Chapter 22
The lights in the Tang family's old house were still on.
It had been raining and snowing for days, and the stone steps were still damp, mixed with the yellow leaves that had fallen from the osmanthus trees. They felt wet when you stepped on them.
Tang Yuchuan stood at the entrance, his coat still on, his eyes fixed on the layout of the mourning hall inside the door.
My father's portrait stood in the center, his face half young and half old, smiling, just as he had looked in the past few decades - always like a gambler rolling the dice, it didn't matter what he rolled, because he knew that someone else would always finish it for him.
He died of a heart attack without many signs. It was an unexpected death, and could even be considered a clean one.
But no one was crying in front of the portrait.
"You're here." A woman's voice came from behind.
Tang Yuchuan turned around.
It’s Tan Jing.
She was wearing a plain windbreaker, her long hair was tied up, she had no makeup on, her face was as pale as paper, but she was still breathtakingly beautiful.
Her eyes were like water, deep and still, hiding the surface before the tsunami.
"Keep guarding?" He said in a light tone.
"Now that he's dead, I have to stay with him." She took a few steps closer, her tone calm, "After all, I am his legal wife."
Tang Yuchuan didn't say anything.
His eyes swept over her lightly, like the wind passing over the water, leaving no trace.
"He left cleanly, just like his usual style." Tang Yuchuan walked into the house, put down his umbrella, and slowly took off his coat. "After a lifetime of messing around, he left in a carefree manner, waiting for others to clean up the mess."
Tan Jing lowered her eyes: "I didn't know you would come again."
"He's my father," he said.
The tone was gentle and appropriate, but without warmth.
Tan Jing said softly: "I thought you would never forgive him in this life."
"I haven't forgiven him." Tang Yuchuan's eyes were calm. "I just can't help but deal with it."
The lights in the room were a bit old, with a warm yellow glow that was cold, which made the fatigue in his eyes even deeper.
"What did he leave you?" he suddenly asked.
Tan Jing didn't say anything.
“Debt or property?”
"Do you think I'm doing this for money?" She finally raised her eyes, her tone still calm, "You weren't like this before."
"What was I like before?" Tang Yuchuan smiled softly. "When I was in my twenties, I wanted to give you the whole world, but it still wasn't enough."
The air fell into a brief silence.
There is a lingering sound of wind outside the window, like an old story that refuses to let go.
"...I never thought it would come to this." Tan Jing suddenly said, her eyes falling on the portrait, her voice like water seeping into cotton, "I have no choice."
"How could you not have a choice?" Tang Yuchuan's tone was calm, but as cold as snow. "It's just that you didn't choose me."
After Tang Yuchuan finished speaking, he lowered his eyes and adjusted his sleeves. He moved slowly, as if he was completely unmoved by the previous conversation.
Tan Jing didn't answer, but just stared at the portrait for a while, then looked at Tang Yuchuan.
"You still hate him," she said suddenly.
"Yeah." Tang Yuchuan lowered his eyes and admitted frankly, "When he was a kid, he was messing around outside. My mother cried so hard in the middle of the night that she couldn't breathe. I could hear it clearly even with my quilt covering my ears."
His voice was very soft, as if he was recounting someone else's story. "Later, he brought you back and said you were someone he particularly liked. I really wanted to laugh at that time."
"I...I didn't know at first." Tan Jing whispered.
At that time, she really didn't know the relationship between Mr. Tang and Tang Yuchuan. She had to go home with him, and meeting him again was also her nightmare for many years.
But she had no choice.
If they were not father and son, she could have kept it a secret for a while longer. Tan Jing had thought about this countless times.
But what's the point of hiding it for a while longer? Maybe fate helped her make the decision, otherwise she might be even more painful. Tan Jing comforted herself like this countless times.
"Of course you know." Tang Yuchuan's voice was still gentle, but every word seemed to be cut from ice. "He is my father, and you are my girlfriend. No one would make a mistake in this relationship."
Tan Jing seemed to be hit. She froze in place, her shoulders motionless, but her head slowly lowered.
She didn't explain.
There is no point in explaining.
"I'm sorry." She suddenly whispered.
She never said that.
Even when the incident first broke out and everyone was waiting to see what would happen to her, she didn't say a word.
Now he no longer needs an "I'm sorry." Or rather, what he needs is never an "I'm sorry."
"It's too late." Tang Yuchuan said softly.
He looked up at her.
The light shone down from above, revealing the subtle fragility on her face.
He remembered her at nineteen, sitting by the window in the library, reading "Remembrance of Things Past" all day, forgetting even to eat. Back then, when she was silent, she was like snow, but when she spoke, he could sense a fire burning inside her.
He loved her.
I have truly loved, without reservation.
"So... do you hate me now?" Tan Jing looked up and suddenly asked him.
There were no tears in her eyes, but they were watery and she looked pitiful.
Tang Yuchuan didn't answer. He had seen her many times, but never this vulnerable. When they left at the beginning, when the three of them were confronting each other, she always acted calmly.
Why can one be so confident even though one is not right?
This is considered cheating, right? How can a cheater have the right to be elegant and calm?
At that time, Tang Yuchuan was wondering if this woman would never be fragile. They had been together for four years, and she was always indifferent, indifferent to everything.
Did she really love him?
My thoughts are in disarray...
After a long while, he smiled softly: "I don't hate you."
"No hatred?" Her eyes rippled and her voice was almost inaudible.
"No hate. The best relationship between us is probably one of neither love nor hate," he said.
Tan Jing closed her eyes.
She suddenly took a step closer, as if wanting to get closer to him.
"You..." She whispered softly, "Are you willing to—"
Tang Yuchuan took a step back.
"You still hate."
"No." Tang Yuchuan looked at her and said softly, "I'm scared."
"What are you afraid of?"
"You're afraid that I'll get close to you again, so..." he said, "You should know that if you marry him, there's no possibility between us."
He said, without looking at her again, and turned towards the door.
Tan Jing stood where she was, her hands slowly clenched at her sides.
The wind rushed in from the half-open door, bringing with it a damp breeze and causing the corners of the curtains to lift slightly.
Tang Yuchuan paused at the door and suddenly said, "I may not accept Hongsheng, but I will find a way to solve the debt problem."
He spoke in a light tone, as if he was saying something insignificant like "It will rain tonight."
"He's dead." He paused. "Here in the old house, you can live wherever you want. You can leave whenever you want."
The door was closed gently, bringing up a gust of wind.
Tang Yuchuan pushed open the door and walked out of the Tang family's old house. The night wind immediately rushed into his collar. The osmanthus flowers fell more densely, and under his feet, they felt damp, like some invisible tug.
He stood on the steps, not immediately going down. He reached into his windbreaker pocket, but nothing came out. He knew he should pull out his phone, send a message, explain the situation to Zou Ping, but he hesitated.
He broke his promise.
The wind blew through the osmanthus tree, and in the faint fragrance, he suddenly felt very tired.
Unconsciously, he became a...
A fool who hates his father so much but still cleans up the mess for him.
A madman who claims to be restrained but can never let go of his old love.
A liar who tells lies but wants to make up for it with a little tenderness by celebrating someone's birthday.
He didn't send a message.
He just took a deep breath and walked towards the intersection.
Zou Ping sat in silence in Mai Sheng's car the entire way. When the car stopped at the foot of the residential complex, she didn't get out immediately. Her fingers pinched the now-cold cup of fruit tea, as if she could still sense some lingering emotions.
Mai Sheng didn't urge her. He just leaned on the steering wheel and looked ahead, saying, "When you want to paint your dreams in the future, you can come to me."
"Most of the time, I'm used to being alone," she said, her tone gentle but without leeway. "But thank you so much today."
Mai Sheng nodded without saying anything more.
She got out of the car and walked into the night.
Holding the key to Tang Yuchuan's apartment, the entrance was as clean as ever. On the shoe cabinet sat a pot of mint she had just planted, its leaves vibrant green, as if nothing had changed. But the air seemed to lack a familiar scent; everything was just quiet.
She changed into loose home clothes and stood in front of the canvas for a long time.
The canvas stood there, blindingly white, like a dream waiting to be awakened.
The old painting next to the easel is still there. It is a sea, moist and deep blue. The boundary between the sky and the sea is as blurry as an unfinished sentence.
She turned it over and put on a new canvas.
The sound of the palette knife sliding across the palette is gentle, like something broken being slowly restored. She uses a lot of dark green, dark red, and gray-blue, and her brushstrokes are no longer as refined as before, but rather unrestrained and blunt.
Is it a dream?
No, it's emotions that have been pent up for too long.
She painted stroke by stroke, as if using oil paint to sew up an invisible wound. Gradually, a figure emerged from the canvas—slender, solitary, standing in the center of nothingness. Her face was invisible, but the silence behind her, like a tide, could be felt.
Is this her? Or her mother? Or... all the silent and misunderstood women?
She didn't analyze it, she just continued painting.
At five o'clock in the morning, the street lights downstairs went out and the sky turned a light gray-blue.
She stopped and looked at the canvas, her fingertips stained with oil paint, as if she had silently shouted.
She remembered many things.
When she was a child, she loved to draw, not only copying various street scenes, but also loved to draw a little bird on the shoulders of the characters, as if she hoped that the bird would land somewhere to count.
I don’t know how long it has been since I did this.
There was still a blank space on the canvas. Should I draw a bird? Zou Ping thought about it, but she didn't start painting.
Suddenly I feel that the hopes I had in the past are different from the hopes I have now.
Even if I draw another bird, it won’t be that one.
Why bother?
She suddenly felt hungry.
There were still two boxes of instant porridge left in the cupboard, which had been bought a while ago. She made a bowl and ate it sitting on the floor, listening to the sound of the wind outside the window. She felt lonely, but she had gotten used to it.
That night, Tang Yuchuan couldn't remember how long he walked on the street. He only remembered that when he stood downstairs of his house, it was almost dawn.
This was the scene he saw when he returned to the apartment.
The girl leaned against the easel, half-lying over the unfinished new canvas, her cheek pressed against the corner of the frame, and fell asleep quietly and tiredly. Her hair was slightly messy, hanging softly on her shoulders, trembling slightly with the rhythm of her breathing.
The scattered morning light gently fell on her well-defined shoulders and neck, as if covering her with a thin veil of light.
Tang Yuchuan stood quietly without making any sound, for fear of disturbing this rare tranquility.
A complex emotion surged in his heart, including pity, regret, and a hint of indescribable tenderness.
He reached out his hand and gently tidied up her scattered hair, but then quietly withdrew it as if he was afraid of touching something fragile.
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