Chapter 27 Fragments (3) You draw the diagrams, I look at the reports, and nobody...

The black Maybach slowly came to a stop in front of that familiar red-brick villa.

Inside the car, the air was so still it felt almost stagnant.

Gu Moheng did not unlock the car door immediately. He turned his head, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Wen Chen's face, as if if he looked away for even a second, Wen Chen would vanish into thin air.

"Wen Chen." A sleepless night and a cold had left his voice rough and hoarse, each word resonating deep within the car.

Wen Chen paused for a moment as he unbuckled his seatbelt, without looking up.

"When will it end?" Gu Moheng asked softly. "I'll wait for you nearby."

Wen Chen finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over the thickly bandaged right hand resting on the steering wheel. The glaring white against the dark interior burned into his vision, and his heart felt as if it had been lightly stung. He quickly suppressed this untimely unease, his voice cold and hard: "No need, the time is uncertain."

"Clatter".

The seatbelt buckle popped open, and Wen Chen pushed open the door and got out of the car. His movements were swift and decisive, without the slightest hesitation.

Gu Moheng leaned forward almost instinctively, reaching out to touch the fluttering hem of the dress, but his fingertips only caught a wisp of cold air.

The car door slammed shut, separating him from that resolute figure.

Wen Chen stood by the roadside, taking a deep breath of the biting cold air, trying to completely dispel the lingering cold fragrance of cedar in his lungs.

The Maybach hadn't left. Even through the dark window tint, Wen Chen could clearly feel that burning, persistent gaze fixed on his back. He forced himself not to turn around and raised his hand to ring the doorbell of the ornate iron gate.

After a few clicks, the door lock clicked softly.

Wen Chen pushed open the door, shutting out the scorching gaze. He walked quickly across the cobblestone path in the front yard, and just as he rounded the screen wall covered with withered vines, he suddenly stopped.

Under the warm winter sun, Mr. Wen, who should have been "unwell and resting in bed," was standing in front of the flowerbed, looking quite energetic.

The old man, dressed in a loose-fitting Tai Chi uniform, held large pruning shears and leisurely trimmed the gnarled and twisted Podocarpus macrophyllus in front of him, humming a Peking Opera tune.

With a crisp "snap," it was clean and efficient.

There wasn't a trace of illness in him.

Wen Chen's heart, which had been hanging in suspense, finally settled down, followed by a surge of bittersweet emotions that made her both laugh and cry.

I've been scammed.

"dad."

Wen Chen stood under the corridor and called out helplessly.

Mr. Wen's hand trembled, and he almost cut the wrong thing. Turning around, he saw his son standing tall and elegant in the sunlight. A hint of guilt flashed across his old face, as if he had been caught red-handed, but it was quickly overwhelmed by immense joy.

"Ahem... Xiao Chen is back?" He quickly hid the scissors behind his back, forcing a serious expression. "So early? You didn't even tell me beforehand."

"If we hadn't come earlier, how could we have witnessed your remarkable skills despite your illness?" Wen Chen smiled and walked over with a slightly lighter step. When he reached his father, he naturally took the heavy pair of scissors from his father's hand.

“Your mother’s words are… an exaggeration!” Father Wen glared, his eyes darting over his son’s thinner face. “Who told you to be away from home for more than half a year?”

Just then, hurried footsteps came from inside the house.

"Is Xiao Chen here?" Wen's mother, wearing an apron and holding a spatula, hurriedly pushed open the screen door. The moment she saw Wen Chen, the usually elegant female painter's eyes instantly reddened.

"You've lost weight." She rushed over, ignoring the grease on her hands, grabbed Wen Chen's arm and examined her closely. "How come you've lost so much weight? Have you not been eating properly again?"

Wen Chen let her mother pull her along, feeling the warmth of home emanating from her mother's palm.

This is home.

"Mom, it's okay, I've just been busy with projects lately." His voice softened unconsciously, and the frost in the corners of his eyes quietly melted away.

"You're alright! Your face is so pale." Wen's mother pulled him into the house with heartache. "Come in quickly, Mom made some yam and pork rib soup. I started making it early this morning."

Inside, the heating was on full blast. The morning news was playing on the television, the pressure cooker in the kitchen was hissing, and the air was filled with the aroma of meat and the fresh scent of laundry detergent. This long-lost, homely routine, like a pair of gentle hands, instantly soothed his fatigue and chill.

Wen Chen was pressed down on the sofa, with a glass of warm water placed in her hand.

"Old Wen, stop messing with that weeds and come in to wash the fruit!" Wen's mother called out from the kitchen.

"They're here, they're here, like they're on my deathbed..." Father Wen complained, but his face lit up with a smile as he happily followed them into the house.

Wen Chen held a water glass, watching his parents busy in the kitchen—his father was washing his favorite cherries, and his mother was patting his hand in disapproval; the sound of the two arguing about whether to have braised fish or steamed fish for lunch came from the kitchen.

Trivial, ordinary, yet so precious that it brought tears to his eyes. He tilted his head back and took a sip of water, the rising steam blurring his glasses.

Eight years ago, he and Gu Moheng had also dreamed of such a life. In that folder called "Home," Gu Moheng had even meticulously planned a fireplace and a sunken living room, so that they could have such warmth in the winter.

But those were ultimately just illusory blueprints. What he saw before him was the reality he had rediscovered after eight years of loss.

"Xiao Chen," Mr. Wen asked casually as he approached with a bag of washed cherries, "did you drive back yourself?"

Wen Chen's fingers tightened suddenly around the teacup. "No, a friend gave it to me."

Mother Wen also brought over a sliced ​​pear and chimed in, "We're already at the door, why don't you invite them in for a seat?"

Wen Chen lowered her eyelashes, staring at the half-full glass of water swirling in it. The man who stubbornly gripped the steering wheel even with his hand injury still unhealed, Gu Moheng whose eyes held the look of an abandoned large dog…

“No need,” he said, his voice as faint as smoke, eager to distance himself from anything, “he was just going that way.”

"On the way?" Wen's mother keenly noticed the subtle change in her son's emotions. She put down the fruit plate, sat down beside him, and her expression became serious. "Xiao Chen, tell Mom the truth," she stared into her son's eyes, "how far has that 'friend' gone?"

Wen Chen's heart skipped a beat, but he quickly regained his composure: "Mom, you're overthinking it." He interrupted her, looked up, put on an impeccable smile, picked up a piece of pear and put it in his mouth, "Just an ordinary friend."

"Crack".

The crisp sound of chewing echoed in the living room. The pear was very sweet, almost cloyingly so.

Breakfast and lunch were prepared quickly.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was almost excessively lively.

Wen's mother kept piling food into Wen Chen's bowl, the bowl piled up like a small mountain as if she wanted to make up for all the nutrition he had been missing these past few days.

Mr. Wen was not idle either. He poured himself a small glass of white wine, took a sip, and his face flushed.

"Eat more, you're so thin, you look like a refugee."

Upon hearing this, Wen's mother immediately glared at Wen's father: "How can you talk like that? Xiao Chen is dedicating himself to art, that's artistic talent!"

As she spoke, she placed a piece of tenderly stewed pork rib into Wen Chen's bowl. "These ribs have been stewed for three hours, have a taste. Old Wen, you eat too, don't just drink."

Looking at the bowl full of food, Wen Chen smiled helplessly: "Mom, the bowl is overflowing."

Even so, he still picked up a spare rib and put it in his mouth. The aroma of the meat mixed with the sweetness of the yam melted on his tongue.

Father Wen chuckled, took a sip of the two ounces of baijiu in his glass, and a satisfied glow spread across his face.

"I'm happy today, my son is home, can't I even have a drink?"

"All you do is drink. If your blood pressure goes up again tomorrow, don't blame it on the saltiness of my cooking."

Although Mrs. Wen was scolding him, she deftly served Mr. Wen a bowl of soup and placed it beside him to cool.

Wen Chen watched her parents bickering back and forth, a slight smile playing on her lips. She ate her meal quietly, not joining in.

After the meal, Wen Chen rolled up her sleeves to clear the dishes, but her mother pushed her away.

"Go away, go away. You just got back, why are you doing anything like this? Go have some tea with your dad."

Unable to refuse, Wen Chen was "sent" to the living room.

The television was replaying a family drama that the mother was watching, and the noise filled the space. Mr. Wen sat at the solid wood tea table, slowly and methodically rinsing the teacups.

Boiling water is poured into the Yixing teapot, white steam rises, and the aroma of tea instantly fills the nostrils.

"This is a Da Hong Pao tea that your Uncle Zhang sent over a couple of days ago. Try it."

Wen Chen picked up the teacup and ran her fingertips along the warm rim of the cup.

The sound of running water and a mother humming a little tune came from the kitchen.

Mr. Wen leaned back comfortably on the sofa, listening to the melodramatic plot on TV, when he suddenly remembered something and called out to the kitchen, "I want to eat that old-fashioned tofu pudding from that restaurant tomorrow morning."

As soon as the sound of water stopped, Wen's mother responded: "That shop has a half-hour queue, go eat there yourself if you want!"

Father Wen wasn't annoyed. He smiled, took a sip of tea, and winked at Wen Chen, "Look at your mother, she's all bark and no bite. She'll be here tomorrow morning."

Wen Chen smiled slightly, his fingers tightening slightly as he held the cup. The unspoken understanding between his parents, the warmth in their eyes, served as a cruel mirror, reflecting the desolation and coldness of his emotional world.

He lowered his gaze, watching the tea leaves and stems bobbing in the water. Certain images surged uncontrollably within him—

Eight years ago, that spirited young man made a solemn vow in his ear: "Our family will be like this from now on. You draw the diagrams, I'll read the reports, and neither of us is allowed to complain about the other."

As he spoke, the light in the boy's eyes shone brighter than the stars.

But what about now?

Wen Chen suddenly tilted his head back and drank the scalding hot tea in one gulp.

Why?

I've clearly hated them for eight years.

She had clearly decided to completely remove that person from her life.

But last night's diagnoses and that haggard photo of Gu Moheng were like a poisonous thorn, piercing through the defenses he had painstakingly built.

The bitter aftertaste gradually receded from his throat to the tip of his tongue. Wen Chen closed his eyes, and the hardened hatred in his heart seemed to have been corroded by acid, becoming soft, sticky, and nauseating.

He hated this feeling.

Gu Moheng deserved it. He cursed inwardly.

"Xiao Chen?"

Wen's father's voice interrupted his thoughts, "What are you thinking about? I've called you several times."

Wen Chen snapped out of her daze and forced a smile: "It's nothing, I'm just a little tired."

“If you’re tired, go upstairs and rest for a while,” her mother said as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands. “Your room has been kept open all this time, and the blankets were just aired out yesterday.”

Wen Chen shook his head and leaned back on the sofa. He didn't want to go back to his room. Once he was alone, those thoughts that he had deliberately blocked out would come crashing back like a tidal wave.

One episode after another of the family dramas on TV has finished airing.

After finishing his tea, Mr. Wen began to snore softly in his recliner.

Wen's mother sat to the side knitting a sweater, glancing at her absent-minded son from time to time. "Xiao Chen, you've been peeling this orange for half an hour, and the peel is almost rubbed raw."

Wen Chen paused, looking down at the orange in her hand that had been completely peeled.

Before I knew it, dusk had fallen outside the window. The winter twilight, like a gray net, quietly enveloped the red-brick building. The streetlights came on, their dim yellow light streaming through the window and lengthening the shadows inside.

Wen Chen glanced out the window subconsciously.

That black Maybach must have left by now, right?

Gu Moheng is a shrewd businessman who never does unprofitable business, so why would he waste time waiting in vain?

"Ding-dong—"

The crisp sound of the doorbell, like a thunderclap, suddenly rang out in this quiet evening.

The sweet and sour juice of the orange splashed out.