as being bitten by a mad dog."

Chen smiled faintly.
"Thank you."

"You actually spoke," Sister He teased.

Soon, someone poked his head in.
"Sister He, Brother Cheng said you drank. I’m here to pick you up."

Her kindness vanished instantly.
"Don’t mention that bastard again today! Get out!"

She still personally escorted Chen to the car.

Chen’s mind swirled with suspicions—maybe this woman was Jiang Licheng’s hidden lover, maybe she’d send her somewhere terrible, maybe she’d be kidnapped…

But Sister He noticed her paranoia and handed over a phone.
"Call your family. Tell them to wait for you."

Chen felt ashamed. This woman had been nothing but kind.

The car wasn’t fancy. The young driver looked like someone from the streets, but because Sister He had scolded him beforehand, he didn’t dare speak.

Until they reached Chen’s villa area.
"Sh*t—it’s a rich young lady!" he blurted, then got smacked on the back of the head.

Chen spotted her driver waiting ahead. She asked the young man to stop, took out a small mirror to check her face. Her eyes weren’t badly swollen—she could say she cried from parting sadness.

But the sudden hard brake made the mirror slip. When she bent to pick it up, her necklace slid out of her collar.

She didn’t care—but Sister He suddenly grabbed the pendant, stopping her from straightening.

She examined the small safety charm for a few seconds.
"This pendant is beautiful. Where’d you get it?"

"My grandpa gave it to me when I was little."

Chen got out. The family driver pulled up. She thanked Sister He.

Sister He fell silent. She didn’t get out—just nodded faintly. But the moment Chen turned away, Sister He rolled down the window and shouted:

"Little girl—good luck."

Chen froze.

When she turned back, the car had already sped away, disappearing into the night.

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