Calm down first
As night deepened, the dampness outside clung to the windowpane, shrouding the city in a layer of mist. Only the floor lamp between the studio and study was lit, its warm light casting a gentle glow on the sheets of white paper on the long table. The last message in the group chat between the four read, "Let's each take a step forward tomorrow morning." Now, only their breaths mingled—he turned to her and whispered, "It's late, don't stay up, rest first." She replied with a smile, "I'll finish these last few messages."
The outside was getting noisy, and people inside the building were watching the situation closely; he knew he had to hold off on the line for now and wait for the consultation results before reopening it.
Hu Li walked around the long table, retying her loose hair tie, a trace of charcoal powder still clinging to her fingertips. She placed the camera on the table, the screen locked onto the page of the small sketch, the signature clearly visible. She looked up at him: "Let's discuss the order of the puzzles tonight. You decide, I'll follow."
Mu Tianlang rolled up his sleeves, his wrists taut and sharp. He unfolded the card he had already written on, his gaze lingering on three documents above him—hospital receipts, Su Qin, a trench coat, and a white van that had stopped twice. His voice was deep and steady: "First, finish your part. I'll fill in the dates I can match on my end; leave the gaps for now."
She nodded, her breathing quickening as if to suppress the unease in her chest, her voice clear: "Let me start with the hospital. I remember my mother frequently going to the hospital during that time. The smell of disinfectant was very strong, it would soak her clothes. It's been twenty years, so I can't recall the exact words, my impression is vague. I remember sitting on a plastic chair outside the clinic, and through the door I heard the doctor inside seemingly telling her that they would consider giving her short-term sleeping pills, but first reminding her: a small number of people may experience perceptual distortion or sleepwalking-like behavior, and in severe cases, hallucinations or feelings of persecution. Not everyone will experience this, but if you do something in the middle of the night and don't remember it the next day, or hear voices that aren't there, you should go back immediately, and the doctor will help you adjust. Back then, my legs were short and I couldn't reach the ground, my shoes were constantly scraping the ground, making a squeaking sound. There was a sign on the ward door that said 'Quiet,' the corner of the paper was curled up."
Mu Tianlang pulled over a new sheet of paper and wrote, "Side effects of psychiatric sleeping pills require follow-up appointment." He looked up at her: "Hospital, time of day, take your time, no rush." She thought for a moment, then tilted her head: "I can't remember these things accurately. I don't remember which hospital it was, nor the time, I only remember that my mother often went to the hospital during that period." After saying that, she suddenly remembered something, went to the bookshelf and took out her sketchbook, and indeed found several drawings: one was of an IV drip bottle and a hanging stand, with the tubing hanging down from outside the picture; one looked like a nursing station, with a small medicine cabinet behind the window; one was a waiting area, with rows of plastic chairs; and another was a bus stop shelter with a bus parked next to it, with a bus number painted on the front. She spread these drawings out on the table: "They must have been drawn around that time, the details in the drawings are clearer than my memory."
She thought for a moment, then shook her head: "I still can't be sure. But I remember that smell very clearly. And my mother's eyes at that time, so empty, yet it was as if she was staring at an unseen point."
He hummed in agreement, tapped the paper with his finger, indicating that he should write it down: "You said the seaside."
She pushed the camera closer and pulled over another stack of sketches, flipping to the one with the red dress and purple vines: "This afternoon I said the girl in red in the photo was standing behind the railing, it might be me, because the red dress is the same as in my painting. I don't remember the rest clearly, only a few very blurry fragments, like they've been washed away by water: it seems like the wind was very strong at the beach that day, it seems like I painted in the car; the car seemed to have started, or it seemed to have gone around and come back; it seems like someone told me to get out of the car, and I stood behind the railing to shelter from the wind. There seemed to be two people on the slope, far away, I couldn't see them clearly; it seemed like someone was knocked down by a wave and slid down, sliding towards the breakwater—I'm not sure about any of these, they might be fragments I heard later mixed with my own paintings. You can mark them all as 'guess' for now."
She sighed, leaned against his chest, and finished speaking: "I always thought there was something I had done but forgotten. But now it seems like my mother filled in those gaps with her own. Maybe she was scared of herself back then, both afraid and angry, and found a reason in her mind that she could justify herself—that I was dragged along by her, and she carried that reason with her for many years. These are all just my conjectures from my later perspective." He put down his pen, walked over, and pulled her into his arms with one arm, his grip not heavy, but very steady. He whispered, "You didn't do anything wrong."
Mu Tianlang tucked a small tuft of hair behind her ear, his gaze darkening. "Give me what you see. I'll peel away the rest."
She looked up at him, her eyes curving slightly, as if she had been pulled from the ice and warmed up a little, but her tone still carried that foxy lightness: "Peel it clean. I want to see what's left."
His smile was barely perceptible as he tapped his knuckles on the table: "There's one more person—the man in the trench coat."
She twirled her paintbrush and made some dots on the paper: "Old Song said that the person who came to look at the memo at the front desk that day was wearing a trench coat and a hat, and seemed to be a guest. He only asked if the supervisor on duty was there, and even glanced at the memo as if checking the time. I don't want to jump to conclusions about this. But he definitely existed."
He circled the words "regarding the time" and then circled "the white van stopped twice," drawing a thin line between the two circles without saying anything. She understood; her fingertip lightly traced the line, neither nodding nor shaking her head.
The two were silent for a moment. Car headlights swept across the wall outside the window, the white light flashing in and then receding. She suddenly flipped her camera to the sketch: "The name is here. I saw it on my way to the cultural center for the first time. I took a picture. I can't mistake this name."
He said "okay" and didn't ask any more questions about the feeling behind that name. He simply saved the photo to his phone, then added it to a group chat of four people, with the note: "For archiving purposes only, not for discussion for now."
The night deepened, and a damp breeze seeped in through the cracks in the balcony window. He closed the window and returned to the table: "Let's finish what we can put together today."
He rearranged each card, letting her put all the "I saw," "I heard," and "I smelled" on one side and "Someone said," "Someone did," and "Someone watched" on the other. The two lines on the table were like two parallel roads, with a few points occasionally aligning. He clipped the aligning points together with paperclips and placed them at the top.
She suddenly laughed: "The way you're arranging them looks like you're doing a physics or chemistry experiment."
He raised an eyebrow: "As long as the result is accurate, the method doesn't matter how you look at it."
She hummed in agreement, then suddenly loosened his tie, her eyes lighting up for a moment: "President, is there a reward?"
He leaned closer to her, his voice low: "What do you want?"
She touched his lips with her finger, like a fox stealing honey: "Promise me first, don't try to carry this alone."
He held her hand, pressing each of her knuckles straight with his fingertips: "I am not alone."
The next morning, at their home in Beijing, steam still rose from the dining table. A thin mist lingered outside the window, and the room was quiet. Mu Tianlang took out a business card and pushed it in front of her: "Dr. Jiang. My former psychologist. He's very strict about confidentiality. I've already spoken to him; you can use an alias."
Hu Li took the business card, glanced at it, and nodded: "Okay."
He added, "You and Xiaomin collected all the evidence from Hong Kong last time—copies and photos. Let's not go back and deal with it for now. We're resting today; we'll wait for the consultation results before posting it." She hummed in agreement, put the business card into her portfolio, and went to get him a cup of hot milk.
After pushing the business card towards her, he didn't try to talk about those heavy topics anymore. The two of them filed away the cards that had been scattered all over the table the previous night, sorting the photocopies into folders, backing up the photos to the cloud and portable hard drives, and numbering the sketchbooks in transparent bags. Hu Li put the page with the red dress and purple vines on top, patted the cover, and said, "That's enough for today." He hummed in agreement, poured her a cup of tea, and traced a line in her palm with his fingertip: "Take your time."
Back in the city, the sun was a notch higher. Chen Chen tossed the initial draft of the accommodation list into the group chat. Xiao Min replied: "The hospital archives have responded—only the person in question can access the medical records; publicly available information won't help, so we won't go to the archives for now." Mu Tianlang replied: "I understand."
Before noon, Mu Tianlang archived and backed up all existing materials, marking them with "to be checked again after consultation" next to the timeline. The two no longer reiterated the details or added any new inferences.
Night fell once more, and the two of them put all the cards on the table into a folder, clearing the table. Hu Li leaned against the table and looked up at him: "Leave those that look like they've been tampered with for now."
He pulled her a step closer, letting her stand in his shadow: "That's enough for tonight. No clues, no inferences. We'll talk about it after the consultation."
She stared at him for a while, then suddenly laughed: "You really know how to make someone cool down."
"Clear your mind first," he said, his hand still on her waist, as if supporting someone who had just come ashore from the waves.
She leaned closer, her voice very soft: "Right now, I just want to sleep. Not to escape, but to let my mind rest for a while."
"I'll stay with you." He turned and drew the curtains shut. She grabbed his collar: "You sleep too."
"Together."
The next morning, he went to the company as usual. Just as he entered his office, his assistant, Xiao Zhou, knocked and poked his head in: "Mr. Mu, Chairman Mu wants to see you. Please come to his office."
He said "okay," took the documents, and went over. The moment the door to the chairman's office opened, a folder was tossed at him, landing with a thud at his feet. Mr. Mu's face was unfriendly, his voice cold and hard: "Don't you think the company already has enough problems? Instead of spending time investigating things from almost thirty years ago, you should focus on the present."
Mu Tianlang looked up, his instincts acting faster than his thoughts, and blurted out, "Is there something hidden about that matter?"
Father Mu frowned and tapped the table with his knuckles: "Nothing like that. It was an accident. Don't give the outside world any more reason to talk. And—tell that little painter to behave himself."
A moment of silence fell over the air. Mu Tianlang picked up the folder, his gaze falling on the cover before looking up at his father. His voice was low but restrained: "I understand. I won't neglect business matters. I'll handle personal matters and won't cause any trouble for the company."
Mr. Mu didn't speak again, only waved his hand, signaling him to leave. The moment the door closed, the cold air from the crack lifted the hem of his suit jacket slightly. He returned to his office and sent Chen Chen a message: There are rumors circulating within the company, suggesting someone is tipping off Chairman Mu, which is why he was angry today; all external communications are suspended, and we should wait discreetly for the consultation results.
The night air in Beijing carried a hint of rain. The two didn't go out, only lingering for a while on the living room balcony. Their shadows, side by side, were reflected in the glass. Looking at the railing, she suddenly said, "Sometimes I feel like the railing is a dividing line; this side is me, and that side is my mother."
He turned to look at her: "You are not her."
She chuckled softly. "I know. It's just that she used to be much older, and I was much younger."
He pulled her into his arms, his gaze drifting over her shoulder to the distant city lights: "She can be smaller in the future."
She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Then she remembered a detail: "When she drove away that day, the headlights seemed to be on, and her hands were shaking on the steering wheel."
He nodded and noted the sentence down in the "Temporary Stop → Turn Back" column of his memo book. The handwriting was very straight, each stroke like it had been carved with a knife.
In the following days, external examinations were paused, and only data organization and confidential scheduling of medical visits were carried out.
Mu Tianlang looked at the memo book and the neatly organized folders, his heart calm and still. He capped his pen, took her hand, and wrote a word in her palm with his fingertip: Wait. She understood and wrote back a word: Here.
The two words together are simple, yet they silenced the wind in the room.
He gathered his action list and wrote a new priority at the top of his memo: "Priority: Hu Li—Professional Consultation".
Soon, the doctor who had previously provided him with psychological counseling replied: "Personalized assessment at 10 AM the day after tomorrow. There will be a separate entrance and a confidential waiting area." Hu Li glanced at his phone and said, "Okay, let's sort out the knots in my head first."
He responded and pulled her closer: "Go to sleep first." She wrote two words in his palm: "Trust." This time, he didn't say much, only replying with the same word: "Mm."
The night deepened, and the distant sound of car horns faded into the distance. Only a small lamp remained lit inside the house.
Dì 50 zhāng |xiān bǎ xīn'ān xià
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