Rebound
The clouds hung low at night, as if pressing the city's breath to a shallow depth. The office's floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a figure in the glass. Mu Tianlang's back was ramrod straight, his knuckles tapping lightly on the desk before stopping. He flipped to the last page of the supplementary notes Chen Chen had sent. Only two lines were written in the blank space: Old Song recalled that evening that the front desk memo had been rewritten; after the young master left, the front desk contacted his family first. These two lines were like two hidden nails, driven into the sensitive area near his hairline at the back of his head. He closed the file, clenched his phone in his palm, and tightened his knuckles, suppressing the rising heat. He knew he had to piece together the new clues tonight, not let the blank space drag on.
He drove home, the night stretching the streetlights long. He didn't play music the whole way, only touching the corner of his lips with the back of his finger at red lights, reminding himself to explain the new clue clearly. When he arrived at his building, he looked up and saw that familiar little light, warm yellow, like a small fire that refused to go out. He opened the door and went inside. The entryway connected to the living room, the air filled with the clean smell of wooden floors and a hint of hand soap; only at the other end of the hallway lingered the faint smell of paint and water from washing brushes. Hu Li came out from the studio, wiping his hands, his apron still on. He looked up at him, his eyes slightly upturned, like a fox hiding its tail behind its back—obedient, yet not entirely obedient.
She said, "You're back," her voice slow and deliberate, as if trying to find her rhythm. He hummed in response, reaching out to wipe the color from her palm, his fingertips tracing the lines, like gently untangling an invisible knot. She blinked, pressing her hand closer to his, as if to say, "I'm here, go ahead." He spoke softly, "I want to go over the details Old Song added, and also, that name you mentioned before, that beach—let's piece them together."
She tied her apron up and pointed down the corridor: "To the studio." She led him back to the studio, leaned against the worn wooden table, and picked up a clean cloth to smooth out the chalk dust that had fallen from the easel, inch by inch. Her movements were usually quick, but this time they were slower, as if she were holding back a memory that had rushed forward too quickly. She said, "Put up the new ones from Lao Song's side first. I saw that name, Mu Tinglang, when I first went to the cultural center for a meeting and stopped by the exhibition hall. It was hanging below a small sketch. I took a picture with my camera; I'll look for it later, and we'll piece it together after you finish talking."
Mu Tianlang looked at her, not urging her, his voice soft, and led her inside: "Tell me all the clues you have right now, and we'll study them together, combining mine with yours, arranging them by timeline or memory points." She nodded: "Then I'll start with a few I remember, and some I'm not entirely sure about." He casually pulled out a stack of A4 paper and a pen from the side and began to take notes—writing one sheet for each memory point or clue, then spreading them out on his right, to be arranged chronologically later. "Back then, my mother was frequently going to the hospital; her overall condition wasn't good, she often suffered from insomnia, and often sat at the kitchen table in the middle of the night, lost in thought." She smiled slightly as she said this, a smile that wasn't truly relieved, but merely a thin layer of white paper covering the shadows of the past. She looked up at him, her eyes drawing closer, and she spoke more frankly about what she remembered: the purple vines clung to the sand, their centers bright; the waves crashed white, sweeping people up and then slamming them down, and in the photo there was a girl in red standing behind the railing, which might be me, because she wore the same red dress as in my painting; next to her, a woman's voice was cursing and laughing, saying she deserved it, saying it was retribution, the voice sounded like my mother's, but not entirely.
When Mu Tianlang heard the words "serves him right" and "retribution," his Adam's apple bobbed. He reached out and pulled her close, letting her lean against him. He didn't rush to speak, but instead gently stroked her back, like drawing a fox whose heart was still wandering outside into his embrace. He whispered, "Tell me slowly, I'm here." She nodded, her voice even softer, as if afraid of disturbing something.
He broke down each sentence slowly, as if removing the nails of error from her mind one by one. She hummed in agreement, then smiled, a forced smile, but a hint of moisture welled in the corners of her eyes. She poked his chest and said, "President, you're really good at sweet-talking today." He looked down at her, his gaze indifferent yet direct, very direct, as if he were looking her whole being into his eyes. He said, "I'm not sweet-talking, I'm stating the facts."
She reached out to tug at his tie, her fingers weaving through the fabric like a neatly wound thread. She didn't repeat what they'd said on the phone, but simply moved the drawing board to the table and said, "No repetition, let's just use the images. This one's the rest area, this one's the reception desk light."
He placed the two points Chen Chen had made up for that evening on the table: the front desk memo had been rewritten.
Mu Tianlang felt as if he had drawn a line in his mind, connecting her sketches, Lao Song's confession, and Chen Chen's notes one by one. He suddenly leaned forward and gently bit her forehead, like marking a point on a map. He said, "Let's take it one step at a time, pushing every 'like' to 'yes,' don't let others scare us with falsehoods." She smiled, took a half step back, and raised her hand to pat him, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into his arms. She said, "You're so domineering," he said, "You're so mischievous," she said, "Then you're even worse," he said, "If I'm bad, you'll catch me." Her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled, as if touched by light.
He hugged her tightly, his face pressed against her hair, which smelled clean from shampoo. He said he would knock on each file door one by one, and he would ask Old Song about it again, asking who asked him to rewrite the memo, when it was done, and whether there were any instructions from superiors. She said she would rewrite the drawing, until he could immediately recognize it. He said okay. She rubbed her shoulder against his collarbone, like a fox rubbing its face against his chest for warmth. He lowered his head and pressed his head against the top of her hair, as if stabilizing a flame.
The next morning, he asked Chen Chen to meet Lao Song at a different location—not the teahouse, but the side corridor of the old clubhouse, where a section of the sea could be seen from the alley next door. They stood there; the sea was still grey, and the wind made the plastic flags in the alley flap loudly. Lao Song arrived carrying a thermos. Seeing them, he paused, then pulled the thermos closer to his chest. They made no grand entrance, simply placing the memo slip gently before them. He asked Lao Song if the "call the swimming pool" instruction was a later addition. Lao Song thought for half a minute, then slowly nodded, saying that the night was too chaotic; he had only made the call, and later someone reminded him to complete the process by adding "call the swimming pool." He asked who had reminded him. Lao Song frowned, as if searching for a word in an old report, and finally shook his head, saying it might have been the duty supervisor, but he couldn't remember the name.
He then asked if anyone had come to see the memo that day. Old Song said yes, a young man in a trench coat and hat stood next to the front desk, looking at the memo for a while, tapping his fingertips on the table. He spoke very politely, only asking if the supervisor on duty was there, then casually glanced at the memo again, as if checking the time. Old Song said he didn't leave his name, just nodded and left. The man walked very lightly, almost silently. After Old Song finished speaking, he was also stunned for a moment, as if he had been suddenly pushed from behind. He said he didn't recognize the man, only remembering that the brim of his hat was pulled low and the trench coat; he seemed to be a guest who had checked in during those days.
Chen Chen noted these down and looked up at Mu Tianlang. Mu Tianlang didn't speak immediately; his gaze fell on the mottled wall at the end of the side corridor, as if drawing invisible dots on the wall and measuring the distance between them. He turned to Old Song and said thank you, his voice not loud, but it was clear he had taken the words to heart. When they said goodbye, Old Song hugged his thermos even tighter, as if he were holding onto something that had been weighing heavily on his mind for a long time. As they walked out of the alley, Chen Chen asked him what was next, and he said back to Beijing.
On the way back, he remained silent, his hand repeatedly groping for the photocopied memo in his pocket, the edges softening from his fingertips. He thought of her words; she had simply stood behind the railing to shield herself from the wind; the purple vines in her eyes had shone so brightly; she was only six years old, and their adults had placed so much burden on the shoulders of such a young child. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes growing heavier with each passing moment, like a deep pool where a glimmer of light seemed to be holding its breath. He needed to hurry; he didn't want her to wait any longer for an answer that had been deliberately delayed.
He arrived at the company and went straight to the archives. He wasn't there for show; he genuinely wanted to turn every single sheet of paper to the light. He pulled up the old duty roster and called each person individually, asking those who answered if anyone had come to the front desk that night, or if anyone had asked anyone to rewrite a memo. He wrote down each name on a piece of paper and made appointments with those he could reach in the afternoon, one after another. He didn't let his anger fester; he shaped it into a sharp, clean blade. He spoke slowly and deliberately, the sharpness hidden in his tone.
In the afternoon, he and Chen Chen returned to the studio with the materials, and Xiao Min also arrived. They cleared out an entire wall of the long table, and the three of them first laid out the papers and photos by major categories, and then verbally described and wrote down each item one by one.
[Paper/Item] Hospital receipts (Su Qin, mental health related).
[On-site] Purple vines / sandy land / white waves (consistent with the seawall).
[Image] Photo: A girl in red standing behind a railing (likely Hu Li, as the clothing matches the painting).
[On-site] Someone is saying "Serves him right, he got what he deserved"—the voice sounds like Su Qin.
[Paper/Item] The front desk memo has been rewritten (process update).
[Route] The little girl gets lost in the resort → Mu Tinglang takes her to the front desk.
[People] On the day of the accident: Tinglang and Tianlang were together.
[People] On the day of the accident: Su Qin and Hu Li were together.
[Person] Resort receptionist: Man in a trench coat and hood (suspected guest).
[Image] Photo of a white van by the sea.
[Car Rental] White minivan renter = Hu Mu Suqin.
[Route] The white van stopped twice (once for a short stop and once to turn back).
[Painting] A small painting that Mu Tinglang gave to a little girl - the painting contains purple vines (matching the memory of the seawall).
[Painting] Hu Li's painting: Girl in Red and Purple Flowers (corresponding image).
Xiaomin looked at the row of cards and said bluntly: "Don't break down the hospital receipts too much yet. Just mark it as Su Qin's receipt, that's enough." Hu Li added: "My mother's mental state was unstable during that time." Xiaomin frowned, thought for a moment, and then said: "Both of you have memory gaps. I suggest you see a professional doctor. Some fragments can't be recalled by just thinking; it may require professional methods."
Hu Li nodded: I don't object. Mu Tianlang paused for a moment, then softened his tone: I don't really want to force that connection—the gap from that summer, linking it to Tinglang's accident. My only memories are of the swimming pool and the paintings, but he painted a lot during that time, and I can't remember exactly which ones. Let's go through the paper evidence first before deciding whether to seek professional help.
Xiaomin nodded and wrote the "medical assessment" on a new card, then put it in a corner. Chen Chen marked the cards with matching times with a pencil, leaving blanks for later.
Xiaomin glanced at the time, put away her file folder, took a couple of steps toward the door, then turned back and picked up the pen from the corner of the table. Chen Chen followed behind her with his coat, teasingly saying, "You always take the pen." Xiaomin raised an eyebrow: "I'll use it to correct all your typos." Chen Chen snorted: "I'm just fast." Xiaomin laughed: "Fast is good, but accurate is also good." Their back-and-forth banter eased the tension in the room somewhat.
Xiaomin said, "We're leaving now. Tomorrow morning, I'll post the reply from the history office and the check-in/check-out slips in the group chat." Chen Chen added, "Regarding the guy in the trench coat, I'll draw out the guest list tonight and ask by room number tomorrow." After saying that, the two of them left together, and one of the lights in the corridor went out and then came back on.
As soon as the door closed, Hu Licai turned around and asked, "Do you know which psychiatrist we need to see? Preferably someone who's very private, to avoid being photographed and used as a guinea pig by reporters." Mu Tianlang nodded, "I have a few names on my hand. I'll give them to you later. Let's schedule an evaluation first; there's no rush to tell you everything at once." She hummed in agreement, "Okay."
Mu Tianlang put down his pen, arranged the A4 papers on the table in a straight line according to time, and moved the three key cards to the top: hospital receipt (Su Qin), man in trench coat, and the white van that stopped twice. He said: "Focus on these three first, don't worry about the others for now."
He raised his hand and took two panoramic photos, then sent them to the group chat of four; tomorrow, each of us will move forward one step of the list we're on. Chen Chen will oversee check-in/check-out and card swiping; Xiao Min will focus on the hospital's history and exhibition hall; I'll check the vehicle and guest lists.
Hu Li put away her paintbrush and rubbed her hand against his palm: "That's it for tonight?" He hummed in agreement, taking her hand: "That's it. Go take a shower, don't stay up too late." She turned back and tugged at his collar, raising an eyebrow: "Don't be so arrogant, CEO." She smiled and walked down the corridor. He watched her retreating figure, tapping his knuckles lightly on the table, straightening the last card—"Resort Front Desk: Man in trench coat and hood (suspected guest)."
The desk lamp warmed the paper, making the ink glisten slightly. He said in a low voice, "Start with him tomorrow." She responded from the other end of the corridor, "Okay."
Only one small lamp was left on in the room.
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