Cracks in the Rainy Night

When Lin Wanqing's charity project received its third anonymous tip, the sycamore leaves outside the window were glistening from the autumn rain. Ah Yu held the letter printed on cheap A4 paper, his fingertips brushing against the words "misappropriation of charitable funds." The rough edges of the paper felt like a sharp suggestion, making his fingertips tingle.

“No need to look.” Lin Wanqing looked up from the pile of documents, her dark circles under her eyes were a bit darker than last week. “The first two emails used the same excuse. I checked, and they were anonymous emails sent from the same IP address.” She pushed the freshly brewed tea towards us, the glass cup covered with fine water droplets. “It was done by Zhang Heng’s people. He lost the bid to us and has been holding a grudge ever since.”

Ah Yu didn't take the teacup. He stared at the old silver bracelet on Lin Wanqing's wrist—a gift from an elderly Miao woman when he was teaching in Yunnan last year, who said it could "ward off disasters." The bracelet swayed gently as she flipped through her documents, as if silently reminding her of something. "What are you planning to do?" His voice was a little hoarse. "There are already rumors circulating online. Yesterday, Sister Wang called and said that several long-term donors are watching and waiting."

Lin Wanqing paused, her pen still. Several photos peeked out from the folder, showing children in mountainous areas smiling as they held their new books; the edges of the photos were worn and curled from her constant rubbing. "We'll hold a press conference tomorrow and make all the accounts public." Her tone was steady, but Ah Yu noticed that her knuckles were white as she gripped the pen. "Charity isn't business; there's no room for ambiguity."

That night, Ah Yu slept poorly. The floor lamp in the living room stayed on until the early hours of the morning as he flipped through the account books from the past three years, checking each page meticulously. He remembered the source of every donation, the destination of every donation—there were school buses anonymously donated by entrepreneurs, living expenses saved by college students, and records of Lin Wanqing secretly slipping her royalties into the accounts. He suddenly remembered last winter, when Lin Wanqing had lived in her office for half a month to finish a project report, sleeping only three or four hours a day, and finally collapsed in the conference room. At that time, he had stayed by her bedside, looking at the needle marks on the back of her hand, with only one thought in his mind: he must not let her suffer any injustice.

The press conference the next day was even more chaotic than expected. Zhang Heng, along with several reporters, blocked the entrance, holding microphones and pressing, "Ms. Lin, a volunteer revealed that you used donations to buy luxury goods. Is that true?" Flashbulbs rained down on them, and Ah Yu instinctively shielded Lin Wanqing behind her.

“All the accounts are here.” He held up the thick folder, his voice carrying through the loudspeaker, “From 2019 to now, every penny has been recorded, and we welcome media and public oversight.” He turned to a page and pointed to the details, “As for the so-called luxury goods, they are paintings that were auctioned off at a charity auction last year and are already hanging in the reading room of a school in the mountainous area. This is a photo from that time.”

A slight commotion arose in the crowd. Zhang Heng was about to say something when he was interrupted by an elderly voice from the back: "Can I say something?"

It was Grandma Li. She stood at the door, leaning on her cane and supported by her granddaughter, her cotton-padded coat still covered in rural mud. "Last year, Wanqing built a classroom for our village, paying for the craftsmen herself," the old woman said, her voice trembling slightly, but each word clear. "Every time she comes, she brings candy for the children, while she eats dry bread herself. If anyone speaks ill of her, this old woman will be the first to object!"

A reporter recognized Grandma Li as the elderly woman living alone in the impoverished mountain village who had been featured in a news report last year. The atmosphere at the scene gradually changed; some people began to look through the photocopies of the accounts distributed by Ah Yu, while others raised their cameras to photograph Grandma Li. Zhang Heng's face flushed red and then paled, and he awkwardly led his group away.

As the event ended, it started raining again. Lin Wanqing looked at Grandma Li, her eyes suddenly reddening. "Why did you come?" She wanted to help the old woman tidy her rain-soaked hair, but pulled her hand back halfway—she had just held too many things and was afraid of getting the old woman's clothes dirty.

“I heard from the village secretary that someone is bullying you.” Grandma Li held her hand, her palm rough but warm. “The kids asked me to bring you some walnuts, saying they’re good for your brain.” She took out a plastic bag from her cloth bag, which contained shelled walnut kernels. “They said good people shouldn’t be wronged.”

On the way back, the car drove very slowly. The windshield wipers swung rhythmically from side to side, blurring the street scene outside the window into patches of color. Lin Wanqing leaned against the car window and suddenly laughed: "Actually, I was terrified last night."

Ah Yu turned to look at her. The streetlight shone on her face, and tiny water droplets clung to her eyelashes, like a layer of stars. "What are you afraid of?"

“I’m afraid the project will fail, I’m afraid those children will have to walk two hours on mountain roads to get to school again, I’m afraid…” She paused, her voice softening, “I’m afraid you’ll find me troublesome.”

Ah Yu pulled the car over to the side of the road, unbuckled his seatbelt, and reached out to wipe the rain from her cheeks. His fingertips were cool, and Lin Wanqing flinched slightly when they touched her skin. "Do you remember in Paris, when you helped me translate the descriptions for the art exhibition?" he suddenly said. "An old lady asked us if we were husband and wife, and you said 'comrades-in-arms.'"

Lin Wanqing was stunned. That was three years ago, in a small gallery by the Seine, sunlight streamed through stained glass, turning her white dress into a kaleidoscope of colors. She had indeed said that back then, because she felt that "comrades-in-arms" were more reliable than "lovers"—they could fight alongside each other and take bullets together.

“Comrades-in-arms are meant to face troubles together.” Ah Yu’s thumb brushed against the corner of her eye, where there was still some dampness left. “Besides, have you forgotten? My current career was started by you handing me the key to your studio.”

He was referring to last year. At that time, Ah Yu wanted to quit his job and open a photography studio, but he was always hesitant. Lin Wanqing didn't say much, but simply gave him the key to her unused apartment: "Try it out first, and I'll consider the rent as my investment." Later, his studio gradually gained fame, and a set of photos of children in mountainous areas even won an award. But he always said that he should be most grateful for that key—it let him know that no matter how badly he fell, there was always a place he could go back to.

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