The pen is the blade, the words are the light

At 2:45 PM the next day, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the dressing room, checking my outfit one last time. A beige cashmere sweater paired with khaki trousers—Gu Yanshen's favorite "gentle" look. I'd sprayed on the perfume he'd given me, and on my wrist was the same smart bracelet my mother wore—every detail signaled to the surveillance system that everything was normal.

At 2:50, I left the apartment under the pretext of taking a walk. As the elevator descended, I could feel my heartbeat quickening. The fire escape was on the northwest side of the building, rarely used, which was why Shen Que had chosen it.

Pushing open the heavy fire door, a slightly musty air rushed in. Shen Que was already waiting there, leaning against the mottled wall, holding a brown paper document bag in his hand.

"You're here." He straightened up, his eyes scanning my body sharply. "It seems he has put new shackles on you." His eyes fell on the bracelet on my wrist.

I instinctively covered the bracelet with my other hand: "Long story short, it's not safe here."

He handed over the document bag: "Take a look at this first."

I opened the file bag and found a newly published issue of "Metropolitan Weekly." Turning to the center page, my breath suddenly stopped—two full pages were filled with my article "The Price of Tenderness," signed "Mockingbird."

"This is..." I ran my fingers lightly over the printed words, hardly able to believe my eyes.

"The reader response has been overwhelming." Shen Que lowered his voice. "We've received hundreds of letters from readers, and many have said they saw themselves reflected in the article."

I continued to flip through the pages and found a few comments from readers in the margins of the magazine:

"Thank you Ms. Mockingbird for speaking our minds. In this seemingly perfect marriage, we are slowly losing ourselves."

"I burst into tears after reading this. It turns out that all the control in the name of love is actually harmful."

"Looking forward to the next article from Mockingbird, we need such voices."

Tears blurred my vision. These unfamiliar resonances, like lights suddenly lit in the darkness, made me realize that I was not alone.

"The editor-in-chief wants to sign you up for a regular column," Shen Que said, "but..."

"But what?"

"Someone's starting to inquire about Robin's true identity." His expression grew serious. "Yesterday, someone claiming to be a reporter came to the newspaper office and wanted to do an interview with you."

My heart sank suddenly: "Is it Gu Yanshen's people?"

"Not sure yet. But you have to be extra careful." He pulled an ordinary USB flash drive from his pocket. "Here are some anti-surveillance tips and new contact information. Remember to change the SIM card after each contact."

I took the USB drive, my fingertips lingering on the cold metal casing. This small storage device now felt like a thousand pounds.

"I should go back." I looked at my watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed.

Chen Que suddenly grabbed my wrist. "Wait. If you change your mind now, it's not too late. But once you start, there's no turning back."

I looked into his eyes and saw genuine concern, but more than that, I saw the brave me that I once was.

"I won't look back."

When I returned to the apartment, Gu Yanshen was already there. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, with a few documents spread out in front of him and a glass of whiskey at his side.

"Did you enjoy your walk?" he asked without looking up.

"Not bad," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I took a walk in the garden downstairs."

He finally raised his head, his eyes piercing. "I heard there's a very popular magazine called 'Metropolitan Weekly' lately. Did you read it when you were in the library?"

I immediately broke out in a cold sweat: "I didn't pay much attention."

"Really?" He put down the file, stood up, and walked towards me. "There's a very interesting article on it, called 'The Price of Tenderness.' The author is named Robin, and his writing style is somewhat similar to yours."

He stopped in front of me and gently lifted my chin with his finger. "Who do you think this robin could be?"

"I don't know." I forced myself to meet his gaze. "Maybe a damaged woman."

He chuckled, his fingers sliding down my neck, finally stopping at the bracelet on my wrist: "Your blood pressure is a little high today. Did something happen to make you nervous?"

At that moment, I almost thought he knew everything. But he just gently stroked the bracelet, his tone still gentle: "Go change your clothes, I'll take you to try the new Italian restaurant tonight."

At dinner, I acted incredibly docile. I complimented every dish he ordered and smiled at every word he said. But beneath my submissive exterior, something was quietly changing.

Late at night, I waited until Gu Yanshen fell asleep, then quietly got up. I carefully removed the USB drive hidden in the tube of an old lipstick and inserted it into my laptop.

The contents of the document shocked me. It contained not only detailed guidelines for combating surveillance, but also a drafted column contract and scanned copies of letters from readers. As I read each letter, each one expressing the heartfelt wishes of strangers, tears welled up in my eyes once again.

One letter particularly touched me:

"Ms. Mockingbird, thank you for your courage. After reading your article, I finally mustered the courage to leave that suffocating relationship. Now I have nothing, but I have the most precious freedom. I hope you can find your own sky soon."

I opened the encrypted document and began writing a new article. My fingertips danced across the keyboard, and every word was like an arrow of light shot towards the cage:

"Today, I received many letters from strangers. They said they saw themselves in my writing and that my experiences gave them courage. But I want to say that the truly brave are the souls who never give up hope in the face of adversity.

We all struggle in our own cages, some glittering with gold, some in the name of love. But as long as we remember we are birds, we should never forget the instinct to fly..."

Halfway through writing, I suddenly heard a subtle noise outside the door. I quickly closed the document, shut down my computer, and pretended to be asleep. The bedroom door was gently pushed open, and Gu Yanshen's footsteps paused by the bed before quietly leaving.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, I casually mentioned, "I've been having trouble sleeping lately and want to sign up for a writing therapy class. It's said to be very effective in relieving anxiety."

Gu Yanshen put down the financial newspaper in his hand: "Writing class?"

"Just a casual diary of my moods," I said, stirring the milk in my glass. Mr. Nakamura also said that flower arranging and writing are both good ways to cultivate the mind and body.

He pondered for a moment and said, "Since it can help you, then go ahead. Let Zhou Ling pick you up."

The first step was successful.

The writing class was held on the second floor of a bookstore in the west of the city, every Wednesday afternoon. For the first class, I arrived early and chose a window seat. There were about a dozen students in the room, mostly middle-aged women.

The teacher was a gentle, middle-aged man. The first exercise he asked us to do was: "Write down one thing you most want to change recently."

I stared at the blank manuscript paper, unable to put pen to paper. Finally, I wrote only one sentence:

"I want to find my voice again."

At the end of class, the teacher came up to me and said, "Your writing is very powerful. Sometimes, the simplest sentences can be the most touching."

In the restroom, I ran into an unexpected person—Lawyer Li, the family lawyer Shen Que had introduced me to. She was putting on makeup, and we exchanged a knowing glance in the mirror.

"Wednesday afternoon at three, cafe." She said softly, then left naturally.

Another contact point was established.

On the way home, I looked out the window at the hustle and bustle of traffic, and for the first time, I felt hope was just around the corner. These seemingly small breakthroughs were gradually breaking down the high wall that Gu Yanshen had built.

That night, I wrote in a secret document:

"Today, I took my first step. It's just a small step, but I know that as long as I'm heading in the right direction, every step will bring me closer to freedom.

Those days of writing in darkness, those words typed in despair, finally became sharp blades, beginning to cut through the bars of the cage. Each word was a ray of light, illuminating the path ahead and the paths of those who walked with me.

I know this battle has just begun, but I am no longer afraid. Because in this seemingly impenetrable cage, I have already opened the first crack."

As I saved the document, rain began to fall outside the window. Raindrops pattered against the glass, but this time, what I heard was no longer the lament of a prison, but the prelude to freedom.

In the darkness, I gently stroked the bracelet on my wrist. This object, once a symbol of control, now reminded me that even under the strictest surveillance, the human mind is still free.

And free thoughts will eventually find a way out.

Writing in the dark, every word is an arrow of light shooting into the cage